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The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas [Pere]

January, 1998  [Etext #1184]


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The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas [Pere]




Chapter 74
The Villefort Family Vault.

Two days after, a considerable crowd was assembled, towards
ten o'clock in the morning, around the door of M. de
Villefort's house, and a long file of mourning-coaches and
private carriages extended along the Faubourg Saint-Honore
and the Rue de la Pepiniere. Among them was one of a very
singular form, which appeared to have come from a distance.
It was a kind of covered wagon, painted black, and was one
of the first to arrive. Inquiry was made, and it was
ascertained that, by a strange coincidence, this carriage
contained the corpse of the Marquis de Saint-Meran, and that
those who had come thinking to attend one funeral would
follow two. Their number was great. The Marquis de
Saint-Meran, one of the most zealous and faithful
dignitaries of Louis XVIII. and King Charles X., had
preserved a great number of friends, and these, added to the
personages whom the usages of society gave Villefort a claim
on, formed a considerable body.

Due information was given to the authorities, and permission
obtained that the two funerals should take place at the same
time. A second hearse, decked with the same funereal pomp,
was brought to M. de Villefort's door, and the coffin
removed into it from the post-wagon. The two bodies were to
be interred in the cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise, where M. de
Villefort had long since had a tomb prepared for the
reception of his family. The remains of poor Renee were
already deposited there, and now, after ten years of
separation, her father and mother were to be reunited with
her. The Parisians, always curious, always affected by
funereal display, looked on with religious silence while the
splendid procession accompanied to their last abode two of
the number of the old aristocracy -- the greatest protectors
of commerce and sincere devotees to their principles. In one
of the mourning-coaches Beauchamp, Debray, and
Chateau-Renaud were talking of the very sudden death of the
marchioness. "I saw Madame de Saint-Meran only last year at
Marseilles, when I was coming back from Algiers," said
Chateau-Renaud; "she looked like a woman destined to live to
be a hundred years old, from her apparent sound health and
great activity of mind and body. How old was she?"

"Franz assured me," replied Albert, "that she was sixty-six
years old. But she has not died of old age, but of grief; it
appears that since the death of the marquis, which affected
her very deeply, she has not completely recovered her
reason."

"But of what disease, then, did she die?" asked Debray.

"It is said to have been a congestion of the brain, or
apoplexy, which is the same thing, is it not?"

"Nearly."

"It is difficult to believe that it was apoplexy," said
Beauchamp. "Madame de Saint-Meran, whom I once saw, was
short, of slender form, and of a much more nervous than
sanguine temperament; grief could hardly produce apoplexy in
such a constitution as that of Madame de Saint-Meran."

"At any rate," said Albert, "whatever disease or doctor may
have killed her, M. de Villefort, or rather, Mademoiselle
Valentine, -- or, still rather, our friend Franz, inherits a
magnificent fortune, amounting, I believe, to 80,000 livres
per annum."

"And this fortune will be doubled at the death of the old
Jacobin, Noirtier."

"That is a tenacious old grandfather," said Beauchamp.
"Tenacem propositi virum. I think he must have made an
agreement with death to outlive all his heirs, and he
appears likely to succeed. He resembles the old
Conventionalist of '93, who said to Napoleon, in 1814, `You
bend because your empire is a young stem, weakened by rapid
growth. Take the Republic for a tutor; let us return with
renewed strength to the battle-field, and I promise you
500,000 soldiers, another Marengo, and a second Austerlitz.
Ideas do not become extinct, sire; they slumber sometimes,
but only revive the stronger before they sleep entirely.'
Ideas and men appeared the same to him. One thing only
puzzles me, namely, how Franz d'Epinay will like a
grandfather who cannot be separated from his wife. But where
is Franz?"

"In the first carriage, with M. de Villefort, who considers
him already as one of the family."

Such was the conversation in almost all the carriages; these
two sudden deaths, so quickly following each other,
astonished every one, but no one suspected the terrible
secret which M. d'Avrigny had communicated, in his nocturnal
walk to M. de Villefort. They arrived in about an hour at
the cemetery; the weather was mild, but dull, and in harmony
with the funeral ceremony. Among the groups which flocked
towards the family vault, Chateau-Renaud recognized Morrel,
who had come alone in a cabriolet, and walked silently along
the path bordered with yew-trees. "You here?" said
Chateau-Renaud, passing his arms through the young
captain's; "are you a friend of Villefort's? How is it that
I have never met you at his house?"

"I am no acquaintance of M. de Villefort's." answered
Morrel, "but I was of Madame de Saint-Meran." Albert came up
to them at this moment with Franz.

"The time and place are but ill-suited for an introduction."
said Albert; "but we are not superstitious. M. Morrel, allow
me to present to you M. Franz d'Epinay, a delightful
travelling companion, with whom I made the tour of Italy. My
dear Franz, M. Maximilian Morrel, an excellent friend I have
acquired in your absence, and whose name you will hear me
mention every time I make any allusion to affection, wit, or
amiability." Morrel hesitated for a moment; he feared it
would be hypocritical to accost in a friendly manner the man
whom he was tacitly opposing, but his oath and the gravity
of the circumstances recurred to his memory; he struggled to
conceal his emotion and bowed to Franz. "Mademoiselle de
Villefort is in deep sorrow, is she not?" said Debray to
Franz.

"Extremely," replied he; "she looked so pale this morning, I
scarcely knew her." These apparently simple words pierced
Morrel to the heart. This man had seen Valentine, and spoken
to her! The young and high-spirited officer required all his
strength of mind to resist breaking his oath. He took the
arm of Chateau-Renaud, and turned towards the vault, where
the attendants had already placed the two coffins. "This is
a magnificent habitation," said Beauchamp, looking towards
the mausoleum; "a summer and winter palace. You will, in
turn, enter it, my dear d'Epinay, for you will soon be
numbered as one of the family. I, as a philosopher, should
like a little country-house, a cottage down there under the
trees, without so many free-stones over my poor body. In
dying, I will say to those around me what Voltaire wrote to
Piron: `Eo rus, and all will be over.' But come, Franz, take
courage, your wife is an heiress."

"Indeed, Beauchamp, you are unbearable. Politics has made
you laugh at everything, and political men have made you
disbelieve everything. But when you have the honor of
associating with ordinary men, and the pleasure of leaving
politics for a moment, try to find your affectionate heart,
which you leave with your stick when you go to the Chamber."

"But tell me," said Beauchamp, "what is life? Is it not a
hall in Death's anteroom?"

"I am prejudiced against Beauchamp," said Albert, drawing
Franz away, and leaving the former to finish his
philosophical dissertation with Debray. The Villefort vault
formed a square of white stones, about twenty feet high; an
interior partition separated the two families, and each
apartment had its entrance door. Here were not, as in other
tombs, ignoble drawers, one above another, where thrift
bestows its dead and labels them like specimens in a museum;
all that was visible within the bronze gates was a
gloomy-looking room, separated by a wall from the vault
itself. The two doors before mentioned were in the middle of
this wall, and enclosed the Villefort and Saint-Meran
coffins. There grief might freely expend itself without
being disturbed by the trifling loungers who came from a
picnic party to visit Pere-la-Chaise, or by lovers who make
it their rendezvous.

The two coffins were placed on trestles previously prepared
for their reception in the right-hand crypt belonging to the
Saint-Meran family. Villefort, Franz, and a few near
relatives alone entered the sanctuary.

As the religious ceremonies had all been performed at the
door, and there was no address given, the party all
separated; Chateau-Renaud, Albert, and Morrel, went one way,
and Debray and Beauchamp the other. Franz remained with M.
de Villefort; at the gate of the cemetery Morrel made an
excuse to wait; he saw Franz and M. de Villefort get into
the same mourning coach, and thought this meeting forboded
evil. He then returned to Paris, and although in the same
carriage with Chateau-Renaud and Albert, he did not hear one
word of their conversation. As Franz was about to take leave
of M. de Villefort, "When shall I see you again?" said the
latter.

"At what time you please, sir," replied Franz.

"As soon as possible."

"I am at your command, sir; shall we return together?"

"If not unpleasant to you."

"On the contrary, I shall feel much pleasure." Thus, the
future father and son-in-law stepped into the same carriage,
and Morrel, seeing them pass, became uneasy. Villefort and
Franz returned to the Faubourg Saint-Honore. The procureur,
without going to see either his wife or his daughter, went
at once to his study, and, offering the young man a chair,
-- "M. d'Epinay," said he, "allow me to remind you at this
moment, -- which is perhaps not so ill-chosen as at first
sight may appear, for obedience to the wishes of the
departed is the first offering which should be made at their
tomb, -- allow me then to remind you of the wish expressed
by Madame de Saint-Meran on her death-bed, that Valentine's
wedding might not be deferred. You know the affairs of the
deceased are in perfect order, and her will bequeaths to
Valentine the entire property of the Saint-Meran family; the
notary showed me the documents yesterday, which will enable
us to draw up the contract immediately. You may call on the
notary, M. Deschamps, Place Beauveau, Faubourg Saint-Honore,
and you have my authority to inspect those deeds."

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

"Valentine will have no greater pleasure than that of
fulfilling her grandmother's last injunctions; there will be
no obstacle from that quarter, I assure you."

"In that case," replied Franz, "as I shall raise none, you
may make arrangements when you please; I have pledged my
word, and shall feel pleasure and happiness in adhering to
it."

"Then," said Villefort, "nothing further is required. The
contract was to have been signed three days since; we shall
find it all ready, and can sign it to-day."

"But the mourning?" said Franz, hesitating.

"Don't be uneasy on that score," replied Villefort; "no
ceremony will be neglected in my house. Mademoiselle de
Villefort may retire during the prescribed three months to
her estate of Saint-Meran; I say hers, for she inherits it
to-day. There, after a few days, if you like, the civil
marriage shall be celebrated without pomp or ceremony.
Madame de Saint-Meran wished her daughter should be married
there. When that 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 Chateau-Renaud to be
present at this signature; you know they are my witnesses."

"Half an hour will suffice to apprise them; will you go for
them yourself, or shall you send?"

"I prefer going, sir."

"I shall expect you, then, in half an hour, baron, and
Valentine will be ready." Franz bowed and left the room.
Scarcely had the door closed, when M. de Villefort sent to
tell Valentine to be ready in the drawing-room in half an
hour, as he expected the notary and M. d'Epinay and his
witnesses. The news caused a great sensation throughout the
house; Madame de Villefort would not believe it, and
Valentine was thunderstruck. She looked around for help, and
would have gone down to her grandfather's room, but on the
stairs she met M. de Villefort, who took her arm and led her
into the drawing-room. In the anteroom, Valentine met
Barrois, and looked despairingly at the old servant. A
moment later, Madame de Villefort entered the drawing-room
with her little Edward. It was evident that she had shared
the grief of the family, for she was pale and looked
fatigued. She sat down, took Edward on her knees, and from
time to time pressed this child, on whom her affections
appeared centred, almost convulsively to her bosom. Two
carriages were soon heard to enter the court yard. One was
the notary's; the other, that of Franz and his friends. In a
moment the whole party was assembled. Valentine was so pale
one might trace the blue veins from her temples, round her
eyes and down her cheeks. Franz was deeply affected.
Chateau-Renaud and Albert looked at each other with
amazement; the ceremony which was just concluded had not
appeared more sorrowful than did that which was about to
begin. Madame de Villefort had placed herself in the shadow
behind a velvet curtain, and as she constantly bent over her
child, it was difficult to read the expression of her face.
M. de Villefort was, as usual, unmoved.

The notary, after having according to the customary method
arranged the papers on the table, taken his place in an
armchair, and raised his spectacles, turned towards Franz:

"Are you M. Franz de Quesnel, baron d'Epinay?" asked he,
although he knew it perfectly.

"Yes, sir," replied Franz. The notary bowed. "I have, then,
to inform you, sir, at the request of M. de Villefort, that
your projected marriage with Mademoiselle de Villefort has
changed the feeling of M. Noirtier towards his grandchild,
and that he disinherits her entirely of the fortune he would
have left her. Let me hasten to add," continued he, "that
the testator, having only the right to alienate a part of
his fortune, and having alienated it all, the will will not
bear scrutiny, and is declared null and void."

"Yes." said Villefort; "but I warn M. d'Epinay, that during
my life-time my father's will shall never be questioned, my
position forbidding any doubt to be entertained."

"Sir," said Franz, "I regret much that such a question has
been raised in the presence of Mademoiselle Valentine; I
have never inquired the amount of her fortune, which,
however limited it may be, exceeds mine. My family has
sought consideration in this alliance with M. de Villefort;
all I seek is happiness." Valentine imperceptibly thanked
him, while two silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Besides, sir," said Villefort, addressing himself to his
future son-in-law, "excepting the loss of a portion of your
hopes, this unexpected will need not personally wound you;
M. Noirtier's weakness of mind sufficiently explains it. It
is not because Mademoiselle Valentine is going to marry you
that he is angry, but because she will marry, a union with
any other would have caused him the same sorrow. Old age is
selfish, sir, and Mademoiselle de Villefort has been a
faithful companion to M. Noirtier, which she cannot be when
she becomes the Baroness d'Epinay. My father's melancholy
state prevents our speaking to him on any subjects, which
the weakness of his mind would incapacitate him from
understanding, and I am perfectly convinced that at the
present time, although, he knows that his granddaughter is
going to be married, M. Noirtier has even forgotten the name
of his intended grandson." M. de Villefort had scarcely said
this, when the door opened, and Barrois appeared.

"Gentlemen," said he, in a tone strangely firm for a servant
speaking to his masters under such solemn circumstances, --
"gentlemen, M. Noirtier de Villefort wishes to speak
immediately to M. Franz de Quesnel, baron d'Epinay;" he, as
well as the notary, that there might be no mistake in the
person, gave all his titles to the bride-groom elect.

Villefort started, Madame de Villefort let her son slip from
her knees, Valentine rose, pale and dumb as a statue. Albert
and Chateau-Renaud exchanged a second look, more full of
amazement than the first. The notary looked at Villefort.
"It is impossible," said the procureur. "M. d'Epinay cannot
leave the drawing-room at present."

"It is at this moment," replied Barrois with the same
firmness, "that M. Noirtier, my master, wishes to speak on
important subjects to M. Franz d'Epinay."

"Grandpapa Noirtier can speak now, then," said Edward, with
his habitual quickness. However, his remark did not make
Madame de Villefort even smile, so much was every mind
engaged, and so solemn was the situation. Astonishment was
at its height. Something like a smile was perceptible on
Madame de Villefort's countenance. Valentine instinctively
raised her eyes, as if to thank heaven.

"Pray go, Valentine," said; M. de Villefort, "and see what
this new fancy of your grandfather's is." Valentine rose
quickly, and was hastening joyfully towards the door, when
M. de Villefort altered his intention.

"Stop," said he; "I will go with you."

"Excuse me, sir," said Franz, "since M. Noirtier sent for
me, I am ready to attend to his wish; besides, I shall be
happy to pay my respects to him, not having yet had the
honor of doing so."

"Pray, sir," said Villefort with marked uneasiness, "do not
disturb yourself."

"Forgive me, sir," said Franz in a resolute tone. "I would
not lose this opportunity of proving to M. Noirtier how
wrong it would be of him to encourage feelings of dislike to
me, which I am determined to conquer, whatever they may be,
by my devotion." And without listening to Villefort he
arose, and followed Valentine, who was running down-stairs
with the joy of a shipwrecked mariner who finds a rock to
cling to. M. de Villefort followed them. Chateau-Renaud and
Morcerf exchanged a third look of still increasing wonder.



Chapter 75
A Signed Statement.

Noirtier was prepared to receive them, dressed in black, and
installed in his arm-chair. When the three persons he
expected had entered, he looked at the door, which his valet
immediately closed.

"Listen," whispered Villefort to Valentine, who could not
conceal her joy; "if M. Noirtier wishes to communicate
anything which would delay your marriage, I forbid you to
understand him." Valentine blushed, but did not answer.
Villefort, approaching Noirtier -- "Here is M. Franz
d'Epinay," said he; "you requested to see him. We have all
wished for this interview, and I trust it will convince you
how ill-formed are your objections to Valentine's marriage."

Noirtier answered only by a look which made Villefort's
blood run cold. He motioned to Valentine to approach. In a
moment, thanks to her habit of conversing with her
grandfather, she understood that he asked for a key. Then
his eye was fixed on the drawer of a small chest between the
windows. She opened the drawer, and found a key; and,
understanding that was what he wanted, again watched his
eyes, which turned toward an old secretary which had been
neglected for many years and was supposed to contain nothing
but useless documents. "Shall I open the secretary?" asked
Valentine.

"Yes," said the old man.

"And the drawers?"

"Yes."

"Those at the side?"

"No."

"The middle one?"

"Yes." Valentine opened it and drew out a bundle of papers.
"Is that what you wish for?" asked she.

"No."

She took successively all the other papers out till the
drawer was empty. "But there are no more," said she.
Noirtier's eye was fixed on the dictionary. "Yes, I
understand, grandfather," said the young girl.

"He pointed to each letter of the alphabet. At the letter S
the old man stopped her. She opened, and found the word
"secret."

"Ah, is there a secret spring?" said Valentine.

"Yes," said Noirtier.

"And who knows it?" Noirtier looked at the door where the
servant had gone out. "Barrois?" said she.

"Yes."

"Shall I call him?"

"Yes."

Valentine went to the door, and called Barrois. Villefort's
impatience during this scene made the perspiration roll from
his forehead, and Franz was stupefied. The old servant came.
"Barrois," said Valentine, "my grandfather has told me to
open that drawer in the secretary, but there is a secret
spring in it, which you know -- will you open it?"

Barrois looked at the old man. "Obey," said Noirtier's
intelligent eye. Barrois touched a spring, the false bottom
came out, and they saw a bundle of papers tied with a black
string.

"Is that what you wish for?" said Barrois.

"Yes."

"Shall I give these papers to M. de Villefort?"

"No."

"To Mademoiselle Valentine?"

"No."

"To M. Franz d'Epinay?"

"Yes."

Franz, astonished, advanced a step. "To me, sir?" said he.

"Yes." Franz took them from Barrois and casting a glance at
the cover, read: --

"`To be given, after my death, to General Durand, who shall
bequeath the packet to his son, with an injunction to
preserve it as containing an important document.'

"Well, sir," asked Franz, "what do you wish me to do with
this paper?"

"To preserve it, sealed up as it is, doubtless," said the
procureur.

"No," replied Noirtier eagerly.

"Do you wish him to read it?" said Valentine.

"Yes," replied the old man. "You understand, baron, my
grandfather wishes you to read this paper," said Valentine.

"Then let us sit down," said Villefort impatiently, "for it
will take some time."

"Sit down," said the old man. Villefort took a chair, but
Valentine remained standing by her father's side, and Franz
before him, holding the mysterious paper in his hand.
"Read," said the old man. Franz untied it, and in the midst
of the most profound silence read:

"`Extract from the Report of a meeting of the Bonapartist
Club in the Rue Saint-Jacques, held February 5th, 1815.'"

Franz stopped. "February 5th, 1815!" said he; "it is the day
my father was murdered." Valentine and Villefort were dumb;
the eye of the old man alone seemed to say clearly, "Go on."

"But it was on leaving this club," said he, "my father
disappeared." Noirtier's eye continued to say, "Read." He
resumed: --

"`The undersigned Louis Jacques Beaurepaire,
lieutenant-colonel of artillery, Etienne Duchampy, general
of brigade, and Claude Lecharpal, keeper of woods and
forests, Declare, that on the 4th of February, a letter
arrived from the Island of Elba, recommending to the
kindness and the confidence of the Bonapartist Club, General
Flavien de Quesnel, who having served the emperor from 1804
to 1814 was supposed to be devoted to the interests of the
Napoleon dynasty, notwithstanding the title of baron which
Louis XVIII. had just granted to him with his estate of
Epinay.

"`A note was in consequence addressed to General de Quesnel,
begging him to be present at the meeting next day, the 5th.
The note indicated neither the street nor the number of the
house where the meeting was to be held; it bore no
signature, but it announced to the general that some one
would call for him if he would be ready at nine o'clock. The
meetings were always held from that time till midnight. At
nine o'clock the president of the club presented himself;
the general was ready, the president informed him that one
of the conditions of his introduction was that he should be
eternally ignorant of the place of meeting, and that he
would allow his eyes to be bandaged, swearing that he would
not endeavor to take off the bandage. General de Quesnel
accepted the condition, and promised on his honor not to
seek to discover the road they took. The general's carriage
was ready, but the president told him it was impossible for
him to use it, since it was useless to blindfold the master
if the coachman knew through what streets he went. "What
must be done then?" asked the general. -- "I have my
carriage here," said the president.

"`"Have you, then, so much confidence in your servant that
you can intrust him with a secret you will not allow me to
know?"

"`"Our coachman is a member of the club," said the
president; "we shall be driven by a State-Councillor."

"`"Then we run another risk," said the general, laughing,
"that of being upset." We insert this joke to prove that the
general was not in the least compelled to attend the
meeting, but that he came willingly. When they were seated
in the carriage the president reminded the general of his
promise to allow his eyes to be bandaged, to which he made
no opposition. On the road the president thought he saw the
general make an attempt to remove the handkerchief, and
reminded him of his oath. "Sure enough," said the general.
The carriage stopped at an alley leading out of the Rue
Saint-Jacques. The general alighted, leaning on the arm of
the president, of whose dignity he was not aware,
considering him simply as a member of the club; they went
through the alley, mounted a flight of stairs, and entered
the assembly-room.

"`"The deliberations had already begun. The members,
apprised of the sort of presentation which was to be made
that evening, were all in attendance. When in the middle of
the room the general was invited to remove his bandage, he
did so immediately, and was surprised to see so many
well-known faces in a society of whose existence he had till
then been ignorant. They questioned him as to his
sentiments, but he contented himself with answering, that
the letters from the Island of Elba ought to have informed
them'" --

Franz interrupted himself by saying, "My father was a
royalist; they need not have asked his sentiments, which
were well known."

"And hence," said Villefort, "arose my affection for your
father, my dear M. Franz. Opinions held in common are a
ready bond of union."

"Read again," said the old man. Franz continued: --

"`The president then sought to make him speak more
explicitly, but M. de Quesnel replied that he wished first
to know what they wanted with him. He was then informed of
the contents of the letter from the Island of Elba, in which
he was recommended to the club as a man who would be likely
to advance the interests of their party. One paragraph spoke
of the return of Bonaparte and promised another letter and
further details, on the arrival of the Pharaon belonging to
the shipbuilder Morrel, of Marseilles, whose captain was
entirely devoted to the emperor. During all this time, the
general, on whom they thought to have relied as on a
brother, manifested evidently signs of discontent and
repugnance. When the reading was finished, he remained
silent, with knitted brows.

"`"Well," asked the president, "what do you say to this
letter, general?"

"`"I say that it is too soon after declaring myself for
Louis XVIII. to break my vow in behalf of the ex-emperor."
This answer was too clear to permit of any mistake as to his
sentiments. "General," said the president, "we acknowledge
no King Louis XVIII., or an ex-emperor, but his majesty the
emperor and king, driven from France, which is his kingdom,
by violence and treason."

"`"Excuse me, gentlemen," said the general; "you may not
acknowledge Louis XVIII., but I do, as he has made me a
baron and a field-marshal, and I shall never forget that for
these two titles I am indebted to his happy return to
France."

"`"Sir," said the president, rising with gravity, "be
careful what you say; your words clearly show us that they
are deceived concerning you in the Island of Elba, and have
deceived us! The communication has been made to you in
consequence of the confidence placed in you, and which does
you honor. Now we discover our error; a title and promotion
attach you to the government we wish to overturn. We will
not constrain you to help us; we enroll no one against his
conscience, but we will compel you to act generously, even
if you are not disposed to do so."

"`"You would call acting generously, knowing your conspiracy
and not informing against you, that is what I should call
becoming your accomplice. You see I am more candid than
you."'"

"Ah, my father!" said Franz, interrupting himself. "I
understand now why they murdered him." Valentine could not
help casting one glance towards the young man, whose filial
enthusiasm it was delightful to behold. Villefort walked to
and fro behind them. Noirtier watched the expression of each
one, and preserved his dignified and commanding attitude.
Franz returned to the manuscript, and continued: --

"`"Sir," said the president, "you have been invited to join
this assembly -- you were not forced here; it was proposed
to you to come blindfolded -- you accepted. When you
complied with this twofold request you well knew we did not
wish to secure the throne of Louis XVIII., or we should not
take so much care to avoid the vigilance of the police. It
would be conceding too much to allow you to put on a mask to
aid you in the discovery of our secret, and then to remove
it that you may ruin those who have confided in you. No, no,
you must first say if you declare yourself for the king of a
day who now reigns, or for his majesty the emperor."

"`"I am a royalist," replied the general; "I have taken the
oath of allegiance to Louis XVIII., and I will adhere to
it." These words were followed by a general murmur, and it
was evident that several of the members were discussing the
propriety of making the general repent of his rashness.

"`The president again arose, and having imposed silence,
said, -- "Sir, you are too serious and too sensible a man
not to understand the consequences of our present situation,
and your candor has already dictated to us the conditions
which remain for us to offer you." The general, putting his
hand on his sword, exclaimed, -- "If you talk of honor, do
not begin by disavowing its laws, and impose nothing by
violence."

"`"And you, sir," continued the president, with a calmness
still more terrible than the general's anger, "I advise you
not to touch your sword." The general looked around him with
slight uneasiness; however he did not yield, but calling up
all his fortitude, said, -- "I will not swear."

"`"Then you must die," replied the president calmly. M.
d'Epinay became very pale; he looked round him a second
time, several members of the club were whispering, and
getting their arms from under their cloaks. "General," said
the president, "do not alarm yourself; you are among men of
honor who will use every means to convince you before
resorting to the last extremity, but as you have said, you
are among conspirators, you are in possession of our secret,
and you must restore it to us." A significant silence
followed these words, and as the general did not reply, --
"Close the doors," said the president to the door-keeper.

"`The same deadly silence succeeded these words. Then the
general advanced, and making a violent effort to control his
feelings, -- "I have a son," said he, "and I ought to think
of him, finding myself among assassins."

"`"General," said the chief of the assembly, "one man may
insult fifty -- it is the privilege of weakness. But he does
wrong to use his privilege. Follow my advice, swear, and do
not insult." The general, again daunted by the superiority
of the chief, hesitated a moment; then advancing to the
president's desk, -- "What is the form, said he.

"`"It is this: -- `I swear by my honor not to reveal to any
one what I have seen and heard on the 5th of February, 1815,
between nine and ten o'clock in the evening; and I plead
guilty of death should I ever violate this oath.'" The
general appeared to be affected by a nervous tremor, which
prevented his answering for some moments; then, overcoming
his manifest repugnance, he pronounced the required oath,
but in so low a tone as to be scarcely audible to the
majority of the members, who insisted on his repeating it
clearly and distinctly, which he did.

"`"Now am I at liberty to retire?" said the general. The
president rose, appointed three members to accompany him,
and got into the carriage with the general after bandaging
his eyes. One of those three members was the coachman who
had driven them there. The other members silently dispersed.
"Where do you wish to be taken?" asked the president. --
"Anywhere out of your presence," replied M. d'Epinay.
"Beware, sir," replied the president, "you are no longer in
the assembly, and have only to do with individuals; do not
insult them unless you wish to be held responsible." But
instead of listening, M. d'Epinay went on, -- "You are still
as brave in your carriage as in your assembly because you
are still four against one." The president stopped the
coach. They were at that part of the Quai des Ormes where
the steps lead down to the river. "Why do you stop here?"
asked d'Epinay.

"`"Because, sir," said the president, "you have insulted a
man, and that man will not go one step farther without
demanding honorable reparation."

"`"Another method of assassination?" said the general,
shrugging his shoulders.

"`"Make no noise, sir, unless you wish me to consider you as
one of the men of whom you spoke just now as cowards, who
take their weakness for a shield. You are alone, one alone
shall answer you; you have a sword by your side, I have one
in my cane; you have no witness, one of these gentlemen will
serve you. Now, if you please, remove your bandage." The
general tore the handkerchief from his eyes. "At last," said
he, "I shall know with whom I have to do." They opened the
door and the four men alighted.'"

Franz again interrupted himself, and wiped the cold drops
from his brow; there was something awful in hearing the son
read aloud in trembling pallor these details of his father's
death, which had hitherto been a mystery. Valentine clasped
her hands as if in prayer. Noirtier looked at Villefort with
an almost sublime expression of contempt and pride. Franz
continued: --

"`It was, as we said, the fifth of February. For three days
the mercury had been five or six degrees below freezing and
the steps were covered with ice. The general was stout and
tall, the president offered him the side of the railing to
assist him in getting down. The two witnesses followed. It
was a dark night. The ground from the steps to the river was
covered with snow and hoarfrost, the water of the river
looked black and deep. One of the seconds went for a lantern
in a coal-barge near, and by its light they examined the
weapons. The president's sword, which was simply, as he had
said, one he carried in his cane, was five inches shorter
than the general's, and had no guard. The general proposed
to cast lots for the swords, but the president said it was
he who had given the provocation, and when he had given it
he had supposed each would use his own arms. The witnesses
endeavored to insist, but the president bade them be silent.
The lantern was placed on the ground, the two adversaries
took their stations, and the duel began. The light made the
two swords appear like flashes of lightning; as for the men,
they were scarcely perceptible, the darkness was so great.

"`General d'Epinay passed for one of the best swordsmen in
the army, but he was pressed so closely in the onset that he
missed his aim and fell. The witnesses thought he was dead,
but his adversary, who knew he had not struck him, offered
him the assistance of his hand to rise. The circumstance
irritated instead of calming the general, and he rushed on
his adversary. But his opponent did not allow his guard to
be broken. He received him on his sword and three times the
general drew back on finding himself too closely engaged,
and then returned to the charge. At the third he fell again.
They thought he slipped, as at first, and the witnesses,
seeing he did not move, approached and endeavored to raise
him, but the one who passed his arm around the body found it
was moistened with blood. The general, who had almost
fainted, revived. "Ah," said he, "they have sent some
fencing-master to fight with me." The president, without
answering, approached the witness who held the lantern, and
raising his sleeve, showed him two wounds he had received in
his arm; then opening his coat, and unbuttoning his
waistcoat, displayed his side, pierced with a third wound.
Still he had not even uttered a sigh. General d'Epinay died
five minutes after.'"

Franz read these last words in a voice so choked that they
were hardly audible, and then stopped, passing his hand over
his eyes as if to dispel a cloud; but after a moment's
silence, he continued: --

"`The president went up the steps, after pushing his sword
into his cane; a track of blood on the snow marked his
course. He had scarcely arrived at the top when he heard a
heavy splash in the water -- it was the general's body,
which the witnesses had just thrown into the river after
ascertaining that he was dead. The general fell, then, in a
loyal duel, and not in ambush as it might have been
reported. In proof of this we have signed this paper to
establish the truth of the facts, lest the moment should
arrive when either of the actors in this terrible scene
should be accused of premeditated murder or of infringement
of the laws of honor.

"`Signed, Beaurepaire, Deschamps, and Lecharpal.'"

When Franz had finished reading this account, so dreadful
for a son; when Valentine, pale with emotion, had wiped away
a tear; when Villefort, trembling, and crouched in a corner,
had endeavored to lessen the storm by supplicating glances
at the implacable old man, -- "Sir," said d'Epinay to
Noirtier, "since you are well acquainted with all these
details, which are attested by honorable signatures, --
since you appear to take some interest in me, although you
have only manifested it hitherto by causing me sorrow,
refuse me not one final satisfaction -- tell me the name of
the president of the club, that I may at least know who
killed my father." Villefort mechanically felt for the
handle of the door; Valentine, who understood sooner than
anyone her grandfather's answer, and who had often seen two
scars upon his right arm, drew back a few steps.
"Mademoiselle," said Franz, turning towards Valentine,
"unite your efforts with mine to find out the name of the
man who made me an orphan at two years of age." Valentine
remained dumb and motionless.

"Hold, sir," said Villefort, "do not prolong this dreadful
scene. The names have been purposely concealed; my father
himself does not know who this president was, and if he
knows, he cannot tell you; proper names are not in the
dictionary."

"Oh, misery," cried Franz: "the only hope which sustained me
and enabled me to read to the end was that of knowing, at
least, the name of him who killed my father! Sir, sir,"
cried he, turning to Noirtier, "do what you can -- make me
understand in some way!"

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"Oh, mademoiselle, -- mademoiselle!" cried Franz, "your
grandfather says he can indicate the person. Help me, --
lend me your assistance!" Noirtier looked at the dictionary.
Franz took it with a nervous trembling, and repeated the
letters of the alphabet successively, until he came to M. At
that letter the old man signified "Yes."

"M," repeated Franz. The young man's finger, glided over the
words, but at each one Noirtier answered by a negative sign.
Valentine hid her head between her hands. At length, Franz
arrived at the word MYSELF.

"Yes!"

"You?" cried Franz, whose hair stood on end; "you, M.
Noirtier -- you killed my father?"

"Yes!" replied Noirtier, fixing a majestic look on the young
man. Franz fell powerless on a chair; Villefort opened the
door and escaped, for the idea had entered his mind to
stifle the little remaining life in the heart of this
terrible old man.



Chapter 76
Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger.

Meanwhile M. Cavalcanti the elder had returned to his
service, not in the army of his majesty the Emperor of
Austria, but at the gaming-table of the baths of Lucca, of
which he was one of the most assiduous courtiers. He had
spent every farthing that had been allowed for his journey
as a reward for the majestic and solemn manner in which he
had maintained his assumed character of father. M. Andrea at
his departure inherited all the papers which proved that he
had indeed the honor of being the son of the Marquis
Bartolomeo and the Marchioness Oliva Corsinari. He was now
fairly launched in that Parisian society which gives such
ready access to foreigners, and treats them, not as they
really are, but as they wish to be considered. Besides, what
is required of a young man in Paris? To speak its language
tolerably, to make a good appearance, to be a good gamester,
and to pay in cash. They are certainly less particular with
a foreigner than with a Frenchman. Andrea had, then, in a
fortnight, attained a very fair position. He was called
count, he was said to possess 50,000 livres per annum; and
his father's immense riches, buried in the quarries of
Saravezza, were a constant theme. A learned man, before whom
the last circumstance was mentioned as a fact, declared he
had seen the quarries in question, which gave great weight
to assertions hitherto somewhat doubtful, but which now
assumed the garb of reality.

Such was the state of society in Paris at the period we
bring before our readers, when Monte Cristo went one evening
to pay M. Danglars a visit. M. Danglars was out, but the
count was asked to go and see the baroness, and he accepted
the invitation. It was never without a nervous shudder,
since the dinner at Auteuil, and the events which followed
it, that Madame Danglars heard Monte Cristo's name
announced. If he did not come, the painful sensation became
most intense; if, on the contrary, he appeared, his noble
countenance, his brilliant eyes, his amiability, his polite
attention even towards Madame Danglars, soon dispelled every
impression of fear. It appeared impossible to the baroness
that a man of such delightfully pleasing manners should
entertain evil designs against her; besides, the most
corrupt minds only suspect evil when it would answer some
interested end -- useless injury is repugnant to every mind.
When Monte Cristo entered the boudoir, -- to which we have
already once introduced our readers, and where the baroness
was examining some drawings, which her daughter passed to
her after having looked at them with M. Cavalcanti, -- his
presence soon produced its usual effect, and it was with
smiles that the baroness received the count, although she
had been a little disconcerted at the announcement of his
name. The latter took in the whole scene at a glance.

The baroness was partially reclining on a sofa, Eugenie sat
near her, and Cavalcanti was standing. Cavalcanti, dressed
in black, like one of Goethe's heroes, with varnished shoes
and white silk open-worked stockings, passed a white and
tolerably nice-looking hand through his light hair, and so
displayed a sparkling diamond, that in spite of Monte
Cristo's advice the vain young man had been unable to resist
putting on his little finger. This movement was accompanied
by killing glances at Mademoiselle Danglars, and by sighs
launched in the same direction. Mademoiselle Danglars was
still the same -- cold, beautiful, and satirical. Not one of
these glances, nor one sigh, was lost on her; they might
have been said to fall on the shield of Minerva, which some
philosophers assert protected sometimes the breast of
Sappho. Eugenie bowed coldly to the count, and availed
herself of the first moment when the conversation became
earnest to escape to her study, whence very soon two
cheerful and noisy voices being heard in connection with
occasional notes of the piano assured Monte Cristo that
Mademoiselle Danglars preferred to his society and to that
of M. Cavalcanti the company of Mademoiselle Louise
d'Armilly, her singing teacher.

It was then, especially while conversing with Madame
Danglars, and apparently absorbed by the charm of the
conversation, that the count noticed M. Andrea Cavalcanti's
solicitude, his manner of listening to the music at the door
he dared not pass, and of manifesting his admiration. The
banker soon returned. His first look was certainly directed
towards Monte Cristo, but the second was for Andrea. As for
his wife, he bowed to her, as some husbands do to their
wives, but in a way that bachelors will never comprehend,
until a very extensive code is published on conjugal life.

"Have not the ladies invited you to join them at the piano?"
said Danglars to Andrea. "Alas, no, sir," replied Andrea
with a sigh, still more remarkable than the former ones.
Danglars immediately advanced towards the door and opened
it.

The two young ladies were seen seated on the same chair, at
the piano, accompanying themselves, each with one hand, a
fancy to which they had accustomed themselves, and performed
admirably. Mademoiselle d'Armilly, whom they then perceived
through the open doorway, formed with Eugenie one of the
tableaux vivants of which the Germans are so fond. She was
somewhat beautiful, and exquisitely formed -- a little
fairy-like figure, with large curls falling on her neck,
which was rather too long, as Perugino sometimes makes his
Virgins, and her eyes dull from fatigue. She was said to
have a weak chest, and like Antonia in the "Cremona Violin,"
she would die one day while singing. Monte Cristo cast one
rapid and curious glance round this sanctum; it was the
first time he had ever seen Mademoiselle d'Armilly, of whom
he had heard much. "Well," said the banker to his daughter,
"are we then all to be excluded?" He then led the young man
into the study, and either by chance or manoeuvre the door
was partially closed after Andrea, so that from the place
where they sat neither the Count nor the baroness could see
anything; but as the banker had accompanied Andrea, Madame
Danglars appeared to take no notice of it.

The count soon heard Andrea's voice, singing a Corsican
song, accompanied by the piano. While the count smiled at
hearing this song, which made him lose sight of Andrea in
the recollection of Benedetto, Madame Danglars was boasting
to Monte Cristo of her husband's strength of mind, who that
very morning had lost three or four hundred thousand francs
by a failure at Milan. The praise was well deserved, for had
not the count heard it from the baroness, or by one of those
means by which he knew everything, the baron's countenance
would not have led him to suspect it. "Hem," thought Monte
Cristo, "he begins to conceal his losses; a month since he
boasted of them." Then aloud, -- "Oh, madame, M. Danglars is
so skilful, he will soon regain at the Bourse what he loses
elsewhere."

"I see that you participate in a prevalent error," said
Madame Danglars. "What is it?" said Monte Cristo.

"That M. Danglars speculates, whereas he never does."

"Truly, madame, I recollect M. Debray told me -- apropos,
what is become of him? I have seen nothing of him the last
three or four days."

"Nor I," said Madame Danglars; "but you began a sentence,
sir, and did not finish."

"Which?"

"M. Debray had told you" --

"Ah, yes; he told me it was you who sacrificed to the demon
of speculation."

"I was once very fond of it, but I do not indulge now."

"Then you are wrong, madame. Fortune is precarious; and if I
were a woman and fate had made me a banker's wife, whatever
might be my confidence in my husband's good fortune, still
in speculation you know there is great risk. Well, I would
secure for myself a fortune independent of him, even if I
acquired it by placing my interests in hands unknown to
him." Madame Danglars blushed, in spite of all her efforts.
"Stay," said Monte Cristo, as though he had not observed her
confusion, "I have heard of a lucky hit that was made
yesterday on the Neapolitan bonds."

"I have none -- nor have I ever possessed any; but really we
have talked long enough of money, count, we are like two
stockbrokers; have you heard how fate is persecuting the
poor Villeforts?"

"What has happened?" said the count, simulating total
ignorance.

"You know the Marquis of Saint-Meran died a few days after
he had set out on his journey to Paris, and the marchioness
a few days after her arrival?"

"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "I have heard that; but, as
Claudius said to Hamlet, `it is a law of nature; their
fathers died before them, and they mourned their loss; they
will die before their children, who will, in their turn,
grieve for them.'"

"But that is not all."

"Not all!"

"No; they were going to marry their daughter" --

"To M. Franz d'Epinay. Is it broken off?"

"Yesterday morning, it appears, Franz declined the honor."

"Indeed? And is the reason known?"

"No."

"How extraordinary! And how does M. de Villefort bear it?"

"As usual. Like a philosopher." Danglars returned at this
moment alone. "Well," said the baroness, "do you leave M.
Cavalcanti with your daughter?"

"And Mademoiselle d'Armilly," said the banker; "do you
consider her no one?" Then, turning to Monte Cristo, he
said, "Prince Cavalcanti is a charming young man, is he not?
But is he really a prince?"

"I will not answer for it," said Monte Cristo. "His father
was introduced to me as a marquis, so he ought to be a
count; but I do not think he has much claim to that title."

"Why?" said the banker. "If he is a prince, he is wrong not
to maintain his rank; I do not like any one to deny his
origin."

"Oh, you are a thorough democrat," said Monte Cristo,
smiling.

"But do you see to what you are exposing yourself?" said the
baroness. "If, perchance, M. de Morcerf came, he would find
M. Cavalcanti in that room, where he, the betrothed of
Eugenie, has never been admitted."

"You may well say, perchance," replied the banker; "for he
comes so seldom, it would seem only chance that brings him."

"But should he come and find that young man with your
daughter, he might be displeased."

"He? You are mistaken. M. Albert would not do us the honor
to be jealous; he does not like Eugenie sufficiently.
Besides, I care not for his displeasure."

"Still, situated as we are" --

"Yes, do you know how we are situated? At his mother's ball
he danced once with Eugenie, and M. Cavalcanti three times,
and he took no notice of it." The valet announced the
Vicomte Albert de Morcerf. The baroness rose hastily, and
was going into the study, when Danglars stopped her. "Let
her alone," said he. She looked at him in amazement. Monte
Cristo appeared to be unconscious of what passed. Albert
entered, looking very handsome and in high spirits. He bowed
politely to the baroness, familiarly to Danglars, and
affectionately to Monte Cristo. Then turning to the
baroness: "May I ask how Mademoiselle Danglars is?" said he.

"She is quite well," replied Danglars quickly; "she is at
the piano with M. Cavalcanti." Albert retained his calm and
indifferent manner; he might feel perhaps annoyed, but he
knew Monte Cristo's eye was on him. "M. Cavalcanti has a
fine tenor voice," said he, "and Mademoiselle Eugenie a
splendid soprano, and then she plays the piano like
Thalberg. The concert must be a delightful one."

"They suit each other remarkably well," said Danglars.
Albert appeared not to notice this remark, which was,
however, so rude that Madame Danglars blushed.

"I, too," said the young man, "am a musician -- at least, my
masters used to tell me so; but it is strange that my voice
never would suit any other, and a soprano less than any."
Danglars smiled, and seemed to say, "It is of no
consequence." Then, hoping doubtless to effect his purpose,
he said, -- "The prince and my daughter were universally
admired yesterday. You were not of the party, M. de
Morcerf?"

"What prince?" asked Albert. "Prince Cavalcanti," said
Danglars, who persisted in giving the young man that title.

"Pardon me," said Albert, "I was not aware that he was a
prince. And Prince Cavalcanti sang with Mademoiselle Eugenie
yesterday? It must have been charming, indeed. I regret not
having heard them. But I was unable to accept your
invitation, having promised to accompany my mother to a
German concert given by the Baroness of Chateau-Renaud."
This was followed by rather an awkward silence. "May I also
be allowed," said Morcerf, "to pay my respects to
Mademoiselle Danglars?" "Wait a moment," said the banker,
stopping the young man; "do you hear that delightful
cavatina? Ta, ta, ta, ti, ta, ti, ta, ta; it is charming,
let them finish -- one moment. Bravo, bravi, brava!" The
banker was enthusiastic in his applause.

"Indeed," said Albert, "it is exquisite; it is impossible to
understand the music of his country better than Prince
Cavalcanti does. You said prince, did you not? But he can
easily become one, if he is not already; it is no uncommon
thing in Italy. But to return to the charming musicians --
you should give us a treat, Danglars, without telling them
there is a stranger. Ask them to sing one more song; it is
so delightful to hear music in the distance, when the
musicians are unrestrained by observation."

Danglars was quite annoyed by the young man's indifference.
He took Monte Cristo aside. "What do you think of our
lover?" said he.

"He appears cool. But, then your word is given."

"Yes, doubtless I have promised to give my daughter to a man
who loves her, but not to one who does not. See him there,
cold as marble and proud like his father. If he were rich,
if he had Cavalcanti's fortune, that might be pardoned. Ma
foi, I haven't consulted my daughter; but if she has good
taste" --

"Oh," said Monte Cristo, "my fondness may blind me, but I
assure you I consider Morcerf a charming young man who will
render your daughter happy and will sooner or later attain a
certain amount of distinction, and his father's position is
good."

"Hem," said Danglars.

"Why do you doubt?"

"The past -- that obscurity on the past."

"But that does not affect the son."

"Very true."

"Now, I beg of you, don't go off your head. It's a month now
that you have been thinking of this marriage, and you must
see that it throws some responsibility on me, for it was at
my house you met this young Cavalcanti, whom I do not really
know at all."

"But I do."

"Have you made inquiry?"

"Is there any need of that! Does not his appearance speak
for him? And he is very rich."

"I am not so sure of that."

"And yet you said he had money."

"Fifty thousand livres -- a mere trifle."

"He is well educated."

"Hem," said Monte Cristo in his turn.

"He is a musician."

"So are all Italians."

"Come, count, you do not do that young man justice."

"Well, I acknowledge it annoys me, knowing your connection
with the Morcerf family, to see him throw himself in the
way." Danglars burst out laughing. "What a Puritan you are!"
said he; "that happens every day."

"But you cannot break it off in this way; the Morcerfs are
depending on this union."

"Indeed."

"Positively."

"Then let them explain themselves; you should give the
father a hint, you are so intimate with the family."

"I? -- where the devil did you find out that?"

"At their ball; it was apparent enough. Why, did not the
countess, the proud Mercedes, the disdainful Catalane, who
will scarcely open her lips to her oldest acquaintances,
take your arm, lead you into the garden, into the private
walks, and remain there for half an hour?"

"Ah, baron, baron," said Albert, "you are not listening --
what barbarism in a megalomaniac like you!"

"Oh, don't worry about me, Sir Mocker," said Danglars; then
turning to the count he said, "but will you undertake to
speak to the father?"

"Willingly, if you wish it."

"But let it be done explicitly and positively. If he demands
my daughter let him fix the day -- declare his conditions;
in short, let us either understand each other, or quarrel.
You understand -- no more delay."

"Yes. sir, I will give my attention to the subject."

"I do not say that I await with pleasure his decision, but I
do await it. A banker must, you know, be a slave to his
promise." And Danglars sighed as M. Cavalcanti had done half
an hour before. "Bravi, bravo, brava!" cried Morcerf,
parodying the banker, as the selection came to an end.
Danglars began to look suspiciously at Morcerf, when some
one came and whispered a few words to him. "I shall soon
return," said the banker to Monte Cristo; "wait for me. I
shall, perhaps, have something to say to you." And he went
out.

The baroness took advantage of her husband's absence to push
open the door of her daughter's study, and M. Andrea, who
was sitting before the piano with Mademoiselle Eugenie,
started up like a jack-in-the-box. Albert bowed with a smile
to Mademoiselle Danglars, who did not appear in the least
disturbed, and returned his bow with her usual coolness.
Cavalcanti was evidently embarrassed; he bowed to Morcerf,
who replied with the most impertinent look possible. Then
Albert launched out in praise of Mademoiselle Danglars'
voice, and on his regret, after what he had just heard, that
he had been unable to be present the previous evening.
Cavalcanti, being left alone, turned to Monte Cristo.

"Come," said Madame Danglars, "leave music and compliments,
and let us go and take tea."

"Come, Louise," said Mademoiselle Danglars to her friend.
They passed into the next drawing-room, where tea was
prepared. Just as they were beginning, in the English
fashion, to leave the spoons in their cups, the door again
opened and Danglars entered, visibly agitated. Monte Cristo
observed it particularly, and by a look asked the banker for
an explanation. "I have just received my courier from
Greece," said Danglars.

"Ah, yes," said the count; "that was the reason of your
running away from us."

"Yes."

"How is King Otho getting on?" asked Albert in the most
sprightly tone. Danglars cast another suspicious look
towards him without answering, and Monte Cristo turned away
to conceal the expression of pity which passed over his
features, but which was gone in a moment. "We shall go
together, shall we not?" said Albert to the count.

"If you like," replied the latter. Albert could not
understand the banker's look, and turning to Monte Cristo,
who understood it perfectly, -- "Did you see," said he, "how
he looked at me?"

"Yes," said the count; "but did you think there was anything
particular in his look?"

"Indeed, I did; and what does he mean by his news from
Greece?"

"How can I tell you?"

"Because I imagine you have correspondents in that country."
Monte Cristo smiled significantly.

"Stop," said Albert, "here he comes. I shall compliment
Mademoiselle Danglars on her cameo, while the father talks
to you."

"If you compliment her at all, let it be on her voice, at
least," said Monte Cristo.

"No, every one would do that."

"My dear viscount, you are dreadfully impertinent." Albert
advanced towards Eugenie, smiling. Meanwhile, Danglars,
stooping to Monte Cristo's ear, "Your advice was excellent,"
said he; "there is a whole history connected with the names
Fernand and Yanina."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo.

"Yes, I will tell you all; but take away the young man; I
cannot endure his presence."

"He is going with me. Shall I send the father to you?"

"Immediately."

"Very well." The count made a sign to Albert and they bowed
to the ladies, and took their leave, Albert perfectly
indifferent to Mademoiselle Danglars' contempt, Monte Cristo
reiterating his advice to Madame Danglars on the prudence a
banker's wife should exercise in providing for the future.
M. Cavalcanti remained master of the field.



Chapter 77
Haidee.

Scarcely had the count's horses cleared the angle of the
boulevard, than Albert, turning towards the count, burst
into a loud fit of laughter -- much too loud in fact not to
give the idea of its being rather forced and unnatural.
"Well," said he, "I will ask you the same question which
Charles IX. put to Catherine de Medicis, after the massacre
of Saint Bartholomew, `How have I played my little part?'"

"To what do you allude?" asked Monte Cristo.

"To the installation of my rival at M. Danglars'."

"What rival?"

"Ma foi, what rival? Why, your protege, M. Andrea
Cavalcanti!"

"Ah, no joking, viscount, if you please; I do not patronize
M. Andrea -- at least, not as concerns M. Danglars."

"And you would be to blame for not assisting him, if the
young man really needed your help in that quarter, but,
happily for me, he can dispense with it."

"What, do you think he is paying his addresses?"

"I am certain of it; his languishing looks and modulated
tones when addressing Mademoiselle Danglars fully proclaim
his intentions. He aspires to the hand of the proud
Eugenie."

"What does that signify, so long as they favor your suit?"

"But it is not the case, my dear count: on the contrary. I
am repulsed on all sides."

"What!"

"It is so indeed; Mademoiselle Eugenie scarcely answers me,
and Mademoiselle d'Armilly, her confidant, does not speak to
me at all."

"But the father has the greatest regard possible for you,"
said Monte Cristo.

"He? Oh, no, he has plunged a thousand daggers into my
heart, tragedy-weapons, I own, which instead of wounding
sheathe their points in their own handles, but daggers which
he nevertheless believed to be real and deadly."

"Jealousy indicates affection."

"True; but I am not jealous."

"He is."

"Of whom? -- of Debray?"

"No, of you."

"Of me? I will engage to say that before a week is past the
door will be closed against me."

"You are mistaken, my dear viscount."

"Prove it to me."

"Do you wish me to do so?"

"Yes."

"Well, I am charged with the commission of endeavoring to
induce the Comte de Morcerf to make some definite
arrangement with the baron."

"By whom are you charged?"

"By the baron himself."

"Oh," said Albert with all the cajolery of which he was
capable. "You surely will not do that, my dear count?"

"Certainly I shall, Albert, as I have promised to do it."

"Well," said Albert, with a sigh, "it seems you are
determined to marry me."

"I am determined to try and be on good terms with everybody,
at all events," said Monte Cristo. "But apropos of Debray,
how is it that I have not seen him lately at the baron's
house?"

"There has been a misunderstanding."

"What, with the baroness?"

"No, with the baron."

"Has he perceived anything?"

"Ah, that is a good joke!"

"Do you think he suspects?" said Monte Cristo with charming
artlessness.

"Where have you come from, my dear count?" said Albert.

"From Congo, if you will."

"It must be farther off than even that."

"But what do I know of your Parisian husbands?"

"Oh, my dear count, husbands are pretty much the same
everywhere; an individual husband of any country is a pretty
fair specimen of the whole race."

"But then, what can have led to the quarrel between Danglars
and Debray? They seemed to understand each other so well,"
said Monte Cristo with renewed energy.

"Ah, now you are trying to penetrate into the mysteries of
Isis, in which I am not initiated. When M. Andrea Cavalcanti
has become one of the family, you can ask him that
question." The carriage stopped. "Here we are," said Monte
Cristo; "it is only half-past ten o'clock, come in."

"Certainly I will."

"My carriage shall take you back."

"No, thank you; I gave orders for my coupe to follow me."

"There it is, then," said Monte Cristo, as he stepped out of
the carriage. They both went into the house; the
drawing-room was lighted up -- they went in there. "You will
make tea for us, Baptistin," said the count. Baptistin left
the room without waiting to answer, and in two seconds
reappeared, bringing on a waiter all that his master had
ordered, ready prepared, and appearing to have sprung from
the ground, like the repasts which we read of in fairy
tales. "Really, my dear count," said Morcerf. "what I admire
in you is, not so much your riches, for perhaps there are
people even wealthier than yourself, nor is it only your
wit, for Beaumarchais might have possessed as much, -- but
it is your manner of being served, without any questions, in
a moment, in a second; it is as 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 Haidee's guzla."

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

"Certainly there are. Haidee is a very uncommon name in
France, but is common enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as
it you said, for example, Chastity, Modesty, Innocence, --
it is a kind of baptismal name, as you Parisians call it."

"Oh, that is charming," said Albert, "how I should like to
hear my countrywomen called Mademoiselle Goodness,
Mademoiselle Silence, Mademoiselle Christian Charity! Only
think, then, if Mademoiselle Danglars, instead of being
called Claire-Marie-Eugenie, had been named Mademoiselle
Chastity-Modesty-Innocence Danglars; what a fine effect that
would have produced on the announcement of her marriage!"

"Hush," said the count, "do not joke in so loud a tone;
Haidee may hear you, perhaps."

"And you think she would be angry?"

"No, certainly not," said the count with a haughty
expression.

"She is very amiable, then, is she not?" said Albert.

"It is not to be called amiability, it is her duty; a slave
does not dictate to a master."

"Come; you are joking yourself now. Are there any more
slaves to be had who bear this beautiful name?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Really, count, you do nothing, and have nothing like other
people. The slave of the Count of Monte Cristo! Why, it is a
rank of itself in France, and from the way in which you
lavish money, it is a place that must be worth a hundred
thousand francs a year."

"A hundred thousand francs! The poor girl originally
possessed much more than that; she was born to treasures in
comparison with which those recorded in the `Thousand and
One Nights' would seem but poverty."

"She must be a princess then."

"You are right; and she is one of the greatest in her
country too."

"I thought so. But how did it happen that such a great
princess became a slave?"

"How was it that Dionysius the Tyrant became a schoolmaster?
The fortune of war, my dear viscount, -- the caprice of
fortune; that is the way in which these things are to be
accounted for."

"And is her name a secret?"

"As regards the generality of mankind it is; but not for
you, my dear viscount, who are one of my most intimate
friends, and on whose silence I feel I may rely, if I
consider it necessary to enjoin it -- may I not do so?"

"Certainly; on my word of honor."

"You know the history of the pasha of Yanina, do you not?"

"Of Ali Tepelini?* Oh, yes; it was in his service that my
father made his fortune."

"True, I had forgotten that."

* Ali Pasha, "The Lion," was born at Tepelini, an Albanian
village at the foot of the Klissoura Mountains, in 1741. By
diplomacy and success in arms he became almost supreme ruler
of Albania, Epirus, and adjacent territory. Having aroused
the enmity of the Sultan, he was proscribed and put to death
by treachery in 1822, at the age of eighty. -- Ed.

"Well, what is Haidee to Ali Tepelini?"

"Merely his daughter."

"What? the daughter of Ali Pasha?"

"Of Ali Pasha and the beautiful Vasiliki."

"And your slave?"

"Ma foi, yes."

"But how did she become so?"

"Why, simply from the circumstance of my having bought her
one day, as I was passing through the market at
Constantinople."

"Wonderful! Really, my dear count, you seem to throw a sort
of magic influence over all in which you are concerned; when
I listen to you, existence no longer seems reality, but a
waking dream. Now, I am perhaps going to make an imprudent
and thoughtless request, but" --

"Say on."

"But, since you go out with Haidee, and sometimes even take
her to the opera" --

"Well?"

"I think I may venture to ask you this favor."

"You may venture to ask me anything."

"Well then, my dear count, present me to your princess."

"I will do so; but on two conditions."

"I accept them at once."

"The first is, that you will never tell any one that I have
granted the interview."

"Very well," said Albert, extending his hand; "I swear I
will not."

"The second is, that you will not tell her that your father
ever served hers."

"I give you my oath that I will not."

"Enough, viscount; you will remember those two vows, will
you not? But I know you to be a man of honor." The count
again struck the gong. Ali reappeared. "Tell Haidee," said
he, "that I will take coffee with her, and give her to
understand that I desire permission to present one of my
friends to her." Ali bowed and left the room. "Now,
understand me," said the count, "no direct questions, my
dear Morcerf; if you wish to know anything, tell me, and I
will ask her."

"Agreed." Ali reappeared for the third time, and drew back
the tapestried hanging which concealed the door, to signify
to his master and Albert that they were at liberty to pass
on. "Let us go in," said Monte Cristo.

Albert passed his hand through his hair, and curled his
mustache, then, having satisfied himself as to his personal
appearance, followed the count into the room, the latter
having previously resumed his hat and gloves. Ali was
stationed as a kind of advanced guard, and the door was kept
by the three French attendants, commanded by Myrtho. Haidee
was awaiting her visitors in the first room of her
apartments, which was the drawing-room. Her large eyes were
dilated with surprise and expectation, for it was the first
time that any man, except Monte Cristo, had been accorded an
entrance into her presence. She was sitting on a sofa placed
in an angle of the room, with her legs crossed under her in
the Eastern fashion, and seemed to have made for herself, as
it were, a kind of nest in the rich Indian silks which
enveloped her. Near her was the instrument on which she had
just been playing; it was elegantly fashioned, and worthy of
its mistress. On perceiving Monte Cristo, she arose and
welcomed him with a smile peculiar to herself, expressive at
once of the most implicit obedience and also of the deepest
love. Monte Cristo advanced towards her and extended his
hand, which she as usual raised to her lips.

Albert had proceeded no farther than the door, where he
remained rooted to the spot, being completely fascinated by
the sight of such surpassing beauty, beheld as it was for
the first time, and of which an inhabitant of more northern
climes could form no adequate idea.

"Whom do you bring?" asked the young girl in Romaic, of
Monte Cristo; "is it a friend, a brother, a simple
acquaintance, or an enemy."

"A friend," said Monte Cristo in the same language.

"What is his name?"

"Count Albert; it is the same man whom I rescued from the
hands of the banditti at Rome."

"In what language would you like me to converse with him?"

Monte Cristo turned to Albert. "Do you know modern Greek,"
asked he.

"Alas, no," said Albert; "nor even ancient Greek, my dear
count; never had Homer or Plato a more unworthy scholar than
myself."

"Then," said Haidee, proving by her remark that she had
quite understood Monte Cristo's question and Albert's
answer, "then I will speak either in French or Italian, if
my lord so wills it."

Monte Cristo reflected one instant. "You will speak in
Italian," said he. Then, turning towards Albert, -- "It is a
pity you do not understand either ancient or modern Greek,
both of which Haidee speaks so fluently; the poor child will
be obliged to talk to you in Italian, which will give you
but a very false idea of her powers of conversation." The
count made a sign to Haidee to address his visitor. "Sir,"
she said to Morcerf, "you are most welcome as the friend of
my lord and master." This was said in excellent Tuscan, and
with that soft Roman accent which makes the language of
Dante as sonorous as that of Homer. Then, turning to Ali,
she directed him to bring coffee and pipes, and when he had
left the room to execute the orders of his young mistress
she beckoned Albert to approach nearer to her. Monte Cristo
and Morcerf drew their seats towards a small table, on which
were arranged music, drawings, and vases of flowers. Ali
then entered bringing coffee and chibouques; as to M.
Baptistin, this portion of the building was interdicted to
him. Albert refused the pipe which the Nubian offered him.
"Oh, take it -- take it," said the count; "Haidee is almost
as civilized as a Parisian; the smell of an Havana is
disagreeable to her, but the tobacco of the East is a most
delicious perfume, you know."

Ali left the room. The cups of coffee were all prepared,
with the addition of sugar, which had been brought for
Albert. Monte Cristo and Haidee took the beverage in the
original Arabian manner, that is to say, without sugar.
Haidee took the porcelain cup in her little slender fingers
and conveyed it to her mouth with all the innocent
artlessness of a child when eating or drinking something
which it likes. At this moment two women entered, bringing
salvers filled with ices and sherbet, which they placed on
two small tables appropriated to that purpose. "My dear
host, and you, signora," said Albert, in Italian, "excuse my
apparent stupidity. I am quite bewildered, and it is natural
that it should be so. Here I am in the heart of Paris; but a
moment ago I heard the rumbling of the omnibuses and the
tinkling of the bells of the lemonade-sellers, and now I
feel as if I were suddenly transported to the East; not such
as I have seen it, but such as my dreams have painted it.
Oh, signora, if I could but speak Greek, your conversation,
added to the fairy-scene which surrounds me, would furnish
an evening of such delight as it would be impossible for me
ever to forget."

"I speak sufficient Italian to enable me to converse with
you, sir," said Haidee quietly; "and if you like what is
Eastern, I will do my best to secure the gratification of
your tastes while you are here."

"On what subject shall I converse with her?" said Albert, in
a low tone to Monte Cristo.

"Just what you please; you may speak of her country and of
her youthful reminiscences, or if you like it better you can
talk of Rome, Naples, or Florence."

"Oh," said Albert, "it is of no use to be in the company of
a Greek if one converses just in the same style as with a
Parisian; let me speak to her of the East."

"Do so then, for of all themes which you could choose that
will be the most agreeable to her taste." Albert turned
towards Haidee. "At what age did you leave Greece, signora?"
asked he.

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

"And have you any recollection of your country?"

"When I shut my eyes and think, I seem to see it all again.
The mind can see as well as the body. The body forgets
sometimes -- but the mind never forgets."

"And how far back into the past do your recollections
extend?"

"I could scarcely walk when my mother, who was called
Vasiliki, which means royal," said the young girl, tossing
her head proudly, "took me by the hand, and after putting in
our purse all the money we possessed, we went out, both
covered with veils, to solicit alms for the prisoners,
saying, `He who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.'
Then when our purse was full we returned to the palace, and
without saying a word to my father, we sent it to the
convent, where it was divided amongst the prisoners."

"And how old were you at that time?"

"I was three years old," said Haidee.

"Then you remember everything that went on about you from
the time when you were three years old?" said Albert.

"Everything."

"Count," said Albert, in a low tone to Monte Cristo, "do
allow the signora to tell me something of her history. You
prohibited my mentioning my father's name to her, but
perhaps she will allude to him of her own accord in the
course of the recital, and you have no idea how delighted I
should be to hear our name pronounced by such beautiful
lips." Monte Cristo turned to Haidee, and with an expression
of countenance which commanded her to pay the most implicit
attention to his words, he said in Greek, -- "Tell us the
fate of your father; but neither the name of the traitor nor
the treason." Haidee sighed deeply, and a shade of sadness
clouded her beautiful brow.

"What are you saying to her?" said Morcerf in an undertone.

"I again reminded her that you were a friend, and that she
need not conceal anything from you."

"Then," said Albert, "this pious pilgrimage in behalf of the
prisoners was your first remembrance; what is the next?"

"Oh, then I remember as if it were but yesterday sitting
under the shade of some sycamore-trees, on the borders of a
lake, in the waters of which the trembling foliage was
reflected as in a mirror. Under the oldest and thickest of
these trees, reclining on cushions, sat my father; my mother
was at his feet, and I, childlike, amused myself by playing
with his long white beard which descended to his girdle, or
with the diamond-hilt of the scimitar attached to his
girdle. Then from time to time there came to him an Albanian
who said something to which I paid no attention, but which
he always answered in the same tone of voice, either `Kill,'
or `Pardon.'"

"It is very strange," said Albert, "to hear such words
proceed from the mouth of any one but an actress on the
stage, and one needs constantly to be saying to one's self,
`This is no fiction, it is all reality,' in order to believe
it. And how does France appear in your eyes, accustomed as
they have been to gaze on such enchanted scenes?"

"I think it is a fine country," said Haidee, "but I see
France as it really is, because I look on it with the eyes
of a woman; whereas my own country, which I can only judge
of from the impression produced on my childish mind, always
seems enveloped in a vague atmosphere, which is luminous or
otherwise, according as my remembrances of it are sad or
joyous."

"So young," said Albert, forgetting at the moment the
Count's command that he should ask no questions of the slave
herself, "is it possible that you can have known what
suffering is except by name?"

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

"Nothing is ever so firmly impressed on the mind as the
memory of our early childhood, and with the exception of the
two scenes I have just described to you, all my earliest
reminiscences are fraught with deepest sadness."

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

Haidee answered his remark with a melancholy smile. "You
wish me, then, to relate the history of my past sorrows?"
said she.

"I beg you to do so," replied Albert.

"Well, I was but four years old when one night I was
suddenly awakened by my mother. We were in the palace of
Yanina; she snatched me from the cushions on which I was
sleeping, and on opening my eyes I saw hers filled with
tears. She took me away without speaking. When I saw her
weeping I began to cry too. `Hush, child!' said she. At
other times in spite of maternal endearments or threats, I
had with a child's caprice been accustomed to indulge my
feelings of sorrow or anger by crying as much as I felt
inclined; but on this occasion there was an intonation of
such extreme terror in my mother's voice when she enjoined
me to silence, that I ceased crying as soon as her command
was given. She bore me rapidly away.

"I saw then that we were descending a large staircase;
around us were all my mother's servants carrying trunks,
bags, ornaments, jewels, purses of gold, with which they
were hurrying away in the greatest distraction.

"Behind the women came a guard of twenty men armed with long
guns and pistols, and dressed in the costume which the
Greeks have assumed since they have again become a nation.
You may imagine there was something startling and ominous,"
said Haidee, shaking her head and turning pale at the mere
remembrance of the scene, "in this long file of slaves and
women only half-aroused from sleep, or at least so they
appeared to me, who was myself scarcely awake. Here and
there on the walls of the staircase, were reflected gigantic
shadows, which trembled in the flickering light of the
pine-torches till they seemed to reach to the vaulted roof
above.

"`Quick!' said a voice at the end of the gallery. This voice
made every one bow before it, resembling in its effect the
wind passing over a field of wheat, by its superior strength
forcing every ear to yield obeisance. As for me, it made me
tremble. This voice was that of my father. He came last,
clothed in his splendid robes and holding in his hand the
carbine which your emperor presented him. He was leaning on
the shoulder of his favorite Selim, and he drove us all
before him, as a shepherd would his straggling flock. My
father," said Haidee, raising her head, "was that
illustrious man known in Europe under the name of Ali
Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and before whom Turkey trembled."

Albert, without knowing why, started on hearing these words
pronounced with such a haughty and dignified accent; it
appeared to him as if there was something supernaturally
gloomy and terrible in the expression which gleamed from the
brilliant eyes of Haidee at this moment; she appeared like a
Pythoness evoking a spectre, as she recalled to his mind the
remembrance of the fearful death of this man, to the news of
which all Europe had listened with horror. "Soon," said
Haidee, "we halted on our march, and found ourselves on the
borders of a lake. My mother pressed me to her throbbing
heart, and at the distance of a few paces I saw my father,
who was glancing anxiously around. Four marble steps led
down to the water's edge, and below them was a boat floating
on the tide.

"From where we stood I could see in the middle of the lake a
large blank mass; it was the kiosk to which we were going.
This kiosk appeared to me to be at a considerable distance,
perhaps on account of the darkness of the night, which
prevented any object from being more than partially
discerned. We stepped into the boat. I remember well that
the oars made no noise whatever in striking the water, and
when I leaned over to ascertain the cause I saw that they
were muffled with the sashes of our Palikares.* Besides the
rowers, the boat contained only the women, my father,
mother, Selim, and myself. The Palikares had remained on the
shore of the lake, ready to cover our retreat; they were
kneeling on the lowest of the marble steps, and in that
manner intended making a rampart of the three others, in
case of pursuit. Our bark flew before the wind. `Why does
the boat go so fast?' asked I of my mother.

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

"`Silence, child! Hush, we are flying!' I did not
understand. Why should my father fly? -- he, the
all-powerful -- he, before whom others were accustomed to
fly -- he, who had taken for his device, `They hate me; then
they fear me!' It was, indeed, a flight which my father was
trying to effect. I have been told since that the garrison
of the castle of Yanina, fatigued with long service" --

Here Haidee cast a significant glance at Monte Cristo, whose
eyes had been riveted on her countenance during the whole
course of her narrative. The young girl then continued,
speaking slowly, like a person who is either inventing or
suppressing some feature of the history which he is
relating. "You were saying, signora," said Albert, who was
paying the most implicit attention to the recital, "that the
garrison of Yanina, fatigued with long service" --

"Had treated with the Serasker* Koorshid, who had been sent
by the sultan to gain possession of the person of my father;
it was then that Ali Tepelini -- after having sent to the
sultan a French officer in whom he reposed great confidence
-- resolved to retire to the asylum which he had long before
prepared for himself, and which he called kataphygion, or
the refuge."

"And this officer," asked Albert, "do you remember his name,
signora?" Monte Cristo exchanged a rapid glance with the
young girl, which was quite unperceived by Albert. "No,"
said she, "I do not remember it just at this moment; but if
it should occur to me presently, I will tell you." Albert
was on the point of pronouncing his father's name, when
Monte Cristo gently held up his finger in token of reproach;
the young man recollected his promise, and was silent.

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

"It was towards this kiosk that we were rowing. A
ground-floor, ornamented with arabesques, bathing its
terraces in the water, and another floor, looking on the
lake, was all which was visible to the eye. But beneath the
ground-floor, stretching out into the island, was a large
subterranean cavern, to which my mother, myself, and the
women were conducted. In this place were together 60,000
pouches and 200 barrels; the pouches contained 25,000,000 of
money in gold, and the barrels were filled with 30,000
pounds of gunpowder.

"Near the barrels stood Selim, my father's favorite, whom I
mentioned to you just now. He stood watch day and night with
a lance provided with a lighted slowmatch in his hand, and
he had orders to blow up everything -- kiosk, guards, women,
gold, and Ali Tepelini himself -- at the first signal given
by my father. I remember well that the slaves, convinced of
the precarious tenure on which they held their lives, passed
whole days and nights in praying, crying, and groaning. As
for me, I can never forget the pale complexion and black
eyes of the young soldier, and whenever the angel of death
summons me to another world, I am quite sure I shall
recognize Selim. I cannot tell you how long we remained in
this state; at that period I did not even know what time
meant. Sometimes, but very rarely, my father summoned me and
my mother to the terrace of the palace; these were hours of
recreation for me, as I never saw anything in the dismal
cavern but the gloomy countenances of the slaves and Selim's
fiery lance. My father was endeavoring to pierce with his
eager looks the remotest verge of the horizon, examining
attentively every black speck which appeared on the lake,
while my mother, reclining by his side, rested her head on
his shoulder, and I played at his feet, admiring everything
I saw with that unsophisticated innocence of childhood which
throws a charm round objects insignificant in themselves,
but which in its eyes are invested with the greatest
importance. The heights of Pindus towered above us; the
castle of Yanina rose white and angular from the blue waters
of the lake, and the immense masses of black vegetation
which, viewed in the distance, gave the idea of lichens
clinging to the rocks, were in reality gigantic fir-trees
and myrtles.

"One morning my father sent for us; my mother had been
crying all the night, and was very wretched; we found the
pasha calm, but paler than usual. `Take courage, Vasiliki,'
said he; `to-day arrives the firman of the master, and my
fate will be decided. If my pardon be complete, we shall
return triumphant to Yanina; if the news be inauspicious, we
must fly this night.' -- `But supposing our enemy should not
allow us to do so?' said my mother. `Oh, make yourself easy
on that head,' said Ali, smiling; `Selim and his flaming
lance will settle that matter. They would be glad to see me
dead, but they would not like themselves to die with me.'

"My mother only answered by sighs to consolations which she
knew did not come from my father's heart. She prepared the
iced water which he was in the habit of constantly drinking,
-- for since his sojourn at the kiosk he had been parched by
the most violent fever, -- after which she anointed his
white beard with perfumed oil, and lighted his chibouque,
which he sometimes smoked for hours together, quietly
watching the wreaths of vapor that ascended in spiral clouds
and gradually melted away in the surrounding atmosphere.
Presently he made such a sudden movement that I was
paralyzed with fear. Then, without taking his eyes from the
object which had first attracted his attention, he asked for
his telescope. My mother gave it him. and as she did so,
looked whiter than the marble against which she leaned. I
saw my father's hand tremble. `A boat! -- two! -- three!'
murmured my, father; -- `four!' He then arose, seizing his
arms and priming his pistols. `Vasiliki,' said he to my
mother, trembling perceptibly, `the instant approaches which
will decide everything. In the space of half an hour we
shall know the emperor's answer. Go into the cavern with
Haidee.' -- `I will not quit you,' said Vasiliki; `if you
die, my lord, I will die with you.' -- `Go to Selim!' cried
my father. `Adieu, my lord,' murmured my mother, determining
quietly to await the approach of death. `Take away
Vasiliki!' said my father to his Palikares.

"As for me, I had been forgotten in the general confusion; I
ran toward Ali Tepelini; he saw me hold out my arms to him,
and he stooped down and pressed my forehead with his lips.
Oh, how distinctly I remember that kiss! -- it was the last
he ever gave me, and I feel as if it were still warm on my
forehead. On descending, we saw through the lattice-work
several boats which were gradually becoming more distinct to
our view. At first they appeared like black specks, and now
they looked like birds skimming the surface of the waves.
During this time, in the kiosk at my father's feet, were
seated twenty Palikares, concealed from view by an angle of
the wall and watching with eager eyes the arrival of the
boats. They were armed with their long guns inlaid with
mother-of-pearl and silver, and cartridges in great numbers
were lying scattered on the floor. My father looked at his
watch, and paced up and down with a countenance expressive
of the greatest anguish. This was the scene which presented
itself to my view as I quitted my father after that last
kiss. My mother and I traversed the gloomy passage leading
to the cavern. Selim was still at his post, and smiled sadly
on us as we entered. We fetched our cushions from the other
end of the cavern, and sat down by Selim. In great dangers
the devoted ones cling to each other; and, young as I was, I
quite understood that some imminent danger was hanging over
our heads."

Albert had often heard -- not from his father, for he never
spoke on the subject, but from strangers -- the description
of the last moments of the vizier of Yanina; he had read
different accounts of his death, but the story seemed to
acquire fresh meaning from the voice and expression of the
young girl, and her sympathetic accent and the melancholy
expression of her countenance at once charmed and horrified
him. As to Haidee, these terrible reminiscences seemed to
have overpowered her for a moment, for she ceased speaking,
her head leaning on her hand like a beautiful flower bowing
beneath the violence of the storm; and her eyes gazing on
vacancy indicated that she was mentally contemplating the
green summit of the Pindus and the blue waters of the lake
of Yanina, which, like a magic mirror, seemed to reflect the
sombre picture which she sketched. Monte Cristo looked at
her with an indescribable expression of interest and pity.

"Go on," said the count in the Romaic language.

Haidee looked up abruptly, as if the sonorous tones of Monte
Cristo's voice had awakened her from a dream; and she
resumed her narrative. "It was about four o'clock in the
afternoon, and although the day was brilliant out-of-doors,
we were enveloped in the gloomy darkness of the cavern. One
single, solitary light was burning there, and it appeared
like a star set in a heaven of blackness; it was Selim's
flaming lance. My mother was a Christian, and she prayed.
Selim repeated from time to time the sacred words: `God is
great!' However, my mother had still some hope. As she was
coming down, she thought she recognized the French officer
who had been sent to Constantinople, and in whom my father
placed so much confidence; for he knew that all the soldiers
of the French emperor were naturally noble and generous. She
advanced some steps towards the staircase, and listened.
`They are approaching,' said she; `perhaps they bring us
peace and liberty!' -- `What do you fear, Vasiliki?' said
Selim, in a voice at once so gentle and yet so proud. `If
they do not bring us peace, we will give them war; if they
do not bring life, we will give them death.' And he renewed
the flame of his lance with a gesture which made one think
of Dionysus of Crete.* But I, being only a little child, was
terrified by this undaunted courage, which appeared to me
both ferocious and senseless, and I recoiled with horror
from the idea of the frightful death amidst fire and flames
which probably awaited us.

* The god of fruitfulness in Grecian mythology. In Crete he
was supposed to be slain in winter with the decay of
vegetation and to revive in the spring. Haidee's learned
reference is to the behavior of an actor in the Dionysian
festivals. -- Ed.

"My mother experienced the same sensations, for I felt her
tremble. `Mamma, mamma,' said I, `are we really to be
killed?' And at the sound of my voice the slaves redoubled
their cries and prayers and lamentations. `My child,' said
Vasiliki, `may God preserve you from ever wishing for that
death which to-day you so much dread!' Then, whispering to
Selim, she asked what were her master's orders. `If he send
me his poniard, it will signify that the emperor's
intentions are not favorable, and I am to set fire to the
powder; if, on the contrary, he send me his ring, it will be
a sign that the emperor pardons him, and I am to extinguish
the match and leave the magazine untouched.' -- `My friend,'
said my mother, `when your master's orders arrive, if it is
the poniard which he sends, instead of despatching us by
that horrible death which we both so much dread, you will
mercifully kill us with this same poniard, will you not?' --
`Yes, Vasiliki,' replied Selim tranquilly.

"Suddenly we heard loud cries; and, listening, discerned
that they were cries of joy. The name of the French officer
who had been sent to Constantinople resounded on all sides
amongst our Palikares; it was evident that he brought the
answer of the emperor, and that it was favorable."

"And do you not remember the Frenchman's name?" said
Morcerf, quite ready to aid the memory of the narrator.
Monte Cristo made a sign to him to be silent.

"I do not recollect it," said Haidee.

"The noise increased; steps were heard approaching nearer
and nearer: they were descending the steps leading to the
cavern. Selim made ready his lance. Soon a figure appeared
in the gray twilight at the entrance of the cave, formed by
the reflection of the few rays of daylight which had found
their way into this gloomy retreat. `Who are you?' cried
Selim. `But whoever you may be, I charge you not to advance
another step.' -- `Long live the emperor!' said the figure.
`He grants a full pardon to the Vizier Ali, and not only
gives him his life, but restores to him his fortune and his
possessions.' My mother uttered a cry of joy, and clasped me
to her bosom. `Stop,' said Selim, seeing that she was about
to go out; `you see I have not yet received the ring,' --
`True,' said my mother. And she fell on her knees, at the
same time holding me up towards heaven, as if she desired,
while praying to God in my behalf, to raise me actually to
his presence."

And for the second time Haidee stopped, overcome by such
violent emotion that the perspiration stood upon her pale
brow, and her stifled voice seemed hardly able to find
utterance, so parched and dry were her throat and lips.
Monte Cristo poured a little iced water into a glass, and
presented it to her, saying with a mildness in which was
also a shade of command, -- "Courage."

Haidee dried her eyes, and continued: "By this time our
eyes, habituated to the darkness, had recognized the
messenger of the pasha, -- it was a friend. Selim had also
recognized him, but the brave young man only acknowledged
one duty, which was to obey. `In whose name do you come?'
said he to him. `I come in the name of our master, Ali
Tepelini.' -- `If you come from Ali himself,' said Selim,
`you know what you were charged to remit to me?' -- `Yes,'
said the messenger, `and I bring you his ring.' At these
words he raised his hand above his head, to show the token;
but it was too far off, and there was not light enough to
enable Selim, where he was standing, to distinguish and
recognize the object presented to his view. `I do not see
what you have in your hand,' said Selim. `Approach then,'
said the messenger, `or I will come nearer to you, if you
prefer it.' -- `I will agree to neither one nor the other,'
replied the young soldier; `place the object which I desire
to see in the ray of light which shines there, and retire
while I examine it.' -- `Be it so,' said the envoy; and he
retired, after having first deposited the token agreed on in
the place pointed out to him by Selim.

"Oh, how our hearts palpitated; for it did, indeed, seem to
be a ring which was placed there. But was it my father's
ring? that was the question. Selim, still holding in his
hand the lighted match, walked towards the opening in the
cavern, and, aided by the faint light which streamed in
through the mouth of the cave, picked up the token.

"`It is well,' said he, kissing it; `it is my master's
ring!' And throwing the match on the ground, he trampled on
it and extinguished it. The messenger uttered a cry of joy
and clapped his hands. At this signal four soldiers of the
Serasker Koorshid suddenly appeared, and Selim fell, pierced
by five blows. Each man had stabbed him separately, and,
intoxicated by their crime, though still pale with fear,
they sought all over the cavern to discover if there was any
fear of fire, after which they amused themselves by rolling
on the bags of gold. At this moment my mother seized me in
her arms, and hurrying noiselessly along numerous turnings
and windings known only to ourselves, she arrived at a
private staircase of the kiosk, where was a scene of
frightful tumult and confusion. The lower rooms were
entirely filled with Koorshid's troops; that is to say, with
our enemies. Just as my mother was on the point of pushing
open a small door, we heard the voice of the pasha sounding
in a loud and threatening tone. My mother applied her eye to
the crack between the boards; I luckily found a small
opening which afforded me a view of the apartment and what
was passing within. `What do you want?' said my father to
some people who were holding a paper inscribed with
characters of gold. `What we want,' replied one, `is to
communicate to you the will of his highness. Do you see this
firman?' -- `I do,' said my father. `Well, read it; he
demands your head.'

"My father answered with a loud laugh, which was more
frightful than even threats would have been, and he had not
ceased when two reports of a pistol were heard; he had fired
them himself, and had killed two men. The Palikares, who
were prostrated at my father's feet, now sprang up and
fired, and the room was filled with fire and smoke. At the
same instant the firing began on the other side, and the
balls penetrated the boards all round us. Oh, how noble did
the grand vizier my father look at that moment, in the midst
of the flying bullets, his scimitar in his hand, and his
face blackened with the powder of his enemies! and how he
terrified them, even then, and made them fly before him!
`Selim, Selim!' cried he, `guardian of the fire, do your
duty!' -- `Selim is dead,' replied a voice which seemed to
come from the depths of the earth, `and you are lost, Ali!'
At the same moment an explosion was heard, and the flooring
of the room in which my father was sitting was suddenly torn
up and shivered to atoms -- the troops were firing from
underneath. Three or four Palikares fell with their bodies
literally ploughed with wounds.

"My father howled aloud, plunged his fingers into the holes
which the balls had made, and tore up one of the planks
entire. But immediately through this opening twenty more
shots were fired, and the flame, rushing up like fire from
the crater of a volcano, soon reached the tapestry, which it
quickly devoured. In the midst of all this frightful tumult
and these terrific cries, two reports, fearfully distinct,
followed by two shrieks more heartrending than all, froze me
with terror. These two shots had mortally wounded my father,
and it was he who had given utterance to these frightful
cries. However, he remained standing, clinging to a window.
My mother tried to force the door, that she might go and die
with him, but it was fastened on the inside. All around him
were lying the Palikares, writhing in convulsive agonies,
while two or three who were only slightly wounded were
trying to escape by springing from the windows. At this
crisis the whole flooring suddenly gave way. my father fell
on one knee, and at the same moment twenty hands were thrust
forth, armed with sabres, pistols, and poniards -- twenty
blows were instantaneously directed against one man, and my
father disappeared in a whirlwind of fire and smoke kindled
by these demons, and which seemed like hell itself opening
beneath his feet. I felt myself fall to the ground, my
mother had fainted."

Haidee's arms fell by her side, and she uttered a deep
groan, at the same time looking towards the count as if to
ask if he were satisfied with her obedience to his commands.
Monte Cristo arose and approached her, took her hand, and
said to her in Romaic, "Calm yourself, my dear child, and
take courage in remembering that there is a God who will
punish traitors."

"It is a frightful story, count," said Albert, terrified at
the paleness of Haidee's countenance, "and I reproach myself
now for having been so cruel and thoughtless in my request."

"Oh, it is nothing," said Monte Cristo. Then, patting the
young girl on the head, he continued, "Haidee is very
courageous, and she sometimes even finds consolation in the
recital of her misfortunes."

"Because, my lord." said Haidee eagerly, "my miseries recall
to me the remembrance of your goodness."

Albert looked at her with curiosity, for she had not yet
related what he most desired to know, -- how she had become
the slave of the count. Haidee saw at a glance the same
expression pervading the countenances of her two auditors;
she exclaimed, `When my mother recovered her senses we were
before the serasker. `Kill,' said she, `but spare the honor
of the widow of Ali.' -- `It is not to me to whom you must
address yourself,' said Koorshid.

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

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

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

"No," replied Haidee, "he did not dare to keep us, so we
were sold to some slave-merchants who were going to
Constantinople. We traversed Greece, and arrived half dead
at the imperial gates. They were surrounded by a crowd of
people, who opened a way for us to pass, when suddenly my
mother, having looked closely at an object which was
attracting their attention, uttered a piercing cry and fell
to the ground, pointing as she did so to a head which was
placed over the gates, and beneath which were inscribed
these words:

"`This is the head of Ali Tepelini Pasha of Yanina.' I cried
bitterly, and tried to raise my mother from the earth, but
she was dead! I was taken to the slave-market, and was
purchased by a rich Armenian. He caused me to be instructed,
gave me masters, and when I was thirteen years of age he
sold me to the Sultan Mahmood."

"Of whom I bought her," said Monte Cristo, "as I told you,
Albert, with the emerald which formed a match to the one I
had made into a box for the purpose of holding my hashish
pills."

"Oh, you are good, you are great, my lord!" said Haidee,
kissing the count's hand, "and I am very fortunate in
belonging to such a master!" Albert remained quite
bewildered with all that he had seen and heard. "Come,
finish your cup of coffee," said Monte Cristo; "the history
is ended."



Chapter 78
We hear From Yanina.

If Valentine could have seen the trembling step and agitated
countenance of Franz when he quitted the chamber of M.
Noirtier, even she would have been constrained to pity him.
Villefort had only just given utterance to a few incoherent
sentences, and then retired to his study, where he received
about two hours afterwards the following letter: --

"After all the disclosures which were made this morning, M.
Noirtier de Villefort must see the utter impossibility of
any alliance being formed between his family and that of M.
Franz d'Epinay. M. d'Epinay must say that he is shocked and
astonished that M. de Villefort, who appeared to be aware of
all the circumstances detailed this morning, should not have
anticipated him in this announcement."

No one who had seen the magistrate at this moment, so
thoroughly unnerved by the recent inauspicious combination
of circumstances, would have supposed for an instant that he
had anticipated the annoyance; although it certainly never
had occurred to him that his father would carry candor, or
rather rudeness, so far as to relate such a history. And in
justice to Villefort, it must be understood that M.
Noirtier, who never cared for the opinion of his son on any
subject, had always omitted to explain the affair to
Villefort, so that he had all his life entertained the
belief that General de Quesnel, or the Baron d'Epinay, as he
was alternately styled, according as the speaker wished to
identify him by his own family name, or by the title which
had been conferred on him, fell the victim of assassination,
and not that he was killed fairly in a duel. This harsh
letter, coming as it did from a man generally so polite and
respectful, struck a mortal blow at the pride of Villefort.
Hardly had he read the letter, when his wife entered. The
sudden departure of Franz, after being summoned by M.
Noirtier, had so much astonished every one, that the
position of Madame de Villefort, left alone with the notary
and the witnesses, became every moment more embarrassing.
Determined to bear it no longer, she arose and left the
room; saying she would go and make some inquiries into the
cause of his sudden disappearance.

M. de Villefort's communications on the subject were very
limited and concise; he told her, in fact, that an
explanation had taken place between M. Noirtier, M.
d'Epinay, and himself, and that the marriage of Valentine
and Franz would consequently be broken off. This was an
awkward and unpleasant thing to have to report to those who
were awaiting her return in the chamber of her
father-in-law. She therefore contented herself with saying
that M. Noirtier having at the commencement of the
discussion been attacked by a sort of apoplectic fit, the
affair would necessarily be deferred for some days longer.
This news, false as it was following so singularly in the
train of the two similar misfortunes which had so recently
occurred, evidently astonished the auditors, and they
retired without a word. During this time Valentine, at once
terrified and happy, after having embraced and thanked the
feeble old man for thus breaking with a single blow the
chain which she had been accustomed to consider as
irrefragable, asked leave to retire to her own room, in
order to recover her composure. Noirtier looked the
permission which she solicited. But instead of going to her
own room, Valentine, having once gained her liberty, entered
the gallery, and, opening a small door at the end of it.
found herself at once in the garden.

In the midst of all the strange events which had crowded one
on the other, an indefinable sentiment of dread had taken
possession of Valentine's mind. She expected every moment
that she should see Morrel appear, pale and trembling, to
forbid the signing of the contract, like the Laird of
Ravenswood in "The Bride of Lammermoor." It was high time
for her to make her appearance at the gate, for Maximilian
had long awaited her coming. He had half guessed what was
going on when he saw Franz quit the cemetery with M. de
Villefort. He followed M. d'Epinay, saw him enter,
afterwards go out, and then re-enter with Albert and
Chateau-Renaud. He had no longer any doubts as to the nature
of the conference; he therefore quickly went to the gate in
the clover-patch, prepared to hear the result of the
proceedings, and very certain that Valentine would hasten to
him the first moment she should 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. "But tell me, Valentine, how has
it all been effected? What strange means has he used to
compass this blessed end?"

Valentine was on the point of relating all that had passed,
but she suddenly remembered that in doing so she must reveal
a terrible secret which concerned others as well as her
grandfather, and she said, "At some future time I will tell
you all about it."

"But when will that be?"

"When I am your wife."

The conversation had now turned upon a topic so pleasing to
Morrel, that he was ready to accede to anything that
Valentine thought fit to propose, and he likewise felt that
a piece of intelligence such as he just heard ought to be
more than sufficient to content him for one day. However, he
would not leave without the promise of seeing Valentine
again the next night. Valentine promised all that Morrel
required of her, and certainly it was less difficult now for
her to believe that she should marry Maximilian than it was
an hour ago to assure herself that she should not marry
Franz. During the time occupied by the interview we have
just detailed, Madame de Villefort had gone to visit M.
Noirtier. The old man looked at her with that stern and
forbidding expression with which he was accustomed to
receive her.

"Sir," said she, "it is superfluous for me to tell you that
Valentine's marriage is broken off, since it was here that
the affair was concluded." Noirtier's countenance remained
immovable. "But one thing I can tell you, of which I do not
think you are aware; that is, that I have always been
opposed to this marriage, and that the contract was entered
into entirely without my consent or approbation." Noirtier
regarded his daughter-in-law with the look of a man desiring
an explanation. "Now that this marriage, which I know you so
much disliked, is done away with, I come to you on an errand
which neither M. de Villefort nor Valentine could
consistently undertake." Noirtier's eyes demanded the nature
of her mission. "I come to entreat you, sir," continued
Madame de Villefort, "as the only one who has the right of
doing so, inasmuch as I am the only one who will receive no
personal benefit from the transaction, -- I come to entreat
you to restore, not your love, for that she has always
possessed, but to restore your fortune to your
granddaughter."

There was a doubtful expression in Noirtier's eyes; he was
evidently trying to discover the motive of this proceeding,
and he could not succeed in doing so. "May I hope, sir,"
said Madame de Villefort, "that your intentions accord with
my request?" Noirtier made a sign that they did. "In that
case, sir," rejoined Madame de Villefort, "I will leave you
overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness at your prompt
acquiescence to my wishes." She then bowed to M. Noirtier
and retired.

The next day M. Noirtier sent for the notary; the first will
was torn up and a second made, in which he left the whole of
his fortune to Valentine, on condition that she should never
be separated from him. It was then generally reported that
Mademoiselle de Villefort, the heiress of the marquis and
marchioness of Saint-Meran, had regained the good graces of
her grandfather, and that she would ultimately be in
possession of an income of 300,000 livres.

While all the proceedings relative to the dissolution of the
marriage-contract were being carried on at the house of M.
de Villefort, Monte Cristo had paid his visit to the Count
of Morcerf, who, in order to lose no time in responding to
M. Danglars' wishes, and at the same time to pay all due
deference to his position in society, donned his uniform of
lieutenant-general, which he ornamented with all his
crosses, and thus attired, ordered his finest horses and
drove to the Rue de la Chausse d'Antin.

Danglars was balancing his monthly accounts, and it was
perhaps not the most favorable moment for finding him in his
best humor. At the first sight of his old friend, Danglars
assumed his majestic air, and settled himself in his
easy-chair. Morcerf, usually so stiff and formal, accosted
the banker in an affable and smiling manner, and, feeling
sure that the overture he was about make would be well
received, he did not consider it necessary to adopt any
manoeuvres in order to gain his end, but went at once
straight to the point.

"Well, baron," said he, "here I am at last; some time has
elapsed since our plans were formed, and they are not yet
executed." Morcerf paused at these words, quietly waiting
till the cloud should have dispersed which had gathered on
the brow of Danglars, and which he attributed to his
silence; but, on the contrary, to his great surprise, it
grew darker and darker. "To what do you allude, monsieur?"
said Danglars; as if he were trying in vain to guess at the
possible meaning of the general's words.

"Ah," said Morcerf, "I see you are a stickler for forms, my
dear sir, and you would remind me that the ceremonial rites
should not be omitted. Ma foi, I beg your pardon, but as I
have but one son, and it is the first time I have ever
thought of marrying him, I am still serving my
apprenticeship, you know; come, I will reform." And Morcerf
with a forced smile arose, and, making a low bow to M.
Danglars, said: "Baron, I have the honor of asking of you
the hand of Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars for my son, the
Vicomte Albert de Morcerf."

But Danglars, instead of receiving this address in the
favorable manner which Morcerf had expected, knit his brow,
and without inviting the count, who was still standing, to
take a seat. he said: "Monsieur, it will be necessary to
reflect before I give you an answer."

"To reflect?" said Morcerf, more and more astonished; "have
you not had enough time for reflection during the eight
years which have elapsed since this marriage was first
discussed between us?"

"Count," said the banker, "things are constantly occurring
in the world to induce us to lay aside our most established
opinions, or at all events to cause us to remodel them
according to the change of circumstances, which may have
placed affairs in a totally different light to that in which
we at first viewed them."

"I do not understand you, baron," said Morcerf.

"What I mean to say is this, sir, -- that during the last
fortnight unforeseen circumstances have occurred" --

"Excuse me," said Morcerf, "but is it a play we are acting?"

"A play?"

"Yes, for it is like one; pray let us come more to the
point, and endeavor thoroughly to understand each other."

"That is quite my desire."

"You have seen M. de Monte Cristo have you not?"

"I see him very often," said Danglars, drawing himself up;
"he is a particular friend of mine."

"Well, in one of your late conversations with him, you said
that I appeared to be forgetful and irresolute concerning
this marriage, did you not?"

"I did say so."

"Well, here I am, proving at once that I am really neither
the one nor the other, by entreating you to keep your
promise on that score."

Danglars did not answer. "Have you so soon changed your
mind," added Morcerf, "or have you only provoked my request
that you may have the pleasure of seeing me humbled?"
Danglars, seeing that if he continued the conversation in
the same tone in which he had begun it, the whole thing
might turn out to his own disadvantage, turned to Morcerf,
and said: "Count, you must doubtless be surprised at my
reserve, and I assure you it costs me much to act in such a
manner towards you; but, believe me when I say that
imperative necessity has imposed the painful task upon me."

"These are all so many empty words, my dear sir," said
Morcerf: "they might satisfy a new acquaintance, but the
Comte de Morcerf does not rank in that list; and when a man
like him comes to another, recalls to him his plighted word,
and this man fails to redeem the pledge, he has at least a
right to exact from him a good reason for so doing."
Danglars was a coward, but did not wish to appear so; he was
piqued at the tone which Morcerf had just assumed. "I am not
without a good reason for my conduct," replied the banker.

"What do you mean to say?"

"I mean to say that I have a good reason, but that it is
difficult to explain."

"You must be aware, at all events, that it is impossible for
me to understand motives before they are explained to me;
but one thing at least is clear, which is, that you decline
allying yourself with my family."

"No, sir," said Danglars; "I merely suspend my decision,
that is all."

"And do you really flatter yourself that I shall yield to
all your caprices, and quietly and humbly await the time of
again being received into your good graces?"

"Then, count, if you will not wait, we must look upon these
projects as if they had never been entertained." The count
bit his lips till the blood almost started, to prevent the
ebullition of anger which his proud and irritable temper
scarcely allowed him to restrain; understanding, however,
that in the present state of things the laugh would
decidedly be against him, he turned from the door, towards
which he had been directing his steps, and again confronted
the banker. A cloud settled on his brow, evincing decided
anxiety and uneasiness, instead of the expression of
offended pride which had lately reigned there. "My dear
Danglars," said Morcerf, "we have been acquainted for many
years, and consequently we ought to make some allowance for
each other's failings. You owe me an explanation, and really
it is but fair that I should know what circumstance has
occurred to deprive my son of your favor."

"It is from no personal ill-feeling towards the viscount,
that is all I can say, sir," replied Danglars, who resumed
his insolent manner as soon as he perceived that Morcerf was
a little softened and calmed down. "And towards whom do you
bear this personal ill-feeling, then?" said Morcerf, turning
pale with anger. The expression of the count's face had not
remained unperceived by the banker; he fixed on him a look
of greater assurance than before, and said: "You may,
perhaps, be better satisfied that I should not go farther
into particulars."

A tremor of suppressed rage shook the whole frame of the
count, and making a violent effort over himself, he said: "I
have a right to insist on your giving me an explanation. Is
it Madame de Morcerf who has displeased you? Is it my
fortune which you find insufficient? Is it because my
opinions differ from yours?"

"Nothing of the kind, sir," replied Danglars: "if such had
been the case, I only should have been to blame, inasmuch as
I was aware of all these things when I made the engagement.
No, do not seek any longer to discover the reason. I really
am quite ashamed to have been the cause of your undergoing
such severe self-examination; let us drop the subject, and
adopt the middle course of delay, which implies neither a
rupture nor an engagement. Ma foi, there is no hurry. My
daughter is only seventeen years old, and your son
twenty-one. While we wait, time will be progressing, events
will succeed each other; things which in the evening look
dark and obscure, appear but too clearly in the light of
morning, and sometimes the utterance of one word, or the
lapse of a single day, will reveal the most cruel
calumnies."

"Calumnies, did you say, sir?" cried Morcerf, turning livid
with rage. "Does any one dare to slander me?"

"Monsieur, I told you that I considered it best to avoid all
explanation."

"Then, sir, I am patiently to submit to your refusal?"

"Yes, sir, although I assure you the refusal is as painful
for me to give as it is for you to receive, for I had
reckoned on the honor of your alliance, and the breaking off
of a marriage contract always injures the lady more than the
gentleman."

"Enough, sir," said Morcerf, "we will speak no more on the
subject." And clutching his gloves in anger, he left the
apartment. Danglars observed that during the whole
conversation Morcerf had never once dared to ask if it was
on his own account that Danglars recalled his word. That
evening he had a long conference with several friends; and
M. Cavalcanti, who had remained in the drawing-room with the
ladies, was the last to leave the banker's house.

The next morning, as soon as he awoke, Danglars asked for
the newspapers; they were brought to him; he laid aside
three or four, and at last fixed on the Impartial, the paper
of which Beauchamp was the chief editor. He hastily tore off
the cover, opened the journal with nervous precipitation,
passed contemptuously over the Paris jottings, and arriving
at the miscellaneous intelligence, stopped with a malicious
smile, at a paragraph headed "We hear from Yanina." "Very
good," observed Danglars, after having read the paragraph;
"here is a little article on Colonel Fernand, which, if I am
not mistaken, would render the explanation which the Comte
de Morcerf required of me perfectly unnecessary."

At the same moment, that is, at nine o'clock in the morning,
Albert de Morcerf, dressed in a black coat buttoned up to
his chin, might have been seen walking with a quick and
agitated step in the direction of Monte Cristo's house in
the Champs Elysees. When he presented himself at the gate
the porter informed him that the Count had gone out about
half an hour previously. "Did he take Baptistin with him?"

"No, my lord."

"Call him, then; I wish to speak to him." The concierge went
to seek the valet de chambre, and returned with him in an
instant.

"My good friend," said Albert, "I beg pardon for my
intrusion, but I was anxious to know from your own mouth if
your master was really out or not."

"He is really out, sir," replied Baptistin.

"Out, even to me?"

"I know how happy my master always is to receive the
vicomte," said Baptistin; "and I should therefore never
think of including him in any general order."

"You are right; and now I wish to see him on an affair of
great importance. Do you think it will be long before he
comes in?"

"No, I think not, for he ordered his breakfast at ten
o'clock."

"Well, I will go and take a turn in the Champs Elysees, and
at ten o'clock I will return here; meanwhile, if the count
should come in, will you beg him not to go out again without
seeing me?"

"You may depend on my doing so, sir," said Baptistin.

Albert left the cab in which he had come at the count's
door, intending to take a turn on foot. As he was passing
the Allee des Veuves, he thought he saw the count's horses
standing at Gosset's shooting-gallery; he approached, and
soon recognized the coachman. "Is the count shooting in the
gallery?" said Morcerf.

"Yes, sir," replied the coachman. While he was speaking,
Albert had heard the report of two or three pistol-shots. He
entered, and on his way met the waiter. "Excuse me, my
lord," said the lad; "but will you have the kindness to wait
a moment?"

"What for, Philip?" asked Albert, who, being a constant
visitor there, did not understand this opposition to his
entrance.

"Because the person who is now in the gallery prefers being
alone, and never practices in the presence of any one."

"Not even before you, Philip? Then who loads his pistol?"

"His servant."

"A Nubian?"

"A negro."

"It is he, then."

"Do you know this gentleman?"

"Yes, and I am come to look for him; he is a friend of
mine."

"Oh, that is quite another thing, then. I will go
immediately and inform him of your arrival." And Philip,
urged by his own curiosity, entered the gallery; a second
afterwards, Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. "I ask
your pardon, my dear count," said Albert, "for following you
here, and I must first tell you that it was not the fault of
your servants that I did so; I alone am to blame for the
indiscretion. I went to your house, and they told me you
were out, but that they expected you home at ten o'clock to
breakfast. I was walking about in order to pass away the
time till ten o'clock, when I caught sight of your carriage
and horses."

"What you have just said induces me to hope that you intend
breakfasting with me."

"No, thank you, I am thinking of other things besides
breakfast just now; perhaps we may take that meal at a later
hour and in worse company."

"What on earth are you talking of?"

"I am to fight to-day."

"For what?"

"I am going to fight" --

"Yes, I understand that, but what is the quarrel? People
fight for all sorts of reasons, you know."-

"I fight in the cause of honor."

"Ah, that is something serious."

"So serious, that I come to beg you to render me a service."

"What is it?"

"To be my second."

"That is a serious matter, and we will not discuss it here;
let us speak of nothing till we get home. Ali, bring me some
water." The count turned up his sleeves, and passed into the
little vestibule where the gentlemen were accustomed to wash
their hands after shooting. "Come in, my lord," said Philip
in a low tone, "and I will show you something droll."
Morcerf entered, and in place of the usual target, he saw
some playing-cards fixed against the wall. At a distance
Albert thought it was a complete suit, for he counted from
the ace to the ten. "Ah, ha," said Albert, "I see you were
preparing for a game of cards."

"No," said the count, "I was making a suit."

"How?" said Albert.

"Those are really aces and twos which you see, but my shots
have turned them into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines,
and tens." Albert approached. In fact, the bullets had
actually pierced the cards in the exact places which the
painted signs would otherwise have occupied, the lines and
distances being as regularly kept as if they had been ruled
with pencil. "Diable," said Morcerf.

"What would you have, my dear viscount?" said Monte Cristo,
wiping his hands on the towel which Ali had brought him; "I
must occupy my leisure moments in some way or other. But
come, I am waiting for you." Both men entered Monte Cristo's
carriage, which in the course of a few minutes deposited
them safely at No. 30. Monte Cristo took Albert into his
study, and pointing to a seat, placed another for himself.
"Now let us talk the matter over quietly," said the count.

"You see I am perfectly composed," said Albert.

"With whom are you going to fight?"

"With Beauchamp."

"One of your friends!"

"Of course; it is always with friends that one fights."

"I suppose you have some cause of quarrel?"

"I have."

"What has he done to you?"

"There appeared in his journal last night -- but wait, and
read for yourself." And Albert handed over the paper to the
count, who read as follows: --

"A correspondent at Yanina informs us of a fact of which
until now we had remained in ignorance. The castle which
formed the protection of the town was given up to the Turks
by a French officer named Fernand, in whom the grand vizier,
Ali Tepelini, had reposed the greatest confidence."

"Well," said Monte Cristo, "what do you see in that to annoy
you?"

"What do I see in it?"

"Yes; what does it signify to you if the castle of Yanina
was given up by a French officer?"

"It signifies to my father, the Count of Morcerf, whose
Christian name is Fernand!"

"Did your father serve under Ali Pasha?"

"Yes; that is to say, he fought for the independence of the
Greeks, and hence arises the calumny."

"Oh, my dear viscount, do talk reason!"

"I do not desire to do otherwise."

"Now, just tell me who the devil should know in France that
the officer Fernand and the Count of Morcerf are one and the
same person? and who cares now about Yanina, which was taken
as long ago as the year 1822 or 1823?"

"That just shows the meanness of this slander. They have
allowed all this time to elapse, and then all of a sudden
rake up events which have been forgotten to furnish
materials for scandal, in order to tarnish the lustre of our
high position. I inherit my father's name, and I do not
choose that the shadow of disgrace should darken it. I am
going to Beauchamp, in whose journal this paragraph appears,
and I shall insist on his retracting the assertion before
two witnesses."

"Beauchamp will never retract."

"Then he must fight."

"No he will not, for he will tell you, what is very true,
that perhaps there were fifty officers in the Greek army
bearing the same name."

"We will fight, nevertheless. I will efface that blot on my
father's character. My father, who was such a brave soldier,
whose career was so brilliant" --

"Oh, well, he will add, `We are warranted in believing that
this Fernand is not the illustrious Count of Morcerf, who
also bears the same Christian name.'"

"I am determined not to be content with anything short of an
entire retractation."

"And you intend to make him do it in the presence of two
witnesses, do you?"

"Yes."

"You do wrong."

"Which means, I suppose, that you refuse the service which I
asked of you?"

"You know my theory regarding duels; I told you my opinion
on that subject, if you remember, when we were at Rome."

"Nevertheless, my dear count, I found you this morning
engaged in an occupation but little consistent with the
notions you profess to entertain."

"Because, my dear fellow, you understand one must never be
eccentric. If one's lot is cast among fools, it is necessary
to study folly. I shall perhaps find myself one day called
out by some harebrained scamp, who has no more real cause of
quarrel with me than you have with Beauchamp; he may take me
to task for some foolish trifle or other, he will bring his
witnesses, or will insult me in some public place, and I am
expected to kill him for all that."

"You admit that you would fight, then? Well, if so, why do
you object to my doing so?"

"I do not say that you ought not to fight, I only say that a
duel is a serious thing, and ought not to be undertaken
without due reflection."

"Did he reflect before he insulted my father?"

"If he spoke hastily, and owns that he did so, you ought to
be satisfied."

"Ah, my dear count, you are far too indulgent."

"And you are far too exacting. Supposing, for instance, and
do not be angry at what I am going to say" --

"Well."

"Supposing the assertion to be really true?"

"A son ought not to submit to such a stain on his father's
honor."

"Ma foi, we live in times when there is much to which we
must submit."

"That is precisely the fault of the age."

"And do you undertake to reform it?"

"Yes, as far as I am personally concerned."

"Well, you the?? indeed exacting, my dear fellow!"

"Yes, I own it."

"Are you quite impervious to good advice?"

"Not when it comes from a friend."

"And do you account me that title?"

"Certainly I do."

"Well, then, before going to Beauchamp with your witnesses,
seek further information on the subject."

"From whom?"

"From Haidee."

"Why, what can be the use of mixing a woman up in the
affair? -- what can she do in it?"

"She can declare to you, for example, that your father had
no hand whatever in the defeat and death of the vizier; or
if by chance he had, indeed, the misfortune to" --

"I have told you, my dear count, that I would not for one
moment admit of such a proposition."

"You reject this means of information, then?"

"I do -- most decidedly."

"Then let me offer one more word of advice."

"Do so, then, but let it be the last."

"You do not wish to hear it, perhaps?"

"On the contrary, I request it."

"Do not take any witnesses with you when you go to Beauchamp
-- visit him alone."

"That would be contrary to all custom."

"Your case is not an ordinary one."

"And what is your reason for advising me to go alone?"

"Because then the affair will rest between you and
Beauchamp."

"Explain yourself."

"I will do so. If Beauchamp be disposed to retract, you
ought at least to give him the opportunity of doing it of
his own free will, -- the satisfaction to you will be the
same. If, on the contrary, he refuses to do so, it will then
be quite time enough to admit two strangers into your
secret."

"They will not be strangers, they will be friends."

"Ah, but the friends of to-day are the enemies of to-morrow;
Beauchamp, for instance."

"So you recommend" --

"I recommend you to be prudent."

"Then you advise me to go alone to Beauchamp?"

"I do, and I will tell you why. When you wish to obtain some
concession from a man's self-love, you must avoid even the
appearance of wishing to wound it."

"I believe you are right."

"I am glad of it."

"Then I will go alone."

"Go; but you would do better still by not going at all."

"That is impossible."

"Do so, then; it will be a wiser plan than the first which
you proposed."

"But if, in spite of all my precautions, I am at last
obliged to fight, will you not be my second?"

"My dear viscount," said Monte Cristo gravely, "you must
have seen before to-day that at all times and in all places
I have been at your disposal, but the service which you have
just demanded of me is one which it is out of my power to
render you."

"Why?"

"Perhaps you may know at some future period, and in the mean
time I request you to excuse my declining to put you in
possession of my reasons."

"Well, I will have Franz and Chateau-Renaud; they will be
the very men for it."

"Do so, then."

"But if I do fight, you will surely not object to giving me
a lesson or two in shooting and fencing?"

"That, too, is impossible."

"What a singular being you are! -- you will not interfere in
anything."

"You are right -- that is the principle on which I wish to
act."

"We will say no more about it, then. Good-by, count."
Morcerf took his hat, and left the room. He found his
carriage at the door, and doing his utmost to restrain his
anger he went at once to find Beauchamp, who was in his
office. It was a gloomy, dusty-looking apartment, such as
journalists' offices have always been from time immemorial.
The servant announced M. Albert de Morcerf. Beauchamp
repeated the name to himself, as though he could scarcely
believe that he had heard aright, and then gave orders for
him to be admitted. Albert entered. Beauchamp uttered an
exclamation of surprise on seeing his friend leap over and
trample under foot all the newspapers which were strewed
about the room. "This way, this way, my dear Albert!" said
he, holding out his hand to the young man. "Are you out of
your senses, or do you come peaceably to take breakfast with
me? Try and find a seat -- there is one by that geranium,
which is the only thing in the room to remind me that there
are other leaves in the world besides leaves of paper."

"Beauchamp," said Albert, "it is of your journal that I come
to speak."

"Indeed? What do you wish to say about it?"

"I desire that a statement contained in it should be
rectified."

"To what do you refer? But pray sit down."

"Thank you," said Albert, with a cold and formal bow.

"Will you now have the kindness to explain the nature of the
statement which has displeased you?"

"An announcement has been made which implicates the honor of
a member of my family."

"What is it?" said Beauchamp, much surprised; "surely you
must be mistaken."

"The story sent you from Yanina."

"Yanina?"

"Yes; really you appear to be totally ignorant of the cause
which brings me here."

"Such is really the case, I assure you, upon my honor!
Baptiste, give me yesterday's paper," cried Beauchamp.

"Here, I have brought mine with me," replied Albert.

Beauchamp took the paper, and read the article to which
Albert pointed in an undertone. "You see it is a serious
annoyance," said Morcerf, when Beauchamp had finished the
perusal of the paragraph. "Is the officer referred to a
relation of yours, then?" demanded the journalist.

"Yes," said Albert, blushing.

"Well, what do you wish me to do for you?" said Beauchamp
mildly.

"My dear Beauchamp, I wish you to contradict this
statement." Beauchamp looked at Albert with a benevolent
expression.

"Come," said he, "this matter will want a good deal of
talking over; a retractation is always a serious thing, you
know. Sit down, and I will read it again." Albert resumed
his seat, and Beauchamp read, with more attention than at
first, the lines denounced by his friend. "Well," said
Albert in a determined tone, "you see that your paper his
insulted a member of my family, and I insist on a
retractation being made."

"You insist?"

"Yes, I insist."

"Permit me to remind you that you are not in the Chamber, my
dear Viscount."

"Nor do I wish to be there," replied the young man, rising.
"I repeat that I am determined to have the announcement of
yesterday contradicted. You have known me long enough,"
continued Albert, biting his lips convulsively, for he saw
that Beauchamp's anger was beginning to rise, -- "you have
been my friend, and therefore sufficiently intimate with me
to be aware that I am likely to maintain my resolution on
this point."

"If I have been your friend, Morcerf, your present manner of
speaking would almost lead me to forget that I ever bore
that title. But wait a moment, do not let us get angry, or
at least not yet. You are irritated and vexed -- tell me how
this Fernand is related to you?"

"He is merely my father," said Albert -- "M. Fernand
Mondego, Count of Morcerf, an old soldier who has fought in
twenty battles and whose honorable scars they would denounce
as badges of disgrace."

"Is it your father?" said Beauchamp; "that is quite another
thing. Then can well understand your indignation, my dear
Albert. I will look at it again;" and he read the paragraph
for the third time, laying a stress on each word as he
proceeded. "But the paper nowhere identifies this Fernand
with your father."

"No; but the connection will be seen by others, and
therefore I will have the article contradicted." At the
words "I will," Beauchamp steadily raised his eyes to
Albert's countenance, and then as gradually lowering them,
he remained thoughtful for a few moments. "You will retract
this assertion, will you not, Beauchamp?" said Albert with
increased though stifled anger.

"Yes," replied Beauchamp.

"Immediately?" said Albert.

"When I am convinced that the statement is false."

"What?"

"The thing is worth looking into, and I will take pains to
investigate the matter thoroughly."

"But what is there to investigate, sir?" said Albert,
enraged beyond measure at Beauchamp's last remark. "If you
do not believe that it is my father, say so immediately; and
if, on the contrary, you believe it to be him, state your
reasons for doing so." Beauchamp looked at Albert with the
smile which was so peculiar to him, and which in its
numerous modifications served to express every varied
emotion of his mind. "Sir," replied he, "if you came to me
with the idea of demanding satisfaction, you should have
gone at once to the point, and not have entertained me with
the idle conversation to which I have been patiently
listening for the last half hour. Am I to put this
construction on your visit?"

"Yes, if you will not consent to retract that infamous
calumny."

"Wait a moment -- no threats, if you please, M. Fernand
Mondego, Vicomte de Morcerf; I never allow them from my
enemies, and therefore shall not put up with them from my
friends. You insist on my contradicting the article relating
to General Fernand, an article with which, I assure you on
my word of honor, I had nothing whatever to do?"

"Yes, I insist on it," said Albert, whose mind was beginning
to get bewildered with the excitement of his feelings.

"And if I refuse to retract, you wish to fight, do you?"
said Beauchamp in a calm tone.

"Yes," replied Albert, raising his voice.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "here is my answer, my dear sir. The
article was not inserted by me -- I was not even aware of
it; but you have, by the step you have taken, called my
attention to the paragraph in question, and it will remain
until it shall be either contradicted or confirmed by some
one who has a right to do so."

"Sir," said Albert, rising, "I will do myself the honor of
sending my seconds to you, and you will be kind enough to
arrange with them the place of meeting and the weapons."

"Certainly, my dear sir."

"And this evening, if you please, or to-morrow at the
latest, we will meet."

"No, no, I will be on the ground at the proper time; but in
my opinion (and I have a right to dictate the preliminaries,
as it is I who have received the provocation) -- in my
opinion the time ought not to be yet. I know you to be well
skilled in the management of the sword, while I am only
moderately so; I know, too, that you are a good marksman --
there we are about equal. I know that a duel between us two
would be a serious affair, because you are brave, and I am
brave also. I do not therefore wish either to kill you, or
to be killed myself without a cause. Now, I am going to put
a question to you, and one very much to the purpose too. Do
you insist on this retractation so far as to kill me if I do
not make it, although I have repeated more than once, and
affirmed on my honor, that I was ignorant of the thing with
which you charge me, and although I still declare that it is
impossible for any one but you to recognize the Count of
Morcerf under the name of Fernand?"

"I maintain my original resolution."

"Very well, my dear sir; then I consent to cut throats with
you. But I require three weeks' preparation; at the end of
that time I shall come and say to you, `The assertion is
false, and I retract it,' or `The assertion is true,' when I
shall immediately draw the sword from its sheath, or the
pistols from the case, whichever you please."

"Three weeks!" cried Albert; "they will pass as slowly as
three centuries when I am all the time suffering dishonor."

"Had you continued to remain on amicable terms with me, I
should have said, `Patience, my friend;' but you have
constituted yourself my enemy, therefore I say, `What does
that signify to me, sir?'"

"Well, let it be three weeks then," said Morcerf; "but
remember, at the expiration of that time no delay or
subterfuge will justify you in" --

"M. Albert de Morcerf," said Beauchamp, rising in his turn,
"I cannot throw you out of window for three weeks -- that is
to say, for twenty-four days to come -- nor have you any
right to split my skull open till that time has elapsed.
To-day is the 29th of August; the 21st of September will,
therefore, be the conclusion of the term agreed on, and till
that time arrives -- and it is the advice of a gentleman
which I am about to give you -- till then we will refrain
from growling and barking like two dogs chained within sight
of each other." When he had concluded his speech, Beauchamp
bowed coldly to Albert, turned his back upon him, and went
to the press-room.

Albert vented his anger on a pile of newspapers, which he
sent flying all over the office by switching them violently
with his stick; after which ebullition he departed -- not,
however, without walking several times to the door of the
press-room, as if he had half a mind to enter. While Albert
was lashing the front of his carriage in the same manner
that he had the newspapers which were the innocent agents of
his discomfiture, as he was crossing the barrier he
perceived Morrel, who was walking with a quick step and a
bright eye. He was passing the Chinese Baths, and appeared
to have come from the direction of the Porte Saint-Martin,
and to be going towards the Madeleine. "Ah," said Morcerf,
"there goes a happy man!" And it so happened Albert was not
mistaken in his opinion.



Chapter 79
The Lemonade.

Morrel was, in fact, very happy. M. Noirtier had just sent
for him, and he was in such haste to know the reason of his
doing so that he had not stopped to take a cab, placing
infinitely more dependence on his own two legs than on the
four legs of a cab-horse. He had therefore set off at a
furious rate from the Rue Meslay, and was hastening with
rapid strides in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Honore.
Morrel advanced with a firm, manly tread, and poor Barrois
followed him as he best might. Morrel was only thirty-one,
Barrois was sixty years of age; Morrel was deeply in love,
and Barrois was dying with heat and exertion. These two men,
thus opposed in age and interests, resembled two parts of a
triangle, presenting the extremes of separation, yet
nevertheless possessing their point of union. This point of
union was Noirtier, and it was he who had just sent for
Morrel, with the request that the latter would lose no time
in coming to him -- a command which Morrel obeyed to the
letter, to the great discomfiture of Barrois. On arriving at
the house, Morrel was not even out of breath, for love lends
wings to our desires; but Barrois, who had long forgotten
what it was to love, was sorely fatigued by the expedition
he had been constrained to use.

The old servant introduced Morrel by a private entrance,
closed the door of the study, and soon the rustling of a
dress announced the arrival of Valentine. She looked
marvellously beautiful in her deep mourning dress, and
Morrel experienced such intense delight in gazing upon her
that he felt as if he could almost have dispensed with the
conversation of her grandfather. But the easy-chair of the
old man was heard rolling along the floor, and he soon made
his appearance in the room. Noirtier acknowledged by a look
of extreme kindness and benevolence the thanks which Morrel
lavished on him for his timely intervention on behalf of
Valentine and himself -- an intervention which had saved
them from despair. Morrel then cast on the invalid an
interrogative look as to the new favor which he designed to
bestow on him. Valentine was sitting at a little distance
from them, timidly awaiting the moment when she should be
obliged to speak. Noirtier fixed his eyes on her. "Am I to
say what you told me?" asked Valentine. Noirtier made a sign
that she was to do so.

"Monsieur Morrel," said Valentine to the young man, who was
regarding her with the most intense interest, "my
grandfather, M. Noirtier, had a thousand things to say,
which he told me three days ago; and now, he has sent for
you, that I may repeat them to you. I will repeat them,
then; and since he has chosen me as his interpreter, I will
be faithful to the trust, and will not alter a word of his
intentions."

"Oh, I am listening with the greatest impatience," replied
the young man; "speak, I beg of you." Valentine cast down
her eyes; this was a good omen for Morrel, for he knew that
nothing but happiness could have the power of thus
overcoming Valentine. "My grandfather intends leaving this
house," said she, "and Barrois is looking out suitable
apartments for him in another."

"But you, Mademoiselle de Villefort, -- you, who are
necessary to M. Noirtier's happiness" --

"I?" interrupted Valentine; "I shall not leave my
grandfather, -- that is an understood thing between us. My
apartment will be close to his. Now, M. de Villefort must
either give his consent to this plan or his refusal; in the
first case, I shall leave directly, and in the second, I
shall wait till I am of age, which will be in about ten
months. Then I shall be free, I shall have an independent
fortune, and" --

"And what?" demanded Morrel.

"And with my grandfather's consent I shall fulfil the
promise which I have made you." Valentine pronounced these
last few words in such a low tone, that nothing but Morrel's
intense interest in what she was saying could have enabled
him to hear them. "Have I not explained your wishes,
grandpapa?" said Valentine, addressing Noirtier. "Yes,"
looked the old man. -- "Once under my grandfather's roof, M.
Morrel can visit me in the presence of my good and worthy
protector, if we still feel that the union we contemplated
will be likely to insure our future comfort and happiness;
in that case I shall expect M. Morrel to come and claim me
at my own hands. But, alas, I have heard it said that hearts
inflamed by obstacles to their desire grew cold in time of
security; I trust we shall never find it so in our
experience!"

"Oh," cried Morrel, almost tempted to throw himself on his
knees before Noirtier and Valentine, and to adore them as
two superior beings, "what have I ever done in my life to
merit such unbounded happiness?"

"Until that time," continued the young girl in a calm and
self-possessed tone of voice, "we will conform to
circumstances, and be guided by the wishes of our friends,
so long as those wishes do not tend finally to separate us;
in a word, and I repeat it, because it expresses all I wish
to convey, -- we will wait."

"And I swear to make all the sacrifices which this word
imposes, sir," said Morrel, "not only with resignation, but
with cheerfulness."

"Therefore," continued Valentine, looking playfully at
Maximilian, "no more inconsiderate actions -- no more rash
projects; for you surely would not wish to compromise one
who from this day regards herself as destined, honorably and
happily, to bear your name?"

Morrel looked obedience to her commands. Noirtier regarded
the lovers with a look of ineffable tenderness, while
Barrois, who had remained in the room in the character of a
man privileged to know everything that passed, smiled on the
youthful couple as he wiped the perspiration from his bald
forehead. "How hot you look, my good Barrois," said
Valentine.

"Ah, I have been running very fast, mademoiselle, but I must
do M. Morrel the justice to say that he ran still faster."
Noirtier directed their attention to a waiter, on which was
placed a decanter containing lemonade and a glass. The
decanter was nearly full, with the exception of a little,
which had been already drunk by M. Noirtier.

"Come, Barrois," said the young girl, "take some of this
lemonade; I see you are coveting a good draught of it."

"The fact is, mademoiselle," said Barrois, "I am dying with
thirst, and since you are so kind as to offer it me, I
cannot say I should at all object to drinking your health in
a glass of it."

"Take some, then, and come back immediately." Barrois took
away the waiter, and hardly was he outside the door, which
in his haste he forgot to shut, than they saw him throw back
his head and empty to the very dregs the glass which
Valentine had filled. Valentine and Morrel were exchanging
their adieux in the presence of Noirtier when a ring was
heard at the door-bell. It was the signal of a visit.
Valentine looked at her watch.

"It is past noon," said she, "and to-day is Saturday; I dare
say it is the doctor, grandpapa." Noirtier looked his
conviction that she was right in her supposition. "He will
come in here, and M. Morrel had better go, -- do you not
think so, grandpapa?"

"Yes," signed the old man.

"Barrois," cried Valentine, "Barrois!"

"I am coming, mademoiselle," replied he. "Barrois will open
the door for you," said Valentine, addressing Morrel. "And
now remember one thing, Monsieur Officer, that my
grandfather commands you not to take any rash or ill-advised
step which would be likely to compromise our happiness."

"I promised him to wait," replied Morrel; "and I will wait."

At this moment Barrois entered. "Who rang?" asked Valentine.

"Doctor d'Avrigny," said Barrois, staggering as if he would
fall.

"What is the matter, Barrois?" said Valentine. The old man
did not answer, but looked at his master with wild staring
eyes, while with his cramped hand he grasped a piece of
furniture to enable him to stand upright. "He is going to
fall!" cried Morrel. The rigors which had attacked Barrois
gradually increased, the features of the face became quite
altered, and the convulsive movement of the muscles appeared
to indicate the approach of a most serious nervous disorder.
Noirtier, seeing Barrois in this pitiable condition, showed
by his looks all the various emotions of sorrow and sympathy
which can animate the heart of man. Barrois made some steps
towards his master.

"Ah, sir," said he, "tell me what is the matter with me. I
am suffering -- I cannot see. A thousand fiery darts are
piercing my brain. Ah, don't touch me, pray don't." By this
time his haggard eyes had the appearance of being ready to
start from their sockets; his head fell back, and the lower
extremities of the body began to stiffen. Valentine uttered
a cry of horror; Morrel took her in his arms, as if to
defend her from some unknown danger. "M. d'Avrigny, M.
d'Avrigny," cried she, in a stifled voice. "Help, help!"
Barrois turned round and with a great effort stumbled a few
steps, then fell at the feet of Noirtier, and resting his
hand on the knee of the invalid, exclaimed, "My master, my
good master!" At this moment M. de Villefort, attracted by
the noise, appeared on the threshold. Morrel relaxed his
hold of Valentine, and retreating to a distant corner of the
room remained half hidden behind a curtain. Pale as if he
had been gazing on a serpent, he fixed his terrified eye on
the agonized sufferer.

Noirtier, burning with impatience and terror, was in despair
at his utter inability to help his old domestic, whom he
regarded more in the light of a friend than a servant. One
might by the fearful swelling of the veins of his forehead
and the contraction of the muscles round the eye, trace the
terrible conflict which was going on between the living
energetic mind and the inanimate and helpless body. Barrois,
his features convulsed, his eyes suffused with blood, and
his head thrown back, was lying at full length, beating the
floor with his hands, while his legs had become so stiff,
that they looked as if they would break rather than bend. A
slight appearance of foam was visible around the mouth, and
he breathed painfully, and with extreme difficulty.

Villefort seemed stupefied with astonishment, and remained
gazing intently on the scene before him without uttering a
word. He had not seen Morrel. After a moment of dumb
contemplation, during which his face became pale and his
hair seemed to stand on end, he sprang towards the door,
crying out, "Doctor, doctor! come instantly, pray come!"

"Madame, madame!" cried Valentine, calling her step-mother,
and running up-stairs to meet her; "come quick, quick! --
and bring your bottle of smelling-salts with you."

"What is the matter?" said Madame de Villefort in a harsh
and constrained tone.

"Oh, come, come!"

"But where is the doctor?" exclaimed Villefort; "where is
he?" Madame de Villefort now deliberately descended the
staircase. In one hand she held her handkerchief, with which
she appeared to be wiping her face, and in the other a
bottle of English smelling-salts. Her first look on entering
the room was at Noirtier, whose face, independent of the
emotion which such a scene could not fail of producing,
proclaimed him to be in possession of his usual health; her
second glance was at the dying man. She turned pale, and her
eye passed quickly from the servant and rested on the
master.

"In the name of heaven, madame," said Villefort, "where is
the doctor? He was with you just now. You see this is a fit
of apoplexy, and he might be saved if he could but be bled!"

"Has he eaten anything lately?" asked Madame de Villefort,
eluding her husband's question. "Madame," replied Valentine,
"he has not even breakfasted. He has been running very fast
on an errand with which my grandfather charged him, and when
he returned, took nothing but a glass of lemonade."

"Ah," said Madame de Villefort, "why did he not take wine?
Lemonade was a very bad thing for him."

"Grandpapa's bottle of lemonade was standing just by his
side; poor Barrois was very thirsty, and was thankful to
drink anything he could find." Madame de Villefort started.
Noirtier looked at her with a glance of the most profound
scrutiny. "He has such a short neck," said she. "Madame,"
said Villefort, "I ask where is M. d'Avrigny? In God's name
answer me!"

"He is with Edward, who is not quite well," replied Madame
de Villefort, no longer being able to avoid answering.

Villefort rushed up-stairs to fetch him. "Take this," said
Madame de Villefort, giving her smelling-bottle to
Valentine. "They will, no doubt, bleed him; therefore I will
retire, for I cannot endure the sight of blood;" and she
followed her husband up-stairs. Morrel now emerged from his
hiding-place, where he had remained quite unperceived, so
great had been the general confusion. "Go away as quick as
you can, Maximilian," said Valentine, "and stay till I send
for you. Go."

Morrel looked towards Noirtier for permission to retire. The
old man, who had preserved all his usual coolness, made a
sign to him to do so. The young man pressed Valentine's hand
to his lips, and then left the house by a back staircase. At
the same moment that he quitted the room, Villefort and the
doctor entered by an opposite door. Barrois was now showing
signs of returning consciousness. The crisis seemed past, a
low moaning was heard, and he raised himself on one knee.
D'Avrigny and Villefort laid him on a couch. "What do you
prescribe, doctor?" demanded Villefort. "Give me some water
and ether. You have some in the house, have you not?"

"Yes."

"Send for some oil of turpentine and tartar emetic."

Villefort immediately despatched a messenger. "And now let
every one retire."

"Must I go too?" asked Valentine timidly.

"Yes, mademoiselle, you especially," replied the doctor
abruptly.

Valentine looked at M. d'Avrigny with astonishment, kissed
her grandfather on the forehead, and left the room. The
doctor closed the door after her with a gloomy air. "Look,
look, doctor," said Villefort, "he is quite coming round
again; I really do not think, after all, it is anything of
consequence." M. d'Avrigny answered by a melancholy smile.
"How do you feel, Barrois?" asked he. "A little better,
sir."

"Will you drink some of this ether and water?"

"I will try; but don't touch me."

"Why not?"

"Because I feel that if you were only to touch me with the
tip of your finger the fit would return."

"Drink."

Barrois took the glass, and, raising it to his purple lips,
took about half of the liquid offered him. "Where do you
suffer?" asked the doctor.

"Everywhere. I feel cramps over my whole body."

"Do you find any dazzling sensation before the eyes?"

"Yes."

"Any noise in the ears?"

"Frightful."

"When did you first feel that?"

"Just now."

"Suddenly?"

"Yes, like a clap of thunder."

"Did you feel nothing of it yesterday or the day before?"

"Nothing."

"No drowsiness?"

"None."

"What have you eaten to-day?"

"I have eaten nothing; I only drank a glass of my master's
lemonade -- that's all;" and Barrois turned towards
Noirtier, who, immovably fixed in his arm-chair, was
contemplating this terrible scene without allowing a word or
a movement to escape him.

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

"Down-stairs in the decanter."

"Whereabouts downstairs?"

"In the kitchen."

"Shall I go and fetch it, doctor?" inquired Villefort.

"No, stay here and try to make Barrois drink the rest of
this glass of ether and water. I will go myself and fetch
the lemonade." D'Avrigny bounded towards the door, flew down
the back staircase, and almost knocked down Madame de
Villefort, in his haste, who was herself going down to the
kitchen. She cried out, but d'Avrigny paid no attention to
her; possessed with but one idea, he cleared the last four
steps with a bound, and rushed into the kitchen, where he
saw the decanter about three parts empty still standing on
the waiter, where it had been left. He darted upon it as an
eagle would seize upon its prey. Panting with loss of
breath, he returned to the room he had just left. Madame de
Villefort was slowly ascending the steps which led to her
room. "Is this the decanter you spoke of?" asked d'Avrigny.

"Yes, doctor."

"Is this the same lemonade of which you partook?"

"I believe so."

"What did it taste like?"

"It had a bitter taste."

The doctor poured some drops of the lemonade into the palm
of his hand, put his lips to it, and after having rinsed his
mouth as a man does when he is tasting wine, he spat the
liquor into the fireplace.

"It is no doubt the same," said he. "Did you drink some too,
M. Noirtier?"

"Yes."

"And did you also discover a bitter taste?"

"Yes."

"Oh, doctor," cried Barrois, "the fit is coming on again.
Oh, do something for me." The doctor flew to his patient.
"That emetic, Villefort -- see if it is coming." Villefort
sprang into the passage, exclaiming, "The emetic! the
emetic! -- is it come yet?" No one answered. The most
profound terror reigned throughout the house. "If I had
anything by means of which I could inflate the lungs," said
d'Avrigny, looking around him, "perhaps I might prevent
suffocation. But there is nothing which would do --
nothing!" "Oh, sir," cried Barrois, "are you going to let me
die without help? Oh, I am dying! Oh, save me!"

"A pen, a pen!" said the doctor. There was one lying on the
table; he endeavored to introduce it into the mouth of the
patient, who, in the midst of his convulsions, was making
vain attempts to vomit; but the jaws were so clinched that
the pen could not pass them. This second attack was much
more violent than the first, and he had slipped from the
couch to the ground, where he was writhing in agony. The
doctor left him in this paroxysm, knowing that he could do
nothing to alleviate it, and, going up to Noirtier, said
abruptly, "How do you find yourself? -- well?"

"Yes."

"Have you any weight on the chest; or does your stomach feel
light and comfortable -- eh?"

"Yes."

"Then you feel pretty much as you generally do after you
have had the dose which I am accustomed to give you every
Sunday?"

"Yes."

"Did Barrois make your lemonade?"

"Yes."

"Was it you who asked him to drink some of it?"

"No."

"Was it M. de Villefort?"

"No."

"Madame?"

"No."

"It was your granddaughter, then, was it not?"

"Yes." A groan from Barrois, accompanied by a yawn which
seemed to crack the very jawbones, attracted the attention
of M. d'Avrigny; he left M. Noirtier, and returned to the
sick man. "Barrois," said the doctor, "can you speak?"
Barrois muttered a few unintelligible words. "Try and make
an effort to do so, my good man." said d'Avrigny. Barrois
reopened his bloodshot eyes. "Who made the lemonade?"

"I did."

"Did you bring it to your master directly it was made?"

"No."

"You left it somewhere, then, in the meantime?"

"Yes; I left it in the pantry, because I was called away."

"Who brought it into this room, then?"

"Mademoiselle Valentine." D'Avrigny struck his forehead with
his hand. "Gracious heaven," exclaimed he. "Doctor, doctor!"
cried Barrois, who felt another fit coming.

"Will they never bring that emetic?" asked the doctor.

"Here is a glass with one already prepared," said Villefort,
entering the room.

"Who prepared it?"

"The chemist who came here with me."

"Drink it," said the doctor to Barrois. "Impossible, doctor;
it is too late; my throat is closing up. I am choking! Oh,
my heart! Ah, my head! -- Oh, what agony! -- Shall I suffer
like this long?"

"No, no, friend," replied the doctor, "you will soon cease
to suffer."

"Ah, I understand you," said the unhappy man. "My God, have
mercy upon me!" and, uttering a fearful cry, Barrois fell
back as if he had been struck by lightning. D'Avrigny put
his hand to his heart, and placed a glass before his lips.

"Well?" said Villefort. "Go to the kitchen and get me some
syrup of violets." Villefort went immediately. "Do not be
alarmed, M. Noirtier," said d'Avrigny; "I am going to take
my patient into the next room to bleed him; this sort of
attack is very frightful to witness."

And taking Barrois under the arms, he dragged him into an
adjoining room; but almost immediately he returned to fetch
the lemonade. Noirtier closed lids right eye. "You want
Valentine, do you not? I will tell them to send her to you."
Villefort returned, and d'Avrigny met him in the passage.
"Well, how is he now?" asked he. "Come in here," said
d'Avrigny, and he took him into the chamber where the sick
man lay. "Is he still in a fit?" said the procureur.

"He is dead."

Villefort drew back a few steps, and, clasping his hands,
exclaimed, with real amazement and sympathy, "Dead? -- and
so soon too!"

"Yes, it is very soon," said the doctor, looking at the
corpse before him; "but that ought not to astonish you;
Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Meran died as soon. People die
very suddenly in your house, M. de Villefort."

"What?" cried the magistrate, with an accent of horror and
consternation, "are you still harping on that terrible
idea?"

"Still, sir; and I shall always do so," replied d'Avrigny,
"for it has never for one instant ceased to retain
possession of my mind; and that you may be quite sure I am
not mistaken this time, listen well to what I am going to
say, M. de Villefort." The magistrate trembled convulsively.
"There is a poison which destroys life almost without
leaving any perceptible traces. I know it well; I have
studied it in all its forms and in the effects which it
produces. I recognized the presence of this poison in the
case of poor Barrois as well as in that of Madame de
Saint-Meran. There is a way of detecting its presence. It
restores the blue color of litmus-paper reddened by an acid,
and it turns syrup of violets green. We have no
litmus-paper, but, see, here they come with the syrup of
violets."

The doctor was right; steps were heard in the passage. M.
d'Avrigny opened the door, and took from the hands of the
chambermaid a cup which contained two or three spoonfuls of
the syrup, he then carefully closed the door. "Look," said
he to the procureur, whose heart beat so loudly that it
might almost be heard, "here is in this cup some syrup of
violets, and this decanter contains the remainder of the
lemonade of which M. Noirtier and Barrois partook. If the
lemonade be pure and inoffensive, the syrup will retain its
color; if, on the contrary, the lemonade be drugged with
poison, the syrup will become green. Look closely!"

The doctor then slowly poured some drops of the lemonade
from the decanter into the cup, and in an instant a light
cloudy sediment began to form at the bottom of the cup; this
sediment first took a blue shade, then from the color of
sapphire it passed to that of opal, and from opal to
emerald. Arrived at this last hue, it changed no more. The
result of the experiment left no doubt whatever on the mind.

"The unfortunate Barrois has been poisoned," said d'Avrigny,
"and I will maintain this assertion before God and man."
Villefort said nothing, but he clasped his hands, opened his
haggard eyes, and, overcome with his emotion, sank into a
chair.



Chapter 80
The Accusation.

M. D'Avrigny soon restored the magistrate to consciousness,
who had looked like a second corpse in that chamber of
death. "Oh, death is in my house!" cried Villefort.

"Say, rather, crime!" replied the doctor.

"M. d'Avrigny," cried Villefort, "I cannot tell you all I
feel at this moment, -- terror, grief, madness."

"Yes," said M. d'Avrigny, with an imposing calmness, "but I
think it is now time to act. I think it is time to stop this
torrent of mortality. I can no longer bear to be in
possession of these secrets without the hope of seeing the
victims and society generally revenged." Villefort cast a
gloomy look around him. "In my house," murmured he, "in my
house!"

"Come, magistrate," said M. d'Avrigny, "show yourself a man;
as an interpreter of the law, do honor to your profession by
sacrificing your selfish interests to it."

"You make me shudder, doctor. Do you talk of a sacrifice?"

"I do."

"Do you then suspect any one?"

"I suspect no one; death raps at your door -- it enters --
it goes, not blindfolded, but circumspectly, from room to
room. Well, I follow its course, I track its passage; I
adopt the wisdom of the ancients, and feel my way, for my
friendship for your family and my respect for you are as a
twofold bandage over my eyes; well" --

"Oh, speak, speak, doctor; I shall have courage."

"Well, sir, you have in your establishment, or in your
family, perhaps, one of the frightful monstrosities of which
each century produces only one. Locusta and Agrippina,
living at the same time, were an exception, and proved the
determination of providence to effect the entire ruin of the
Roman empire, sullied by so many crimes. Brunehilde and
Fredegonde were the results of the painful struggle of
civilization in its infancy, when man was learning to
control mind, were it even by an emissary from the realms of
darkness. All these women had been, or were, beautiful. The
same flower of innocence had flourished, or was still
flourishing, on their brow, that is seen on the brow of the
culprit in your house." Villefort shrieked, clasped his
hands, and looked at the doctor with a supplicating air. But
the latter went on without pity: --

"`Seek whom the crime will profit,' says an axiom of
jurisprudence."

"Doctor," cried Villefort, "alas, doctor, how often has
man's justice been deceived by those fatal words. I know not
why, but I feel that this crime" --

"You acknowledge, then, the existence of the crime?"

"Yes, I see too plainly that it does exist. But it seems
that it is intended to affect me personally. I fear an
attack myself, after all these disasters."

"Oh, man," murmured d'Avrigny, "the most selfish of all
animals, the most personal of all creatures, who believes
the earth turns, the sun shines, and death strikes for him
alone, -- an ant cursing God from the top of a blade of
grass! And have those who have lost their lives lost
nothing? -- M. de Saint-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran, M.
Noirtier" --

"How? M. Noirtier?"

"Yes; think you it was the poor servant's life was coveted?
No, no; like Shakespeare's `Polonius,' he died for another.
It was Noirtier the lemonade was intended for -- it is
Noirtier, logically speaking, who drank it. The other drank
it only by accident, and, although Barrois is dead, it was
Noirtier whose death was wished for."

"But why did it not kill my father?"

"I told you one evening in the garden after Madame de
Saint-Meran's death -- because his system is accustomed to
that very poison, and the dose was trifling to him, which
would be fatal to another; because no one knows, not even
the assassin, that, for the last twelve months, I have given
M. Noirtier brucine for his paralytic affection, while the
assassin is not ignorant, for he has proved that brucine is
a violent poison."

"Oh, have pity -- have pity!" murmured Villefort, wringing
his hands.

"Follow the culprit's steps; he first kills M. de
Saint-Meran" --

"O doctor!"

"I would swear to it; what I heard of his symptoms agrees
too well with what I have seen in the other cases."
Villefort ceased to contend; he only groaned. "He first
kills M. de Saint-Meran," repeated the doctor, "then Madame
de Saint-Meran, -- a double fortune to inherit." Villefort
wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "Listen
attentively."

"Alas," stammered Villefort, "I do not lose a single word."

"M. Noirtier," resumed M. d'Avrigny in the same pitiless
tone, -- "M. Noirtier had once made a will against you --
against your family -- in favor of the poor, in fact; M.
Noirtier is spared, because nothing is expected from him.
But he has no sooner destroyed his first will and made a
second, than, for fear he should make a third, he is struck
down. The will was made the day before yesterday, I believe;
you see there has been no time lost."

"Oh, mercy, M. d'Avrigny!"

"No mercy, sir! The physician has a sacred mission on earth;
and to fulfil it he begins at the source of life, and goes
down to the mysterious darkness of the tomb. When crime has
been committed, and God, doubtless in anger, turns away his
face, it is for the physician to bring the culprit to
justice."

"Have mercy on my child, sir," murmured Villefort.

"You see it is yourself who have first named her -- you, her
father."

"Have pity on Valentine! Listen -- it is impossible! I would
as willingly accuse myself! Valentine, whose heart is pure
as a diamond or a lily."

"No pity, procureur; the crime is fragrant. Mademoiselle
herself packed all the medicines which were sent to M. de
Saint-Meran; and M. de Saint-Meran is dead. Mademoiselle de
Villefort prepared all the cooling draughts which Madame de
Saint-Meran took, and Madame de Saint-Meran is dead.
Mademoiselle de Villefort took from the hands of Barrois,
who was sent out, the lemonade which M. Noirtier had every
morning, and he has escaped by a miracle. Mademoiselle de
Villefort is the culprit -- she is the poisoner! To you, as
the king's attorney, I denounce Mademoiselle de Villefort,
do your duty."

"Doctor, I resist no longer -- I can no longer defend myself
-- I believe you; but, for pity's sake, spare my life, my
honor!"

"M. de Villefort," replied the doctor, with increased
vehemence, "there are occasions when I dispense with all
foolish human circumspection. If your daughter had committed
only one crime, and I saw her meditating another, I would
say `Warn her, punish her, let her pass the remainder of her
life in a convent, weeping and praying.' If she had
committed two crimes, I would say, `Here, M. de Villefort,
is a poison that the prisoner is not acquainted with, -- one
that has no known antidote, quick as thought, rapid as
lightning, mortal as the thunderbolt; give her that poison,
recommending her soul to God, and save your honor and your
life, for it is yours she aims at; and I can picture her
approaching your pillow with her hypocritical smiles and her
sweet exhortations. Woe to you, M. de Villefort, if you do
not strike first!' This is what I would say had she only
killed two persons but she has seen three deaths, -- has
contemplated three murdered persons, -- has knelt by three
corpses! To the scaffold with the poisoner -- to the
scaffold! Do you talk of your honor? Do what I tell you, and
immortality awaits you!"

Villefort fell on his knees. "Listen," said he; "I have not
the strength of mind you have, or rather that which you
would not have, if instead of my daughter Valentine your
daughter Madeleine were concerned." The doctor turned pale.
"Doctor, every son of woman is born to suffer and to die; I
am content to suffer and to await death."

"Beware," said M. d'Avrigny, "it may come slowly; you will
see it approach after having struck your father, your wife,
perhaps your son."

Villefort, suffocating, pressed the doctor's arm. "Listen,"
cried he; "pity me -- help me! No, my daughter is not
guilty. If you drag us both before a tribunal I will still
say, `No, my daughter is not guilty; -- there is no crime in
my house. I will not acknowledge a crime in my house; for
when crime enters a dwelling, it is like death -- it does
not come alone.' Listen. What does it signify to you if I am
murdered? Are you my friend? Are you a man? Have you a
heart? No, you are a physician! Well, I tell you I will not
drag my daughter before a tribunal, and give her up to the
executioner! The bare idea would kill me -- would drive me
like a madman to dig my heart out with my finger-nails! And
if you were mistaken, doctor -- if it were not my daughter
-- if I should come one day, pale as a spectre, and say to
you, `Assassin, you have killed my child!' -- hold -- if
that should happen, although I am a Christian, M. d'Avrigny,
I should kill myself."

"Well," said the doctor, after a moment's silence, "I will
wait." Villefort looked at him as if he had doubted his
words. "Only," continued M. d'Avrigny, with a slow and
solemn tone, "if any one falls ill in your house, if you
feel yourself attacked, do not send for me, for I will come
no more. I will consent to share this dreadful secret with
you, but I will not allow shame and remorse to grow and
increase in my conscience, as crime and misery will in your
house."

"Then you abandon me, doctor?"

"Yes, for I can follow you no farther, and I only stop at
the foot of the scaffold. Some further discovery will be
made, which will bring this dreadful tragedy to a close.
Adieu."

"I entreat you, doctor!"

"All the horrors that disturb my thoughts make your house
odious and fatal. Adieu, sir."

"One word -- one single word more, doctor! You go, leaving
me in all the horror of my situation, after increasing it by
what you have revealed to me. But what will be reported of
the sudden death of the poor old servant?"

"True," said M. d'Avrigny; "we will return." The doctor went
out first, followed by M. de Villefort. The terrified
servants were on the stairs and in the passage where the
doctor would pass. "Sir," said d'Avrigny to Villefort, so
loud that all might hear, "poor Barrois has led too
sedentary a life of late; accustomed formerly to ride on
horseback, or in the carriage, to the four corners of
Europe, the monotonous walk around that arm-chair has killed
him -- his blood has thickened. He was stout, had a short,
thick neck; he was attacked with apoplexy, and I was called
in too late. By the way," added he in a low tone, "take care
to throw away that cup of syrup of violets in the ashes."

The doctor, without shaking hands with Villefort, without
adding a word to what he had said, went out, amid the tears
and lamentations of the whole household. The same evening
all Villefort's servants, who had assembled in the kitchen,
and had a long consultation, came to tell Madame de
Villefort that they wished to leave. No entreaty, no
proposition of increased wages, could induce them to remain;
to every argument they replied, "We must go, for death is in
this house." They all left, in spite of prayers and
entreaties, testifying their regret at leaving so good a
master and mistress, and especially Mademoiselle Valentine,
so good, so kind, and so gentle. Villefort looked at
Valentine as they said this. She was in tears, and, strange
as it was, in spite of the emotions he felt at the sight of
these tears, he looked also at Madame de Villefort, and it
appeared to him as if a slight gloomy smile had passed over
her thin lips, like a meteor seen passing inauspiciously
between two clouds in a stormy sky.



Chapter 81
The Room of the Retired Baker.

The evening of the day on which the Count of Morcerf had
left Danglars' house with feelings of shame and anger at the
rejection of the projected alliance, M. Andrea Cavalcanti,
with curled hair, mustaches in perfect order, and white
gloves which fitted admirably, had entered the courtyard of
the banker's house in La Chaussee d'Antin. He had not been
more than ten minutes in the drawing-room before he drew
Danglars aside into the recess of a bow-window, and, after
an ingenious preamble, related to him all his anxieties and
cares since his noble father's departure. He acknowledged
the extreme kindness which had been shown him by the
banker's family, in which he had been received as a son, and
where, besides, his warmest affections had found an object
on which to centre in Mademoiselle Danglars. Danglars
listened with the most profound attention; he had expected
this declaration for the last two or three days, and when at
last it came his eyes glistened as much as they had lowered
on listening to Morcerf. He would not, however, yield
immediately to the young man's request, but made a few
conscientious objections. "Are you not rather young, M.
Andrea, to think of marrying?"

"I think not, sir," replied M. Cavalcanti; "in Italy the
nobility generally marry young. Life is so uncertain, that
we ought to secure happiness while it is within our reach."

"Well, sir," said Danglars, "in case your proposals, which
do me honor, are accepted by my wife and daughter, by whom
shall the preliminary arrangements be settled? So important
a negotiation should, I think, be conducted by the
respective fathers of the young people."

"Sir, my father is a man of great foresight and prudence.
Thinking that I might wish to settle in France, he left me
at his departure, together with the papers establishing my
identity, a letter promising, if he approved of my choice,
150,000 livres per annum from the day I was married. So far
as I can judge, I suppose this to be a quarter of my
father's revenue."

"I," said Danglars, "have always intended giving my daughter
500,000 francs as her dowry; she is, besides, my sole
heiress."

"All would then be easily arranged if the baroness and her
daughter are willing. We should command an annuity of
175,000 livres. Supposing, also, I should persuade the
marquis to give me my capital, which is not likely, but
still is possible, we would place these two or three
millions in your hands, whose talent might make it realize
ten per cent."

"I never give more than four per cent, and generally only
three and a half; but to my son-in-law I would give five,
and we would share the profit."

"Very good, father-in-law," said Cavalcanti, yielding to his
low-born nature, which would escape sometimes through the
aristocratic gloss with which he sought to conceal it.
Correcting himself immediately, he said, "Excuse me, sir;
hope alone makes me almost mad, -- what will not reality
do?"

"But," said Danglars, -- who, on his part, did not perceive
how soon the conversation, which was at first disinterested,
was turning to a business transaction, -- "there is,
doubtless, a part of your fortune your father could not
refuse you?"

"Which?" asked the young man.

"That you inherit from your mother."

"Truly, from my mother, Leonora Corsinari."

"How much may it amount to?"

"Indeed, sir," said Andrea, "I assure you I have never given
the subject a thought, but I suppose it must have been at
least two millions." Danglars felt as much overcome with joy
as the miser who finds a lost treasure, or as the
shipwrecked mariner who feels himself on solid ground
instead of in the abyss which he expected would swallow him
up.

"Well, sir," said Andrea, bowing to the banker respectfully,
"may I hope?"

"You may not only hope," said Danglars, "but consider it a
settled thing, if no obstacle arises on your part."

"I am, indeed, rejoiced," said Andrea.

"But," said Danglars thoughtfully, "how is it that your
patron, M. de Monte Cristo, did not make his proposal for
you?" Andrea blushed imperceptibly. "I have just left the
count, sir," said he; "he is, doubtless, a delightful man
but inconceivably peculiar in his ideas. He esteems me
highly. He even told me he had not the slightest doubt that
my father would give me the capital instead of the interest
of my property. He has promised to use his influence to
obtain it for me; but he also declared that he never had
taken on himself the responsibility of making proposals for
another, and he never would. I must, however, do him the
justice to add that he assured me if ever he had regretted
the repugnance he felt to such a step it was on this
occasion, because he thought the projected union would be a
happy and suitable one. Besides, if he will do nothing
officially, he will answer any questions you propose to him.
And now," continued he, with one of his most charming
smiles, "having finished talking to the father-in-law, I
must address myself to the banker."

"And what may you have to say to him?" said Danglars,
laughing in his turn.

"That the day after to-morrow I shall have to draw upon you
for about four thousand francs; but the count, expecting my
bachelor's revenue could not suffice for the coming month's
outlay, has offered me a draft for twenty thousand francs.
It bears his signature, as you see, which is
all-sufficient."

"Bring me a million such as that," said Danglars, "I shall
be well pleased," putting the draft in his pocket. "Fix your
own hour for to-morrow, and my cashier shall call on you
with a check for eighty thousand francs."

"At ten o'clock then, if you please; I should like it early,
as I am going into the country to-morrow."

"Very well, at ten o'clock;, you are still at the Hotel des
Princes?"

"Yes."

The following morning, with the banker's usual punctuality,
the eighty thousand francs were placed in the young man's
hands as he was on the point of starting, after having left
two hundred francs for Caderousse. He went out chiefly to
avoid this dangerous enemy, and returned as late as possible
in the evening. But scarcely had be stepped out of his
carriage when the porter met him with a parcel in his hand.
"Sir," said he, "that man has been here."

"What man?" said Andrea carelessly, apparently forgetting
him whom he but too well recollected.

"Him to whom your excellency pays that little annuity."

"Oh," said Andrea, "my father's old servant. Well, you gave
him the two hundred francs I had left for him?"

"Yes, your excellency." Andrea had expressed a wish to be
thus addressed. "But," continued the porter, "he would not
take them." Andrea turned pale, but as it was dark his
pallor was not perceptible. "What? he would not take them?"
said he with slight emotion.

"No, he wished to speak to your excellency; I told him you
were gone out, and after some dispute he believed me and
gave me this letter, which he had brought with him already
sealed."

"Give it me," said Andrea, and he read by the light of his
carriage-lamp, -- "You know where I live; I expect you
tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."

Andrea examined it carefully, to ascertain if the letter had
been opened, or if any indiscreet eyes had seen its
contents; but it was so carefully folded, that no one could
have read it, and the seal was perfect. "Very well," said
he. "Poor man, he is a worthy creature." He left the porter
to ponder on these words, not knowing which most to admire,
the master or the servant. "Take out the horses quickly, and
come up to me," said Andrea to his groom. In two seconds the
young man had reached his room and burnt Caderousse's
letter. The servant entered just as he had finished. "You
are about my height, Pierre," said he.

"I have that honor, your excellency."

"You had a new livery yesterday?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have an engagement with a pretty little girl for this
evening, and do not wish to be known; lend me your livery
till to-morrow. I may sleep, perhaps, at an inn." Pierre
obeyed. Five minutes after, Andrea left the hotel,
completely disguised, took a cabriolet, and ordered the
driver to take him to the Cheval Rouge, at Picpus. The next
morning he left that inn as he had left the Hotel des
Princes, without being noticed, walked down the Faubourg St.
Antoine, along the boulevard to Rue Menilmontant, and
stopping at the door of the third house on the left looked
for some one of whom to make inquiry in the porter's
absence. "For whom are you looking, my fine fellow?" asked
the fruiteress on the opposite side.

"Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, my good woman," replied
Andrea.

"A retired baker?" asked the fruiteress.

"Exactly."

"He lives at the end of the yard, on the left, on the third
story." Andrea went as she directed him, and on the third
floor he found a hare's paw, which, by the hasty ringing of
the bell, it was evident he pulled with considerable
ill-temper. A moment after Caderousse's face appeared at the
grating in the door. "Ah, you are punctual," said he, as he
drew back the door.

"Confound you and your punctuality!" said Andrea, throwing
himself into a chair in a manner which implied that he would
rather have flung it at the head of his host.

"Come, come, my little fellow, don't be angry. See, I have
thought about you -- look at the good breakfast we are going
to have; nothing but what you are fond of." Andrea, indeed,
inhaled the scent of something cooking which was not
unwelcome to him, hungry as he was; it was that mixture of
fat and garlic peculiar to provincial kitchens of an
inferior order, added to that of dried fish, and above all,
the pungent smell of musk and cloves. These odors escaped
from two deep dishes which were covered and placed on a
stove, and from a copper pan placed in an old iron pot. In
an adjoining room Andrea saw also a tolerably clean table
prepared for two, two bottles of wine sealed, the one with
green, the other with yellow, a supply of brandy in a
decanter, and a measure of fruit in a cabbage-leaf, cleverly
arranged on an earthenware plate.

"What do you think of it, my little fellow?" said
Caderousse. "Ay, that smells good! You know I used to be a
famous cook; do you recollect how you used to lick your
fingers? You were among the first who tasted any of my
dishes, and I think you relished them tolerably." While
speaking, Caderousse went on peeling a fresh supply of
onions.

"But," said Andrea, ill-temperedly, "by my faith, if it was
only to breakfast with you, that you disturbed me, I wish
the devil had taken you!"

"My boy," said Caderousse sententiously, "one can talk while
eating. And then, you ungrateful being, you are not pleased
to see an old friend? I am weeping with joy." He was truly
crying, but it would have been difficult to say whether joy
or the onions produced the greatest effect on the lachrymal
glands of the old inn-keeper of the Pont-du-Gard. "Hold your
tongue, hypocrite," said Andrea; "you love me!"

"Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I know it is a
weakness," said Caderousse, "but it overpowers me."

"And yet it has not prevented your sending for me to play me
some trick."

"Come," said Caderousse, wiping his large knife on his
apron, "if I did not like you, do you think I should endure
the wretched life you lead me? Think for a moment. You have
your servant's clothes on -- you therefore keep a servant; I
have none, and am obliged to prepare my own meals. You abuse
my cookery because you dine at the table d'hote of the Hotel
des Princes, or the Cafe de Paris. Well, I too could keep a
servant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where
I like; but why do I not? Because I would not annoy my
little Benedetto. Come, just acknowledge that I could, eh?"
This address was accompanied by a look which was by no means
difficult to understand. "Well," said Andrea, "admitting
your love, why do you want me to breakfast with you?"

"That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little
fellow."

"What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our
arrangements?"

"Eh, dear friend," said Caderousse, "are wills ever made
without codicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you
not? Well, sit down, and let us begin with these pilchards,
and this fresh butter; which I have put on some vine-leaves
to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you look at my room, my
four straw chairs, my images, three francs each. But what do
you expect? This is not the Hotel des Princes."

"Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer
happy; you, who only wish to live like a retired baker."
Caderousse sighed. "Well, what have you to say? you have
seen your dream realized."

"I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor
Benedetto, is rich -- he has an annuity."

"Well, you have an annuity."

"I have?"

"Yes, since I bring you your two hundred francs." Caderousse
shrugged his shoulders. "It is humiliating," said he, "thus
to receive money given grudgingly, ---an uncertain supply
which may soon fail. You see I am obliged to economize, in
case your prosperity should cease. Well, my friend, fortune
is inconstant, as the chaplain of the regiment said. I know
your prosperity is great, you rascal; you are to marry the
daughter of Danglars."

"What? of Danglars?"

"Yes, to be sure; must I say Baron Danglars? I might as well
say Count Benedetto. He was an old friend of mine and if he
had not so bad a memory he ought to invite me to your
wedding, seeing he came to mine. Yes, yes, to mine; gad, he
was not so proud then, -- he was an under-clerk to the good
M. Morrel. I have dined many times with him and the Count of
Morcerf, so you see I have some high connections and were I
to cultivate them a little, we might meet in the same
drawing-rooms."

"Come, your jealousy represents everything to you in the
wrong light."

"That is all very fine, Benedetto mio, but I know what I am
saying. Perhaps I may one day put on my best coat, and
presenting myself at the great gate, introduce myself.
Meanwhile let us sit down and eat." Caderousse set the
example and attacked the breakfast with good appetite,
praising each dish he set before his visitor. The latter
seemed to have resigned himself; he drew the corks, and
partook largely of the fish with the garlic and fat. "Ah,
mate," said Caderousse, "you are getting on better terms
with your old landlord!"

"Faith, yes," replied Andrea, whose hunger prevailed over
every other feeling.

"So you like it, you rogue?"

"So much that I wonder how a man who can cook thus can
complain of hard living."

"Do you see," said Caderousse, "all my happiness is marred
by one thought?"

"What is that?"

"That I am dependent on another, I who have always gained my
own livelihood honestly."

"Do not let that disturb you, I have enough for two."

"No, truly; you may believe me if you will; at the end of
every month I am tormented by remorse."

"Good Caderousse!"

"So much so, that yesterday I would not take the two hundred
francs."

"Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was it indeed remorse,
tell me?"

"True remorse; and, besides, an idea had struck me." Andrea
shuddered; he always did so at Caderousse's ideas. "It is
miserable -- do you see? -- always to wait till the end of
the month. -- "Oh," said Andrea philosophically, determined
to watch his companion narrowly, "does not life pass in
waiting? Do I, for instance, fare better? Well, I wait
patiently, do I not?"

"Yes; because instead of expecting two hundred wretched
francs, you expect five or six thousand, perhaps ten,
perhaps even twelve, for you take care not to let any one
know the utmost. Down there, you always had little presents
and Christmas-boxes which you tried to hide from your poor
friend Caderousse. Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that
friend Caderousse."

"There you are beginning again to ramble, to talk again and
again of the past! But what is the use of teasing me with
going all over that again?"

"Ah, you are only one and twenty, and can forget the past; I
am fifty, and am obliged to recollect it. But let us return
to business."

"Yes."

"I was going to say, if I were in your place" --

"Well."

"I would realize" --

"How would you realize?"

"I would ask for six months' in advance, under pretence of
being able to purchase a farm, then with my six months I
would decamp."

"Well, well," said Andrea, "that isn't a bad idea."

"My dear friend," said Caderousse, "eat of my bread, and
take my advice; you will be none the worse off, physically
or morally."

"But," said Andrea, "why do you not act on the advice you
gave me? Why do you not realize a six months', a year's
advance even, and retire to Brussels? Instead of living the
retired baker, you might live as a bankrupt, using his
privileges; that would be very good."

"But how the devil would you have me retire on twelve
hundred francs?"

"Ah, Caderousse," said Andrea, "how covetous you are! Two
months ago you were dying with hunger."

"The appetite grows by what it feeds on," said Caderousse,
grinning and showing his teeth, like a monkey laughing or a
tiger growling. "And," added he, biting off with his large
white teeth an enormous mouthful of bread, "I have formed a
plan." Caderousse's plans alarmed Andrea still more than his
ideas; ideas were but the germ, the plan was reality. "Let
me see your plan; I dare say it is a pretty one."

"Why not? Who formed the plan by which we left the
establishment of M ---- ! eh? was it not I? and it was no
bad one I believe, since here we are!"

"I do not say," replied Andrea, "that you never make a good
one; but let us see your plan."

"Well," pursued Caderousse, "can you without expending one
sou, put me in the way of getting fifteen thousand francs?
No, fifteen thousand are not enough, -- I cannot again
become an honest man with less than thirty thousand francs."

"No," replied Andrea, dryly, "no, I cannot."

"I do not think you understand me," replied Caderousse,
calmly; "I said without your laying out a sou."

"Do you want me to commit a robbery, to spoil all my good
fortune -- and yours with mine -- and both of us to be
dragged down there again?"

"It would make very little difference to me," said
Caderousse, "if I were retaken, I am a poor creature to live
alone, and sometimes pine for my old comrades; not like you,
heartless creature, who would be glad never to see them
again." Andrea did more than tremble this time, he turned
pale.

"Come, Caderousse, no nonsense!" said he.

"Don't alarm yourself, my little Benedetto, but just point
out to me some means of gaining those thirty thousand francs
without your assistance, and I will contrive it."

"Well, I'll see -- I'll try to contrive some way," said
Andrea.

"Meanwhile you will raise my monthly allowance to five
hundred francs, my little fellow? I have a fancy, and mean
to get a housekeeper."

"Well, you shall have your five hundred francs," said
Andrea; "but it is very hard for me, my poor Caderousse --
you take advantage" --

"Bah," said Caderousse, "when you have access to countless
stores." One would have said Andrea anticipated his
companion's words, so did his eye flash like lightning, but
it was but for a moment. "True," he replied, "and my
protector is very kind."

"That dear protector," said Caderousse; "and how much does
he give you monthly?"

"Five thousand francs."

"As many thousands as you give me hundreds! Truly, it is
only bastards who are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs
per month! What the devil can you do with all that?"

"Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and I am like you, I
want capital."

"Capital? -- yes -- I understand -- every one would like
capital."

"Well, and I shall get it."

"Who will give it to you -- your prince?"

"Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I must wait."

"You must wait for what?" asked Caderousse.

"For his death "

"The death of your prince?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

"Because he has made his will in my favor."

"Indeed?"

"On my honor."

"For how much?"

"For five hundred thousand."

"Only that? It's little enough "

"But so it is."

"No it cannot be!"

"Are you my friend, Caderousse?"

"Yes, in life or death."

"Well, I will tell you a secret."

"What is it?"

"But remember" --

"Ah, pardieu, mute as a carp."

"Well, I think" -- Andrea stopped and looked around.

"You think? Do not fear; pardieu, we are alone."

"I think I have discovered my father."

"Your true father?"

"Yes."

"Not old Cavalcanti?"

"No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say."

"And that father is" --

"Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo."

"Bah!"

"Yes, you understand, that explains all. He cannot
acknowledge me openly, it appears, but he does it through M.
Cavalcanti, and gives him fifty thousand francs for it."

"Fifty thousand francs for being your father? I would have
done it for half that, for twenty thousand, for fifteen
thousand; why did you not think of me, ungrateful man?"

"Did I know anything about it, when it was all done when I
was down there?"

"Ah, truly? And you say that by his will" --

"He leaves me five hundred thousand livres."

"Are you sure of it?"

"He showed it me; but that is not all -- there is a codicil,
as I said just now."

"Probably."

"And in that codicil he acknowledges me."

"Oh, the good father, the brave father, the very honest
father!" said Caderousse, twirling a plate in the air
between his two hands.

"Now say if I conceal anything from you?"

"No, and your confidence makes you honorable in my opinion;
and your princely father, is he rich, very rich?"

"Yes, he is that; he does not himself know the amount of his
fortune."

"Is it possible?"

"It is evident enough to me, who am always at his house. The
other day a banker's clerk brought him fifty thousand francs
in a portfolio about the size of your plate; yesterday his
banker brought him a hundred thousand francs in gold."
Caderousse was filled with wonder; the young man's words
sounded to him like metal, and he thought he could hear the
rushing of cascades of louis. "And you go into that house?"
cried he briskly.

"When I like."

Caderousse was thoughtful for a moment. It was easy to
perceive he was revolving some unfortunate idea in his mind.
Then suddenly, -- "How I should like to see all that," cried
he; "how beautiful it must be!"

"It is, in fact, magnificent," said Andrea.

"And does he not live in the Champs-Elysees?"

"Yes, No. 30."

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

"Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a court-yard and
a garden, -- you must know it."

"Possibly; but it is not the exterior I care for, it is the
interior. What beautiful furniture there must be in it!"

"Have you ever seen the Tuileries?"

"No."

"Well, it surpasses that."

"It must be worth one's while to stoop, Andrea, when that
good M. Monte Cristo lets fall his purse."

"It is not worth while to wait for that," said Andrea;
"money is as plentiful in that house as fruit in an
orchard."

"But you should take me there one day with you."

"How can I? On what plea?"

"You are right; but you have made my mouth water. I must
absolutely see it; I shall find a way."

"No nonsense, Caderousse!"

"I will offer myself as floor-polisher."

"The rooms are all carpeted."

"Well, then, I must be contented to imagine it."

"That is the best plan, believe me."

"Try, at least, to give me an idea of what it is."

"How can I?"

"Nothing is easier. Is it large?"

"Middling."

"How is it arranged?"

"Faith, I should require pen, ink, and paper to make a
plan."

"They are all here," said Caderousse, briskly. He fetched
from an old secretary a sheet of white paper and pen and
ink. "Here," said Caderousse, "draw me all that on the
paper, my boy." Andrea took the pen with an imperceptible
smile and began. "The house, as I said, is between the court
and the garden; in this way, do you see?" Andrea drew the
garden, the court and the house.

"High walls?"

"Not more than eight or ten feet."

"That is not prudent," said Caderousse.

"In the court are orange-trees in pots, turf, and clumps of
flowers."

"And no steel-traps?"

"No."

"The stables?"

"Are on either side of the gate, which you see there." And
Andrea continued his plan.

"Let us see the ground floor," said Caderousse.

"On the ground-floor, dining-room, two drawing-rooms,
billiard-room, staircase in the hall, and a little back
staircase."

"Windows?"

"Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so large, that I believe
a man of your size should pass through each frame."

"Why the devil have they any stairs with such windows?"

"Luxury has everything."

"But shutters?"

"Yes, but they are never used. That Count of Monte Cristo is
an original, who loves to look at the sky even at night."

"And where do the servants sleep?"

"Oh, they have a house to themselves. Picture to yourself a
pretty coach-house at the right-hand side where the ladders
are kept. Well, over that coach-house are the servants'
rooms, with bells corresponding with the different
apartments."

"Ah, diable -- bells did you say?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh. nothing! I only say they cost a load of money to hang,
and what is the use of them, I should like to know?"

"There used to be a dog let loose in the yard at night, but
it has been taken to the house at Auteuil, to that you went
to, you know."

"Yes."

"I was saying to him only yesterday, `You are imprudent,
Monsieur Count; for when you go to Auteuil and take your
servants the house is left unprotected.' Well,' said he,
`what next?' `Well, next, some day you will be robbed.'"

"What did he answer?"

"He quietly said, `What do I care if I am?'"

"Andrea, he has some secretary with a spring."

"How do you know?"

"Yes, which catches the thief in a trap and plays a tune. I
was told there were such at the last exhibition."

"He has simply a mahogany secretary, in which the key is
always kept."

"And he is not robbed?"

"No; his servants are all devoted to him."

"There ought to be some money in that secretary?"

"There may be. No one knows what there is."

"And where is it?"

"On the first floor."

"Sketch me the plan of that floor, as you have done of the
ground floor, my boy."

"That is very simple." Andrea took the pen. "On the first
story, do you see, there is the anteroom and the
drawing-room; to the right of the drawing-room, a library
and a study; to the left, a bedroom and a dressing-room. The
famous secretary is in the dressing-room."

"Is there a window in the dressing-room?"

"Two, -- one here and one there." Andrea sketched two
windows in the room, which formed an angle on the plan, and
appeared as a small square added to the rectangle of the
bedroom. Caderousse became thoughtful. "Does he often go to
Auteuil?" added he.

"Two or three times a week. To-morrow, for instance, he is
going to spend the day and night there."

"Are you sure of it?"

"He has invited me to dine there."

"There's a life for you," said Caderousse; "a town house and
a country house."

"That is what it is to be rich."

"And shall you dine there?"

"Probably."

"When you dine there, do you sleep there?"

"If I like; I am at home there." Caderousse looked at the
young man, as if to get at the truth from the bottom of his
heart. But Andrea drew a cigar-case from his pocket, took a
havana, quietly lit it, and began smoking. "When do you want
your twelve hundred francs?" said he to Caderousse.

"Now, if you have them." Andrea took five and twenty louis
from his pocket.

"Yellow boys?" said Caderousse; "no, I thank you."

"Oh, you despise them."

"On the contrary, I esteem them, but will not have them."

"You can change them, idiot; gold is worth five sous."

"Exactly; and he who changes them will follow friend
Caderousse, lay hands on him, and demand what farmers pay
him their rent in gold. No nonsense, my good fellow; silver
simply, round coins with the head of some monarch or other
on them. Anybody may possess a five-franc piece."

"But do you suppose I carry five hundred francs about with
me? I should want a porter."

"Well, leave them with your porter; he is to be trusted. I
will call for them."

"To-day?"

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

"Well, to-morrow I will leave them when I go to Auteuil."

"May I depend on it?"

"Certainly."

"Because I shall secure my housekeeper on the strength of
it."

"Now see here, will that be all? Eh? And will you not
torment me any more?"

"Never." Caderousse had become so gloomy that Andrea feared
he should be obliged to notice the change. He redoubled his
gayety and carelessness. "How sprightly you are," said
Caderousse; "One would say you were already in possession of
your property."

"No, unfortunately; but when I do obtain it" --

"Well?"

"I shall remember old friends, I can tell you that."

"Yes, since you have such a good memory."

"What do you want? It looks as if you were trying to fleece
me?"

"I? What an idea! I, who am going to give you another piece
of good advice."

"What is it?"

"To leave behind you the diamond you have on your finger. We
shall both get into trouble. You will ruin both yourself and
me by your folly."

"How so?" said Andrea.

"How? You put on a livery, you disguise yourself as a
servant, and yet keep a diamond on your finger worth four or
five thousand francs."

"You guess well."

"I know something of diamonds; I have had some."

"You do well to boast of it," said Andrea, who, without
becoming angry, as Caderousse feared, at this new extortion,
quietly resigned the ring. Caderousse looked so closely at
it that Andrea well knew that he was examining to see if all
the edges were perfect.

"It is a false diamond," said Caderousse.

"You are joking now," replied Andrea.

"Do not be angry, we can try it." Caderousse went to the
window, touched the glass with it, and found it would cut.

"Confiteor," said Caderousse, putting the diamond on his
little finger; "I was mistaken; but those thieves of
jewellers imitate so well that it is no longer worth while
to rob a jeweller's shop -- it is another branch of industry
paralyzed."

"Have you finished?" said Andrea, -- "do you want anything
more? -- will you have my waistcoat or my hat? Make free,
now you have begun."

"No; you are, after all, a good companion; I will not detain
you, and will try to cure myself of my ambition."

"But take care the same thing does not happen to you in
selling the diamond you feared with the gold."

"I shall not sell it -- do not fear."

"Not at least till the day after to-morrow," thought the
young man.

"Happy rogue," said Caderousse; "you are going to find your
servants, your horses, your carriage, and your betrothed!"

"Yes," said Andrea.

"Well, I hope you will make a handsome wedding-present the
day you marry Mademoiselle Danglars."

"I have already told you it is a fancy you have taken in
your head."

"What fortune has she?"

"But I tell you" --

"A million?" Andrea shrugged his shoulders.

"Let it be a million," said Caderousse; "you can never have
so much as I wish you."

"Thank you," said the young man.

"Oh, I wish it you with all my heart!" added Caderousse with
his hoarse laugh. "Stop, let me show you the way."

"It is not worth while."

"Yes, it is."

"Why?"

"Because there is a little secret, a precaution I thought it
desirable to take, one of Huret & Fitchet's locks, revised
and improved by Gaspard Caderousse; I will manufacture you a
similar one when you are a capitalist."

"Thank you," said Andrea; "I will let you know a week
beforehand." They parted. Caderousse remained on the landing
until he had not only seen Andrea go down the three stories,
but also cross the court. Then he returned hastily, shut his
door carefully, and began to study, like a clever architect,
the plan Andrea had left him.

"Dear Benedetto," said he, "I think he will not be sorry to
inherit his fortune, and he who hastens the day when he can
touch his five hundred thousand will not be his worst
friend."



Chapter 82
The Burglary.

The day following that on which the conversation we have
related took place, the Count of Monte Cristo set out for
Auteuil, accompanied by Ali and several attendants, and also
taking with him some horses whose qualities he was desirous
of ascertaining. He was induced to undertake this journey,
of which the day before he had not even thought and which
had not occurred to Andrea either, by the arrival of
Bertuccio from Normandy with intelligence respecting the
house and sloop. The house was ready, and the sloop which
had arrived a week before lay at anchor in a small creek
with her crew of six men, who had observed all the requisite
formalities and were ready again to put to sea.

The count praised Bertuccio's zeal, and ordered him to
prepare for a speedy departure, as his stay in France would
not be prolonged more than a mouth. "Now," said he, "I may
require to go in one night from Paris to Treport; let eight
fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will enable
me to go fifty leagues in ten hours."

"Your highness had already expressed that wish," said
Bertuccio, "and the horses are ready. I have bought them,
and stationed them myself at the most desirable posts, that
is, in villages, where no one generally stops."

"That's well," said Monte Cristo; "I remain here a day or
two -- arrange accordingly." As Bertuccio was leaving the
room to give the requisite orders, Baptistin opened the
door: he held a letter on a silver waiter.

"What are you doing here?" asked the count, seeing him
covered with dust; "I did not send for you, I think?"

Baptistin, without answering, approached the count, and
presented the letter. "Important and urgent," said he. The
count opened the letter, and read: --

"M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will
enter his house in the Champs-Elysees with the intention of
carrying off some papers supposed to be in the secretary in
the dressing-room. The count's well-known courage will
render unnecessary the aid of the police, whose interference
might seriously affect him who sends this advice. The count,
by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealing himself in
the dressing-room, would be able to defend his property
himself. Many 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 Fiesco* had done
over the Moor who would have killed him. We know the Count's
vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible,
with that energy which marks the great man. From his past
life, from his resolution to shrink from nothing, the count
had acquired an inconceivable relish for the contests in
which he had engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to
say, against God, and sometimes against the world, that is,
against the devil.

* The Genoese conspirator.

"They do not want my papers," said Monte Cristo, "they want
to kill me; they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not
allow the prefect of police to interfere with my private
affairs. I am rich enough, forsooth, to distribute his
authority on this occasion." The count recalled Baptistin,
who had left the room after delivering the letter. "Return
to Paris," said he; "assemble the servants who remain there.
I want all my household at Auteuil."

"But will no one remain in the house, my lord?" asked
Baptistin.

"Yes, the porter."

"My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from
the house."

"Well?"

"The house might be stripped without his hearing the least
noise."

"By whom?"

"By thieves."

"You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house
-- it would annoy me less than to be disobeyed." Baptistin
bowed.

"You understand me?" said the count. "Bring your comrades
here, one and all; but let everything remain as usual, only
close the shutters of the ground floor."

"And those of the second floor?"

"You know they are never closed. Go!"

The count signified his intention of dining alone, and that
no one but Ali should attend him. Having dined with his
usual tranquillity and moderation, the count, making a
signal to Ali to follow him, went out by the side-gate and
on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned, apparently without
design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself opposite
his house in the Champs-Elysees. All was dark; one solitary,
feeble light was burning in the porter's lodge, about forty
paces distant from the house, as Baptistin had said. Monte
Cristo leaned against a tree, and with that scrutinizing
glance which was so rarely deceived, looked up and down the
avenue, examined the passers-by, and carefully looked down
the neighboring streets, to see that no one was concealed.
Ten minutes passed thus, and he was convinced that no one
was watching him. He hastened to the side-door with Ali,
entered hurriedly, and by the servants' staircase, of which
he had the key, gained his bedroom without opening or
disarranging a single curtain, without even the porter
having the slightest suspicion that the house, which he
supposed empty, contained its chief occupant.

Arrived in his bedroom, the count motioned to Ali to stop;
then he passed into the dressing-room, which he examined.
Everything appeared as usual -- the precious secretary in
its place, and the key in the secretary. He double locked
it, took the key, returned to the bedroom door, removed the
double staple of the bolt, and went in. Meanwhile Ali had
procured the arms the count required -- namely, a short
carbine and a pair of double-barrelled pistols, with which
as sure an aim might be taken as with a single-barrelled
one. Thus armed, the count held the lives of five men in his
hands. It was about half-past nine. The count and Ali ate in
haste a crust of bread and drank a glass of Spanish wine;
then Monte Cristo slipped aside one of the movable panels,
which enabled him to see into the adjoining room. He had
within his reach his pistols and carbine, and Ali, standing
near him, held one of the small Arabian hatchets, whose form
has not varied since the Crusades. Through one of the
windows of the bedroom, on a line with that in the
dressing-room, the count could see into the street.

Two hours passed thus. It was intensely dark; still Ali,
thanks to his wild nature, and the count, thanks doubtless
to his long confinement, could distinguish in the darkness
the slightest movement of the trees. The little light in the
lodge had long been extinct. It might be expected that the
attack, if indeed an attack was projected, would be made
from the staircase of the ground floor, and not from a
window; in Monte Cristo's opinion, the villains sought his
life, not his money. It would be his bedroom they would
attack, and they must reach it by the back staircase, or by
the window in the dressing-room. The clock of the Invalides
struck a quarter to twelve; the west wind bore on its
moistened gusts the doleful vibration of the three strokes.

As the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a
slight noise in the dressing-room; this first sound, or
rather this first grinding, was followed by a second, then a
third; at the fourth, the count knew what to expect. A firm
and well-practised hand was engaged in cutting the four
sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt his
heart beat more rapidly. Inured as men may be to danger,
forewarned as they may be of peril, they understand, by the
fluttering of the heart and the shuddering of the frame, the
enormous difference between a dream and a reality, between
the project and the execution. However, Monte Cristo only
made a sign to apprise Ali, who, understanding that danger
was approaching from the other side, drew nearer to his
master. Monte Cristo was eager to ascertain the strength and
number of his enemies.

The window whence the noise proceeded was opposite the
opening by which the count could see into the dressing-room.
He fixed his eyes on that window -- he distinguished a
shadow in the darkness; then one of the panes became quite
opaque, as if a sheet of paper were stuck on the outside,
then the square cracked without falling. Through the opening
an arm was passed to find the fastening, then a second; the
window turned on its hinges, and a man entered. He was
alone.

"That's a daring rascal," whispered the count.

At that moment Ali touched him slightly on the shoulder. He
turned; Ali pointed to the window of the room in which they
were, facing the street. "I see!" said he, "there are two of
them; one does the work while the other stands guard." He
made a sign to Ali not to lose sight of the man in the
street, and turned to the one in the dressing-room.

The glass-cutter had entered, and was feeling his way, his
arms stretched out before him. At last he appeared to have
made himself familiar with his surroundings. There were two
doors; he bolted them both.

When he drew near to the bedroom door, Monte Cristo expected
that he was coming in, and raised one of his pistols; but he
simply heard the sound of the bolts sliding in their copper
rings. It was only a precaution. The nocturnal visitor,
ignorant of the fact that the count had removed the staples,
might now think himself at home, and pursue his purpose with
full security. Alone and free to act as he wished, the man
then drew from his pocket something which the count could
not discern, placed it on a stand, then went straight to the
secretary, felt the lock, and contrary to his expectation
found that the key was missing. But the glass-cutter was a
prudent man who had provided for all emergencies. The count
soon heard the rattling of a bunch of skeleton keys, such as
the locksmith brings when called to force a lock, and which
thieves call nightingales, doubtless from the music of their
nightly song when they grind against the bolt. "Ah, ha,"
whispered Monte Cristo with a smile of disappointment, "he
is only a thief."

But the man in the dark could not find the right key. He
reached the instrument he had placed on the stand, touched a
spring, and immediately a pale light, just bright enough to
render objects distinct, was reflected on his hands and
countenance. "By heavens," exclaimed Monte Cristo, starting
back, "it is" --

Ali raised his hatchet. "Don't stir," whispered Monte
Cristo, "and put down your hatchet; we shall require no
arms." Then he added some words in a low tone, for the
exclamation which surprise had drawn from the count, faint
as it had been, had startled the man who remained in the
pose of the old knife-grinder. It was an order the count had
just given, for immediately Ali went noiselessly, and
returned, bearing a black dress and a three-cornered hat.
Meanwhile Monte Cristo had rapidly taken off his great-coat,
waistcoat, and shirt, and one might distinguish by the
glimmering through the open panel that he wore a pliant
tunic of steel mail, of which the last in France, where
daggers are no longer dreaded, was worn by King Louis XVI.,
who feared the dagger at his breast, and whose head was
cleft with a hatchet. The tunic soon disappeared under a
long cassock, as did his hair under a priest's wig; the
three-cornered hat over this effectually transformed the
count into an abbe.

The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte
Cristo was completing his disguise had advanced straight to
the secretary, whose lock was beginning to crack under his
nightingale.

"Try again," whispered the count, who depended on the secret
spring, which was unknown to the picklock, clever as he
might be -- "try again, you have a few minutes' work there."
And he advanced to the window. The man whom he had seen
seated on a fence had got down, and was still pacing the
street; but, strange as it appeared, he cared not for those
who might pass from the avenue of the Champs-Elysees or by
the Faubourg St. Honore; his attention was engrossed with
what was passing at the count's, and his only aim appeared
to be to discern every movement in the dressing-room.

Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and
a smile passed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he
whispered, --

"Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you
hear, whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I
call you." Ali bowed in token of strict obedience. Monte
Cristo then drew a lighted taper from a closet, and when the
thief was deeply engaged with his lock, silently opened the
door, taking care that the light should shine directly on
his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief heard no
sound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly
illuminated. He turned.

"Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse," said Monte
Cristo; "what are you doing here, at such an hour?"

"The Abbe Busoni!" exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing
how this strange apparition could have entered when he had
bolted the doors, he let fall his bunch of keys, and
remained motionless and stupefied. The count placed himself
between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting off from the
thief his only chance of retreat. "The Abbe Busoni!"
repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the count.

"Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbe Busoni himself," replied Monte
Cristo. "And I am very glad you recognize me, dear M.
Caderousse; it proves you have a good memory, for it must be
about ten years since we last met." This calmness of Busoni,
combined with his irony and boldness, staggered Caderousse.

"The abbe, the abbe!" murmured he, clinching his fists, and
his teeth chattering.

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

"Reverend sir," murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the
window, which the count pitilessly blocked -- "reverend sir,
I don't know -- believe me -- I take my oath" --

"A pane of glass out," continued the count, "a dark lantern,
a bunch of false keys, a secretary half forced -- it is
tolerably evident" --

Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to
hide in, some way of escape.

"Come, come," continued the count, "I see you are still the
same, -- an assassin."

"Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was
not I -- it was La Carconte; that was proved at the trial,
since I was only condemned to the galleys."

"Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way
to return there?"

"No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by some one."

"That some one has done society a great kindness."

"Ah," said Caderousse, "I had promised" --

"And you are breaking your promise!" interrupted Monte
Cristo.

"Alas, yes!" said Caderousse very uneasily.

"A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the
Place de Greve. So much the worse, so much the worse --
diavolo, as they say in my country."

"Reverend sir, I am impelled" --

"Every criminal says the same thing."

"Poverty" --

"Pshaw!" said Busoni disdainfully; "poverty may make a man
beg, steal a loaf of bread at a baker's door, but not cause
him to open a secretary in a house supposed to be inhabited.
And when the jeweller Johannes had just paid you 40,000
francs for the diamond I had given you, and you killed him
to get the diamond and the money both, was that also
poverty?"

"Pardon, reverend sir," said Caderousse; "you have saved my
life once, save me again!"

"That is but poor encouragement."

"Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers
ready to seize me?"

"I am alone," said the abbe, "and I will again have pity on
you, and will let you escape, at the risk of the fresh
miseries my weakness may lead to, if you tell me the truth."

"Ah, reverend sir," cried Caderousse, clasping his hands,
and drawing nearer to Monte Cristo, "I may indeed say you
are my deliverer!"

"You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?"

"Yes, that is true, reverend sir."

"Who was your liberator?"

"An Englishman."

"What was his name?"

"Lord Wilmore."

"I know him; I shall know if you lie."

"Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth."

"Was this Englishman protecting you?"

"No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion."

"What was this young Corsican's name?"

"Benedetto."

"Is that his Christian name?"

"He had no other; he was a foundling."

"Then this young man escaped with you?"

"He did."

"In what way?"

"We were working at St. Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know
St. Mandrier?"

"I do."

"In the hour of rest, between noon and one o'clock" --

"Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity
the poor fellows!" said the abbe.

"Nay," said Caderousse, "one can't always work -- one is not
a dog."

"So much the better for the dogs," said Monte Cristo.

"While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance;
we severed our fetters with a file the Englishman had given
us, and swam away."

"And what is become of this Benedetto?"

"I don't know."

"You ought to know."

"No, in truth; we parted at Hyeres." And, to give more
weight to his protestation, Caderousse advanced another step
towards the abbe, who remained motionless in his place, as
calm as ever, and pursuing his interrogation. "You lie,"
said the Abbe Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority.

"Reverend sir!"

"You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps,
make use of him as your accomplice."

"Oh, reverend sir!"

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

"On what I could get."

"You lie," repeated the abbe a third time, with a still more
imperative tone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count.
"You have lived on the money he has given you."

"True," said Caderousse; "Benedetto has become the son of a
great lord."

"How can he be the son of a great lord?"

"A natural son."

"And what is that great lord's name?"

"The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we
are."

"Benedetto the count's son?" replied Monte Cristo,
astonished in his turn.

"Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a
false father -- since the count gives him four thousand
francs a month, and leaves him 500,000 francs in his will."

"Ah, yes," said the factitious abbe, who began to
understand; "and what name does the young man bear
meanwhile?"

"Andrea Cavalcanti."

"Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of
Monte Cristo has received into his house, and who is going
to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Exactly."

"And you suffer that, you wretch -- you, who know his life
and his crime?"

"Why should I stand in a comrade's way?" said Caderousse.

"You are right; it is not you who should apprise M.
Danglars, it is I."

"Do not do so, reverend sir."

"Why not?"

"Because you would bring us to ruin."

"And you think that to save such villains as you I will
become an abettor of their plot, an accomplice in their
crimes?"

"Reverend sir," said Caderousse, drawing still nearer.

"I will expose all."

"To whom?"

"To M. Danglars."

"By heaven!" cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an
open knife, and striking the count in the breast, "you shall
disclose nothing, reverend sir!" To Caderousse's great
astonishment, the knife, instead of piercing the count's
breast, flew back blunted. At the same moment the count
seized with his left hand the assassin's wrist, and wrung it
with such strength that the knife fell from his stiffened
fingers, and Caderousse uttered a cry of pain. But the
count, disregarding his cry, continued to wring the bandit's
wrist, until, his arm being dislocated, he fell first on his
knees, then flat on the floor. The count then placed his
foot on his head, saying, "I know not what restrains me from
crushing thy skull, rascal."

"Ah, mercy -- mercy!" cried Caderousse. The count withdrew
his foot. "Rise!" said he. Caderousse rose.

"What a wrist you have, reverend sir!" said Caderousse.
stroking his arm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which
had held it; "what a wrist!"

"Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast
like you; in the name of that God I act, -- remember that,
wretch, -- and to spare thee at this moment is still serving
him."

"Oh!" said Caderousse, groaning with pain.

"Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate."

"I don't know how to write, reverend sir."

"You lie! Take this pen, and write!" Caderousse, awed by the
superior power of the abbe, sat down and wrote: --

Sir, -- The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to
whom you intend to marry your daughter, is a felon who
escaped with me from confinement at Toulon. He was No. 59,
and I No. 58. He was called Benedetto, but he is ignorant of
his real name, having never known his parents.

"Sign it!" continued the count.

"But would you ruin me?"

"If I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first
guard-house; besides, when that note is delivered, in all
probability you will have no more to fear. Sign it, then!"

Caderousse signed it. "The address, `To monsieur the Baron
Danglars, banker, Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin.'" Caderousse
wrote the address. The abbe took the note. "Now," said he,
"that suffices -- begone!"

"Which way?"

"The way you came."

"You wish me to get out at that window?"

"You got in very well."

"Oh, you have some design against me, reverend sir."

"Idiot! what design can I have?"

"Why, then, not let me out by the door?"

"What would be the advantage of waking the porter?" --

"Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead?"

"I wish what God wills."

"But swear that you will not strike me as I go down."

"Cowardly fool!"

"What do you intend doing with me?"

"I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy
man, and you have turned out a murderer."

"Oh, monsieur," said Caderousse, "make one more attempt --
try me once more!"

"I will," said the count. "Listen -- you know if I may be
relied on."

"Yes," said Caderousse.

"If you arrive safely at home" --

"What have I to fear, except from you?"

"If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France,
and wherever you may be, so long as you conduct yourself
well, I will send you a small annuity; for, if you return
home safely, then" --

"Then?" asked Caderousse, shuddering.

"Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will
forgive you too."

"As true as I am a Christian," stammered Caderousse, "you
will make me die of fright!"

"Now begone," said the count, pointing to the window.

Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his
legs out of the window and stood on the ladder. "Now go
down," said the abbe, folding his arms. Understanding he had
nothing more to fear from him, Caderousse began to go down.
Then the count brought the taper to the window, that it
might be seen in the Champs-Elysees that a man was getting
out of the window while another held a light.

"What are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should
pass?" And he blew out the light. He then descended, but it
was only when he felt his foot touch the ground that he was
satisfied of his safety.

Monte Cristo returned to his bedroom, and, glancing rapidly
from the garden to the street, he saw first Caderousse, who
after walking to the end of the garden, fixed his ladder
against the wall at a different part from where he came in.
The count then looking over into the street, saw the man who
appeared to be waiting run in the same direction, and place
himself against the angle of the wall where Caderousse would
come over. Caderousse climbed the ladder slowly, and looked
over the coping to see if the street was quiet. No one could
be seen or heard. The clock of the Invalides struck one.
Then Caderousse sat astride the coping, and drawing up his
ladder passed it over the wall; then he began to descend, or
rather to slide down by the two stanchions, which he did
with an ease which proved how accustomed he was to the
exercise. But, once started, he could not stop. In vain did
he see a man start from the shadow when he was halfway down
-- in vain did he see an arm raised as he touched the
ground. Before he could defend himself that arm struck him
so violently in the back that he let go the ladder, crying,
"Help!" A second blow struck him almost immediately in the
side, and he fell, calling, "Help, murder!" Then, as he
rolled on the ground, his adversary seized him by the hair,
and struck him a third blow in the chest. This time
Caderousse endeavored to call again, but he could only utter
a groan, and he shuddered as the blood flowed from his three
wounds. The assassin, finding that he no longer cried out,
lifted his head up by the hair; his eyes were closed, and
the mouth was distorted. The murderer, supposing him dead,
let fall his head and disappeared. Then Caderousse, feeling
that he was leaving him, raised himself on his elbow, and
with a dying voice cried with great effort, "Murder! I am
dying! Help, reverend sir, -- help!"

This mournful appeal pierced the darkness. The door of the
back-staircase opened, then the side-gate of the garden, and
Ali and his master were on the spot with lights.



Chapter 83
The Hand of God.

Caderousse continued to call piteously, "Help, reverend sir,
help!"

"What is the matter?" asked Monte Cristo.

"Help," cried Caderousse; "I am murdered!"

"We are here; -- take courage."

"Ah, it's all over! You are come too late -- you are come to
see me die. What blows, what blood!" He fainted. Ali and his
master conveyed the wounded man into a room. Monte Cristo
motioned to Ali to undress him, and he then examined his
dreadful wounds. "My God!" he exclaimed, "thy vengeance is
sometimes delayed, but only that it may fall the more
effectually." Ali looked at his master for further
instructions. "Bring here immediately the king's attorney,
M. de Villefort, who lives in the Faubourg St. Honore. As
you pass the lodge, wake the porter, and send him for a
surgeon." Ali obeyed, leaving the abbe alone with
Caderousse, who had not yet revived.

When the wretched man again opened his eyes, the count
looked at him with a mournful expression of pity, and his
lips moved as if in prayer. "A surgeon, reverend sir -- a
surgeon!" said Caderousse.

"I have sent for one," replied the abbe.

"I know he cannot save my life, but he may strengthen me to
give my evidence."

"Against whom?"

"Against my murderer."

"Did you recognize him?"

"Yes; it was Benedetto."

"The young Corsican?"

"Himself."

"Your comrade?"

"Yes. After giving me the plan of this house, doubtless
hoping I should kill the count and he thus become his heir,
or that the count would kill me and I should be out of his
way, he waylaid me, and has murdered me."

"I have also sent for the procureur."

"He will not come in time; I feel my life fast ebbing."

"Wait a moment," said Monte Cristo. He left the room, and
returned in five minutes with a phial. The dying man's eyes
were all the time riveted on the door, through which he
hoped succor would arrive. "Hasten, reverend sir, hasten! I
shall faint again!" Monte Cristo approached, and dropped on
his purple lips three or four drops of the contents of the
phial. Caderousse drew a deep breath. "Oh," said he, "that
is life to me; more, more!"

"Two drops more would kill you," replied the abbe.

"Oh, send for some one to whom I can denounce the wretch!"

"Shall I write your deposition? You can sign it."

"Yes yes," said Caderousse; and his eyes glistened at the
thought of this posthumous revenge. Monte Cristo wrote: --

"I die, murdered by the Corsican Benedetto, my comrade in
the galleys at Toulouse, No. 59."

"Quick, quick!" said Caderousse, "or I shall be unable to
sign it."

Monte Cristo gave the pen to Caderousse, who collected all
his strength, signed it, and fell back on his bed, saying:
"You will relate all the rest, reverend sir; you will say he
calls himself Andrea Cavalcanti. He lodges at the Hotel des
Princes. Oh, I am dying!" He again fainted. The abbe made
him smell the contents of the phial, and he again opened his
eyes. His desire for revenge had not forsaken him.

"Ah, you will tell all I have said, will you not, reverend
sir?"

"Yes, and much more."

"What more will you say?"

"I will say he had doubtless given you the plan of this
house, in the hope the count would kill you. I will say,
likewise, he had apprised the count, by a note, of your
intention, and, the count being absent, I read the note and
sat up to await you."

"And he will be guillotined, will be not?" said Caderousse.
"Promise me that, and I will die with that hope."

"I will say," continued the count, "that he followed and
watched you the whole time, and when he saw you leave the
house, ran to the angle of the wall to conceal himself."

"Did you see all that?"

"Remember my words: `If you return home safely, I shall
believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you also.'"

"And you did not warn me!" cried Caderousse, raising himself
on his elbows. "You knew I should be killed on leaving this
house, and did not warn me!"

"No; for I saw God's justice placed in the hands of
Benedetto, and should have thought it sacrilege to oppose
the designs of providence."

"God's justice! Speak not of it, reverend sir. If God were
just, you know how many would be punished who now escape."

"Patience," said the abbe, in a tone which made the dying
man shudder; "have patience!" Caderousse looked at him with
amazement. "Besides," said the abbe, "God is merciful to
all, as he has been to you; he is first a father, then a
judge."

"Do you then believe in God?" said Caderousse.

"Had I been so unhappy as not to believe in him until now,"
said Monte Cristo, "I must believe on seeing you."
Caderousse raised his clinched hands towards heaven.

"Listen," said the abbe, extending his hand over the wounded
man, as if to command him to believe; "this is what the God
in whom, on your death-bed, you refuse to believe, has done
for you -- he gave you health, strength, regular employment,
even friends -- a life, in fact, which a man might enjoy
with a calm conscience. Instead of improving these gifts,
rarely granted so abundantly, this has been your course --
you have given yourself up to sloth and drunkenness, and in
a fit of intoxication have ruined your best friend."

"Help!" cried Caderousse; "I require a surgeon, not a
priest; perhaps I am not mortally wounded -- I may not die;
perhaps they can yet save my life."

"Your wounds are so far mortal that, without the three drops
I gave you, you would now be dead. Listen, then."

"Ah," murmured Caderousse, "what a strange priest you are;
you drive the dying to despair, instead of consoling them."

"Listen," continued the abbe. "When you had betrayed your
friend God began not to strike, but to warn you. Poverty
overtook you. You had already passed half your life in
coveting that which you might have honorably acquired; and
already you contemplated crime under the excuse of want,
when God worked a miracle in your behalf, sending you, by my
hands, a fortune -- brilliant, indeed, for you, who had
never possessed any. But this unexpected, unhoped-for,
unheard-of fortune sufficed you no longer when you once
possessed it; you wished to double it, and how? -- by a
murder! You succeeded, and then God snatched it from you,
and brought you to justice."

"It was not I who wished to kill the Jew," said Caderousse;
"it was La Carconte."

"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "and God, -- I cannot say in
justice, for his justice would have slain you, -- but God,
in his mercy, spared your life."

"Pardieu, to transport me for life, how merciful!"

"You thought it a mercy then, miserable wretch! The coward
who feared death rejoiced at perpetual disgrace; for like
all galley-slaves, you said, `I may escape from prison, I
cannot from the grave.' And you said truly; the way was
opened for you unexpectedly. An Englishman visited Toulon,
who had vowed to rescue two men from infamy, and his choice
fell on you and your companion. You received a second
fortune, money and tranquillity were restored to you, and
you, who had been condemned to a felon's life, might live as
other men. Then, wretched creature, then you tempted God a
third time. `I have not enough,' you said, when you had more
than you before possessed, and you committed a third crime,
without reason, without excuse. God is wearied; he has
punished you." Caderousse was fast sinking. "Give me drink,"
said he: "I thirst -- I burn!" Monte Cristo gave him a glass
of water. "And yet that villain, Benedetto, will escape!"

"No one, I tell you, will escape; Benedetto will be
punished."

"Then, you, too, will be punished, for you did not do your
duty as a priest -- you should have prevented Benedetto from
killing me."

"I?" said the count, with a smile which petrified the dying
man, "when you had just broken your knife against the coat
of mail which protected my breast! Yet perhaps if I had
found you humble and penitent, I might have prevented
Benedetto from killing you; but I found you proud and
blood-thirsty, and I left you in the hands of God."

"I do not believe there is a God," howled Caderousse; "you
do not believe it; you lie -- you lie!"

"Silence," said the abbe; "you will force the last drop of
blood from your veins. What! you do not believe in God when
he is striking you dead? you will not believe in him, who
requires but a prayer, a word, a tear, and he will forgive?
God, who might have directed the assassin's dagger so as to
end your career in a moment, has given you this quarter of
an hour for repentance. Reflect, then, wretched man, and
repent."

"No," said Caderousse, "no; I will not repent. There is no
God; there is no providence -- all comes by chance." --

"There is a providence; there is a God," said Monte Cristo,
"of whom you are a striking proof, as you lie in utter
despair, denying him, while I stand before you, rich, happy,
safe and entreating that God in whom you endeavor not to
believe, while in your heart you still believe in him."

"But who are you, then?" asked Caderousse, fixing his dying
eyes on the count. "Look well at me!" said Monte Cristo,
putting the light near his face. "Well, the abbe -- the Abbe
Busoni." Monte Cristo took off the wig which disfigured him,
and let fall his black hair, which added so much to the
beauty of his pallid features. "Oh?" said Caderousse,
thunderstruck, "but for that black hair, I should say you
were the Englishman, Lord Wilmore."

"I am neither the Abbe Busoni nor Lord Wilmore," said Monte
Cristo; "think again, -- do you not recollect me?" Those was
a magic effect in the count's words, which once more revived
the exhausted powers of the miserable man. "Yes, indeed,"
said he; "I think I have seen you and known you formerly."

"Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you knew me once."

"Who, then, are you? and why, if you knew me, do you let me
die?"

"Because nothing can save you; your wounds are mortal. Had
it been possible to save you, I should have considered it
another proof of God's mercy, and I would again have
endeavored to restore you, I swear by my father's tomb."

"By your father's tomb!" said Caderousse, supported by a
supernatural power, and half-raising himself to see more
distinctly the man who had just taken the oath which all men
hold sacred; "who, then, are you?" The count had watched the
approach of death. He knew this was the last struggle. He
approached the dying man, and, leaning over him with a calm
and melancholy look, he whispered, "I am -- I am" -- And his
almost closed lips uttered a name so low that the count
himself appeared afraid to hear it. Caderousse, who had
raised himself on his knees, and stretched out his arm,
tried to draw back, then clasping his hands, and raising
them with a desperate effort, "O my God, my God!" said he,
"pardon me for having denied thee; thou dost exist, thou art
indeed man's father in heaven, and his judge on earth. My
God, my Lord, I have long despised thee! Pardon me, my God;
receive me, O my Lord!" Caderousse sighed deeply, and fell
back with a groan. The blood no longer flowed from his
wounds. He was dead.

"One!" said the count mysteriously, his eyes fixed on the
corpse, disfigured by so awful a death. Ten minutes
afterwards the surgeon and the procureur arrived, the one
accompanied by the porter, the other by Ali, and were
received by the Abbe Busoni, who was praying by the side of
the corpse.



Chapter 84
Beauchamp.

The daring attempt to rob the count was the topic of
conversation throughout Paris for the next fortnight. The
dying man had signed a deposition declaring Benedetto to be
the assassin. The police had orders to make the strictest
search for the murderer. Caderousse's knife, dark lantern,
bunch of keys, and clothing, excepting the waistcoat, which
could not be found, were deposited at the registry; the
corpse was conveyed to the morgue. The count told every one
that this adventure had happened during his absence at
Auteuil, and that he only knew what was related by the Abbe
Busoni, who that evening, by mere chance, had requested to
pass the night in his house, to examine some valuable books
in his library. Bertuccio alone turned pale whenever
Benedetto's name was mentioned in his presence, but there
was no reason why any one should notice his doing so.
Villefort, being called on to prove the crime, was preparing
his brief with the same ardor that he was accustomed to
exercise when required to speak in criminal cases.

But three weeks had already passed, and the most diligent
search had been unsuccessful; the attempted robbery and the
murder of the robber by his comrade were almost forgotten in
anticipation of the approaching marriage of Mademoiselle
Danglars to the Count Andrea Cavalcanti. It was expected
that this wedding would shortly take place, as the young man
was received at the banker's as the betrothed. Letters had
been despatched to M. Cavalcanti, as the count's father, who
highly approved of the union, regretted his inability to
leave Parma at that time, and promised a wedding gift of a
hundred and fifty thousand livres. It was agreed that the
three millions should be intrusted to Danglars to invest;
some persons had warned the young man of the circumstances
of his future father-in-law, who had of late sustained
repeated losses; but with sublime disinterestedness and
confidence the young man refused to listen, or to express a
single doubt to the baron. The baron adored Count Andrea
Cavalcanti: not so Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars. With an
instinctive hatred of matrimony, she suffered Andrea's
attentions in order to get rid of Morcerf; but when Andrea
urged his suit, she betrayed an entire dislike to him. The
baron might possibly have perceived it, but, attributing it
to a caprice, feigned ignorance.

The delay demanded by Beauchamp had nearly expired. Morcerf
appreciated the advice of Monte Cristo to let things die
away of their own accord. No one had taken up the remark
about the general, and no one had recognized in the officer
who betrayed the castle of Yanina the noble count in the
House of Peers. Albert, however felt no less insulted; the
few lines which had irritated him were certainly intended as
an insult. Besides, the manner in which Beauchamp had closed
the conference left a bitter recollection in his heart. He
cherished the thought of the duel, hoping to conceal its
true cause even from his seconds. Beauchamp had not been
seen since the day he visited Albert, and those of whom the
latter inquired always told him he was out on a journey
which would detain him some days. Where he was no one knew.

One morning Albert was awakened by his valet de chambre, who
announced Beauchamp. Albert rubbed his eyes, ordered his
servant to introduce him into the small smoking-room on the
ground-floor, dressed himself quickly, and went down. He
found Beauchamp pacing the room; on perceiving him Beauchamp
stopped. "Your arrival here, without waiting my visit at
your house to-day, looks well, sir," said Albert. "Tell me,
may I shake hands with you, saying, `Beauchamp, acknowledge
you have injured me, and retain my friendship,' or must I
simply propose to you a choice of arms?"

"Albert," said Beauchamp, with a look of sorrow which
stupefied the young man, "let us first sit down and talk."

"Rather, sir, before we sit down, I must demand your
answer."

"Albert," said the journalist, "these are questions which it
is difficult to answer."

"I will facilitate it by repeating the question, `Will you,
or will you not, retract?'"

"Morcerf, it is not enough to answer `yes' or `no' to
questions which concern the honor, the social interest, and
the life of such a man as Lieutenant-general the Count of
Morcerf, peer of France."

"What must then be done?"

"What I have done, Albert. I reasoned thus -- money, time,
and fatigue are nothing compared with the reputation and
interests of a whole family; probabilities will not suffice,
only facts will justify a deadly combat with a friend. If I
strike with the sword, or discharge the contents of a pistol
at man with whom, for three years, I have been on terms of
intimacy, I must, at least, know why I do so; I must meet
him with a heart at ease, and that quiet conscience which a
man needs when his own arm must save his life."

"Well," said Morcerf, impatiently, "what does all this
mean?"

"It means that I have just returned from Yanina."

"From Yanina?"

"Yes."

"Impossible!"

"Here is my passport; examine the visa -- Geneva, Milan,
Venice, Trieste, Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the
government of a republic, a kingdom, and an empire?" Albert
cast his eyes on the passport, then raised them in
astonishment to Beauchamp. "You have been to Yanina?" said
he.

"Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple
lord, like that Englishman who came to demand satisfaction
three or four months since, and whom I killed to get rid of,
I should not have taken this trouble; but I thought this
mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to go,
another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight
hours to stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last
night, and here I am."

"What circumlocution! How long you are before you tell me
what I most wish to know?"

"Because, in truth, Albert" --

"You hesitate?"

"Yes, -- I fear."

"You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent his
deceived you? Oh, no self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it,
Beauchamp; your courage cannot be doubted."

"Not so," murmured the journalist; "on the contrary" --

Albert turned frightfully pale; he endeavored to speak, but
the words died on his lips. "My friend," said Beauchamp, in
the most affectionate tone, "I should gladly make an
apology; but, alas," --

"But what?"

"The paragraph was correct, my friend."

"What? That French officer" --

"Yes."

"Fernand?"

"Yes."

"The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose
service he was" --

"Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father!" Albert
advanced furiously towards Beauchamp, but the latter
restrained him more by a mild look than by his extended
hand.

"My friend," said he, "here is a proof of it."

Albert opened the paper, it was an attestation of four
notable inhabitants of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand
Mondego, in the service of Ali Tepelini, had surrendered the
castle for two million crowns. The signatures were perfectly
legal. Albert tottered and fell overpowered in a chair. It
could no longer be doubted; the family name was fully given.
After a moment's mournful silence, his heart overflowed, and
he gave way to a flood of tears. Beauchamp, who had watched
with sincere pity the young man's paroxysm of grief,
approached him. "Now, Albert," said he, "you understand me
-- do you not? I wished to see all, and to judge of
everything for myself, hoping the explanation would be in
your father's favor, and that I might do him justice. But,
on the contrary, the particulars which are given prove that
Fernand Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank of
governor-general, is no other than Count Fernand of Morcerf;
then, recollecting the honor you had done me, in admitting
me to your friendship, I hastened to you."

Albert, still extended on the chair, covered his face with
both hands, as if to prevent the light from reaching him. "I
hastened to you," continued Beauchamp, "to tell you, Albert,
that in this changing age, the faults of a father cannot
revert upon his children. Few have passed through this
revolutionary period, in the midst of which we were born,
without some stain of infamy or blood to soil the uniform of
the soldier, or the gown of the magistrate. Now I have these
proofs, Albert, and I am in your confidence, no human power
can force me to a duel which your own conscience would
reproach you with as criminal, but I come to offer you what
you can no longer demand of me. Do you wish these proofs,
these attestations, which I alone possess, to be destroyed?
Do you wish this frightful secret to remain with us?
Confided to me, it shall never escape my lips; say, Albert,
my friend, do you wish it?"

Albert threw himself on Beauchamp's neck. "Ah, noble
fellow!" cried he.

"Take these," said Beauchamp, presenting the papers to
Albert.

Albert seized them with a convulsive hand, tore them in
pieces, and trembling lest the least vestige should escape
and one day appear to confront him, he approached the
wax-light, always kept burning for cigars, and burned every
fragment. "Dear, excellent friend," murmured Albert, still
burning the papers.

"Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful dream," said Beauchamp;
"let it vanish as the last sparks from the blackened paper,
and disappear as the smoke from those silent ashes."

"Yes, yes," said Albert, "and may there remain only the
eternal friendship which I promised to my deliverer, which
shall be transmitted to our children's children, and shall
always remind me that I owe my life and the honor of my name
to you, -- for had this been known, oh, Beauchamp, I should
have destroyed myself; or, -- no, my poor mother! I could
not have killed her by the same blow, -- I should have fled
from my country."

"Dear Albert," said Beauchamp. But this sudden and
factitious joy soon forsook the young man, and was succeeded
by a still greater grief.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "what still oppresses you, my
friend?"

"I am broken-hearted," said Albert. "Listen, Beauchamp! I
cannot thus, in a moment relinquish the respect, the
confidence, and pride with which a father's untarnished name
inspires a son. Oh, Beauchamp, Beauchamp, how shall I now
approach mine? Shall I draw back my forehead from his
embrace, or withhold my hand from his? I am the most
wretched of men. Ah, my mother, my poor mother!" said
Albert, gazing through his tears at his mother's portrait;
"if you know this, how much must you suffer!"

"Come," said Beauchamp, taking both his hands, "take
courage, my friend."

"But how came that first note to be inserted in your
journal? Some unknown enemy -- an invisible foe -- has done
this."

"The more must you fortify yourself, Albert. Let no trace of
emotion be visible on your countenance, bear your grief as
the cloud bears within it ruin and death -- a fatal secret,
known only when the storm bursts. Go, my friend, reserve
your strength for the moment when the crash shall come."

"You think, then, all is not over yet?" said Albert,
horror-stricken.

"I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By
the way" --

"What?" said Albert, seeing that Beauchamp hesitated.

"Are you going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Why do you ask me now?"

"Because the rupture or fulfilment of this engagement is
connected with the person of whom we were speaking."

"How?" said Albert, whose brow reddened; "you think M.
Danglars" --

"I ask you only how your engagement stands? Pray put no
construction on my words I do not mean they should convey,
and give them no undue weight."

"No." said Albert, "the engagement is broken off."

"Well," said Beauchamp. Then, seeing the young man was about
to relapse into melancholy, "Let us go out, Albert," said
he; "a ride in the wood in the phaeton, or on horseback,
will refresh you; we will then return to breakfast, and you
shall attend to your affairs, and I to mine."

"Willingly," said Albert; "but let us walk. I think a little
exertion would do me good." The two friends walked out on
the fortress. When arrived at the Madeleine, -- "Since we
are out," said Beauchamp, "let us call on M. de Monte
Cristo; he is admirably adapted to revive one's spirits,
because he never interrogates, and in my opinion those who
ask no questions are the best comforters."

"Gladly," said Albert; "I love him -- let us call."



Chapter 85
The Journey.

Monte Cristo uttered a joyful exclamation on seeing the
young men together. "Ah, ha!" said he, "I hope all is over,
explained and settled."

"Yes," said Beauchamp; "the absurd reports have died away,
and should they be renewed, I would be the first to oppose
them; so let us speak no more of it."

"Albert will tell you," replied the count "that I gave him
the same advice. Look," added he. "I am finishing the most
execrable morning's work."

"What is it?" said Albert; "arranging your papers,
apparently."

"My papers, thank God, no, -- my papers are all in capital
order, because I have none; but M. Cavalcanti's."

"M. Cavalcanti's?" asked Beauchamp.

"Yes; do you not know that this is a young man whom the
count is introducing?" said Morcerf.

"Let us not misunderstand each other," replied Monte Cristo;
"I introduce 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 Eugenie, who appears
but little charmed with the thoughts of matrimony, and who,
seeing how little I was disposed to persuade her to renounce
her dear liberty, retains any affection for me."

"And do you say this wedding is at hand?"

"Oh, yes, in spite of all I could say. I do not know the
young man; he is said to be of good family and rich, but I
never trust to vague assertions. I have warned M. Danglars
of it till I am tired, but he is fascinated with his
Luccanese. I have even informed him of a circumstance I
consider very serious; the young man was either charmed by
his nurse, stolen by gypsies, or lost by his tutor, I
scarcely know which. But I do know his father lost sight of
him for more than ten years; what he did during these ten
years, God only knows. Well, all that was useless. They have
commissioned me to write to the major to demand papers, and
here they are. I send them, but like Pilate -- washing my
hands."

"And what does Mademoiselle d'Armilly say to you for robbing
her of her pupil?"

"Oh, well, I don't know; but I understand that she is going
to Italy. Madame Danglars asked me for letters of
recommendation for the impresari; I gave her a few lines for
the director of the Valle Theatre, who is under some
obligation to me. But what is the matter, Albert? you look
dull; are you, after all, unconsciously in love with
Mademoiselle Eugenie?"

"I am not aware of it," said Albert, smiling sorrowfully.
Beauchamp turned to look at some paintings. "But," continued
Monte Cristo, "you are not in your usual spirits?"

"I have a dreadful headache," said Albert.

"Well, my dear viscount," said Monte Cristo, "I have an
infallible remedy to propose to you."

"What is that?" asked the young man.

"A change."

"Indeed?" said Albert.

"Yes; and as I am just now excessively annoyed, I shall go
from home. Shall we go together?"

"You annoyed, count?" said Beauchamp; "and by what?"

"Ah, you think very lightly of it; I should like to see you
with a brief preparing in your house."

"What brief?"

"The one M. de Villefort is preparing against my amiable
assassin -- some brigand escaped from the gallows
apparently."

"True," said Beauchamp; "I saw it in the paper. Who is this
Caderousse?"

"Some provincial, it appears. M. de Villefort heard of him
at Marseilles, and M. Danglars recollects having seen him.
Consequently, the procureur is very active in the affair,
and the prefect of police very much interested; and, thanks
to that interest, for which I am very grateful, they send me
all the robbers of Paris and the neighborhood, under
pretence of their being Caderousse's murderers, so that in
three months, if this continue, every robber and assassin in
France will have the plan of my house at his fingers' end. I
am resolved to desert them and go to some remote corner of
the earth, and shall be happy if you will accompany me,
viscount."

"Willingly."

"Then it is settled?"

"Yes, but where?"

"I have told you, where the air is pure, where every sound
soothes, where one is sure to be humbled, however proud may
be his nature. I love that humiliation, I, who am master of
the universe, as was Augustus."

"But where are you really going?"

"To sea, viscount; you know I am a sailor. I was rocked when
an infant in the arms of old ocean, and on the bosom of the
beautiful Amphitrite; I have sported with the green mantle
of the one and the azure robe of the other; I love the sea
as a mistress, and pine if I do not often see her."

"Let us go, count."

"To sea?"

"Yes."

"You accept my proposal?"

"I do."

"Well, Viscount, there will be in my court-yard this evening
a good travelling britzka, with four post-horses, in which
one may rest as in a bed. M. Beauchamp, it holds four very
well, will you accompany us?"

"Thank you, I have just returned from sea."

"What? you have been to sea?"

"Yes; I have just made a little excursion to the Borromean
Islands."*

* Lake Maggiore.

"What of that? come with us," said Albert.

"No, dear Morcerf; you know I only refuse when the thing is
impossible. Besides, it is important," added he in a low
tone, "that I should remain in Paris just now to watch the
paper."

"Ah, you are a good and an excellent friend," said Albert;
"yes, you are right; watch, watch, Beauchamp, and try to
discover the enemy who made this disclosure." Albert and
Beauchamp parted, the last pressure of their hands
expressing what their tongues could not before a stranger.

"Beauchamp is a worthy fellow," said Monte Cristo, when the
journalist was gone; "is he not, Albert?"

"Yes, and a sincere friend; I love him devotedly. But now we
are alone, -- although it is immaterial to me, -- where are
we going?"

"Into Normandy, if you like."

"Delightful; shall we be quite retired? have no society, no
neighbors?"

"Our companions will be riding-horses, dogs to hunt with,
and a fishing-boat."

"Exactly what I wish for; I will apprise my mother of my
intention, and return to you."

"But shall you be allowed to go into Normandy?"

"I may go where I please."

"Yes, I am aware you may go alone, since I once met you in
Italy -- but to accompany the mysterious Monte Cristo?"

"You forget, count, that I have often told you of the deep
interest my mother takes in you."

"`Woman is fickle.' said Francis I.; `woman is like a wave
of the sea,' said Shakespeare; both the great king and the
great poet ought to have known woman's nature well."

"Woman's, yes; my mother is not woman, but a woman."

"As I am only a humble foreigner, you must pardon me if I do
not understand all the subtle refinements of your language."

"What I mean to say is, that my mother is not quick to give
her confidence, but when she does she never changes."

"Ah, yes, indeed," said Monte Cristo with a sigh; "and do
you think she is in the least interested in me?"

"I repeat it, you must really be a very strange and superior
man, for my mother is so absorbed by the interest you have
excited, that when I am with her she speaks of no one else."

"And does she try to make you dislike me?"

"On the contrary, she often says, `Morcerf, I believe the
count has a noble nature; try to gain his esteem.'"

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo, sighing.

"You see, then," said Albert, "that instead of opposing, she
will encourage me."

"Adieu, then, until five o'clock; be punctual, and we shall
arrive at twelve or one."

"At Treport?"

"Yes; or in the neighborhood."

"But can we travel forty-eight leagues in eight hours?"

"Easily," said Monte Cristo.

"You are certainly a prodigy; you will soon not only surpass
the railway, which would not be very difficult in France,
but even the telegraph."

"But, viscount, since we cannot perform the journey in less
than seven or eight hours, do not keep me waiting."

"Do not fear, I have little to prepare." Monte Cristo smiled
as he nodded to Albert, then remained a moment absorbed in
deep meditation. But passing his hand across his forehead as
if to dispel his revery, he rang the bell twice and
Bertuccio entered. "Bertuccio," said he, "I intend going
this evening to Normandy, instead of to-morrow or the next
day. You will have sufficient time before five o'clock;
despatch a messenger to apprise the grooms at the first
station. M. de Morcerf will accompany me." Bertuccio obeyed
and despatched a courier to Pontoise to say the
travelling-carriage would arrive at six o'clock. From
Pontoise another express was sent to the next stage, and in
six hours all the horses stationed on the road were ready.
Before his departure, the count went to Haidee's apartments,
told her his intention, and resigned everything to her care.
Albert was punctual. The journey soon became interesting
from its rapidity, of which Morcerf had formed no previous
idea. "Truly," said Monte Cristo, "with your posthorses
going at the rate of two leagues an hour, and that absurd
law that one traveller shall not pass another without
permission, so that an invalid or ill-tempered traveller may
detain those who are well and active, it is impossible to
move; I escape this annoyance by travelling with my own
postilion and horses; do I not, Ali?"

The count put his head out of the window and whistled, and
the horses appeared to fly. The carriage rolled with a
thundering noise over the pavement, and every one turned to
notice the dazzling meteor. Ali, smiling, repeated the
sound, grasped the reins with a firm hand, and spurred his
horses, whose beautiful manes floated in the breeze. This
child of the desert was in his element, and with his black
face and sparkling eyes appeared, in the cloud of dust he
raised, like the genius of the simoom and the god of the
hurricane. "I never knew till now the delight of speed,"
said Morcerf, and the last cloud disappeared from his brow;
"but where the devil do you get such horses? Are they made
to order?"

"Precisely," said the count; "six years since I bought a
horse in Hungary remarkable for its swiftness. The
thirty-two that we shall use to-night are its progeny; they
are all entirely black, with the exception of a star upon
the forehead."

"That is perfectly admirable; but what do you do, count,
with all these horses?"

"You see, I travel with them."

"But you are not always travelling."

"When I no longer require them, Bertuccio will sell them,
and he expects to realize thirty or forty thousand francs by
the sale."

"But no monarch in Europe will be wealthy enough to purchase
them."

"Then he will sell them to some Eastern vizier, who will
empty his coffers to purchase them, and refill them by
applying the bastinado to his subjects."

"Count, may I suggest one idea to you?"

"Certainly."

"It is that, next to you, Bertuccio must be the richest
gentleman in Europe."

"You are mistaken, viscount; I believe he has not a franc in
his possession."

"Then he must be a wonder. My dear count, if you tell me
many more marvellous things, I warn you I shall not believe
them."

"I countenance nothing that is marvellous, M. Albert. Tell
me, why does a steward rob his master?"

"Because, I suppose, it is his nature to do so, for the love
of robbing."

"You are mistaken; it is because he has a wife and family,
and ambitious desires for himself and them. Also because he
is not sure of always retaining his situation, and wishes to
provide for the future. Now, M. Bertuccio is alone in the
world; he uses my property without accounting for the use he
makes of it; he is sure never to leave my service."

"Why?"

"Because I should never get a better."

"Probabilities are deceptive."

"But I deal in certainties; he is the best servant over whom
one has the power of life and death."

"Do you possess that right over Bertuccio?"

"Yes."

There are words which close a conversation with an iron
door; such was the count's "yes." The whole journey was
performed with equal rapidity; the thirty-two horses,
dispersed over seven stages, brought them to their
destination in eight hours. At midnight they arrived at the
gate of a beautiful park. The porter was in attendance; he
had been apprised by the groom of the last stage of the
count's approach. At half past two in the morning Morcerf
was conducted to his apartments, where a bath and supper
were prepared. The servant who had travelled at the back of
the carriage waited on him; Baptistin, who rode in front,
attended the count. Albert bathed, took his supper, and went
to bed. All night he was lulled by the melancholy noise of
the surf. On rising, he went to his window, which opened on
a terrace, having the sea in front, and at the back a pretty
park bounded by a small forest. In a creek lay a little
sloop, with a narrow keel and high masts, bearing on its
flag the Monte Cristo arms which were a mountain on a sea
azure, with a cross gules on the shield. Around the schooner
lay a number of small fishing-boats belonging to the
fishermen of the neighboring village, like humble subjects
awaiting orders from their queen. There, as in every spot
where Monte Cristo stopped, if but for two days, luxury
abounded and life went on with the utmost ease.

Albert found in his anteroom two guns, with all the
accoutrements for hunting; a lofty room on the ground-floor
containing all the ingenious instruments the English --
eminent in piscatory pursuits, since they are patient and
sluggish -- have invented for fishing. The day passed in
pursuing those exercises in which Monte Cristo excelled.
They killed a dozen pheasants in the park, as many trout in
the stream, dined in a summer-house overlooking the ocean,
and took tea in the library.

Towards the evening of the third day. Albert, completely
exhausted with the exercise which invigorated Monte Cristo,
was sleeping in an arm-chair near the window, while the
count was designing with his architect the plan of a
conservatory in his house, when the sound of a horse at full
speed on the high road made Albert look up. He was
disagreeably surprised to see his own valet de chambre, whom
he had not brought, that he might not inconvenience Monte
Cristo.

"Florentin here!" cried he, starting up; "is my mother ill?"
And he hastened to the door. Monte Cristo watched and saw
him approach the valet, who drew a small sealed parcel from
his pocket, containing a newspaper and a letter. "From whom
is this?" said he eagerly. "From M. Beauchamp," replied
Florentin.

"Did he send you?"

"Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house, gave me money for my
journey, procured a horse, and made me promise not to stop
till I had reached you, I have come in fifteen hours."

Albert opened the letter with fear, uttered a shriek on
reading the first line, and seized the paper. His sight was
dimmed, his legs sank under him, and he would have fallen
had not Florentin supported him.

"Poor young man," said Monte Cristo in a low voice; "it is
then true that the sin of the father shall fall on the
children to the third and fourth generation." Meanwhile
Albert had revived, and, continuing to read, he threw back
his head, saying, "Florentin, is your horse fit to return
immediately?"

"It is a poor lame post-horse."

"In what state was the house when you left?"

"All was quiet, but on returning from M. Beauchamp's, I
found madame in tears: she had sent for me to know when you
would return. I told her my orders from M. Beauchamp; she
first extended her arms to prevent me, but after a moment's
reflection, `Yes, go, Florentin,' said she, `and may he come
quickly.'"

"Yes, my mother," said Albert, "I will return, and woe to
the infamous wretch! But first of all I must get there."

He went back to the room where he had left Monte Cristo.
Five minutes had sufficed to make a complete transformation
in his appearance. His voice had become rough and hoarse;
his face was furrowed with wrinkles; his eyes burned under
the blue-veined lids, and he tottered like a drunken man.
"Count," said he, "I thank you for your hospitality, which I
would gladly have enjoyed longer; but I must return to
Paris."

"What has happened?"

"A great misfortune, more important to me than life. Don't
question me, I beg of you, but lend me a horse."

"My stables are at your command, viscount; but you will kill
yourself by riding on horseback. Take a post-chaise or a
carriage."

"No, it would delay me, and I need the fatigue you warn me
of; it will do me good." Albert reeled as if he had been
shot, and fell on a chair near the door. Monte Cristo did
not see this second manifestation of physical exhaustion; he
was at the window, calling, "Ali, a horse for M. de Morcerf
-- quick! he is in a hurry!" These words restored Albert; he
darted from the room, followed by the count. "Thank you!"
cried he, throwing himself on his horse. "Return as soon as
you can, Florentin. Must I use any password to procure a
horse?"

"Only dismount; another will be immediately saddled." Albert
hesitated a moment. "You may think my departure strange and
foolish," said the young man; "you do not know how a
paragraph in a newspaper may exasperate one. Read that,"
said he, "when I am gone, that you may not be witness of my
anger."

While the count picked up the paper he put spurs to his
horse, which leaped in astonishment at such an unusual
stimulus, and shot away with the rapidity of an arrow. The
count watched him with a feeling of compassion, and when he
had completely disappeared, read as follows: --

"The French officer in the service of Ali Pasha of Yanina
alluded to three weeks since in the Impartial, who not only
surrendered the castle of Yanina, but sold his benefactor to
the Turks, styled himself truly at that time Fernand, as our
esteemed contemporary states; but he has since added to his
Christian name a title of nobility and a family name. He now
calls himself the Count of Morcerf, and ranks among the
peers."

Thus the terrible secret, which Beauchamp had so generously
destroyed, appeared again like an armed phantom; and another
paper, deriving its information from some malicious source,
had published two days after Albert's departure for Normandy
the few lines which had rendered the unfortunate young man
almost crazy.



Chapter 86
The Trial.

At eight o'clock in the morning Albert had arrived at
Beauchamp's door. The valet de chambre had received orders
to usher him in at once. Beauchamp was in his bath. "Here I
am," said Albert.

"Well, my poor friend," replied Beauchamp, "I expected you."

"I need not say I think you are too faithful and too kind to
have spoken of that painful circumstance. Your having sent
for me is another proof of your affection. So, without
losing time, tell me, have you the slightest idea whence
this terrible blow proceeds?"

"I think I have some clew."

"But first tell me all the particulars of this shameful
plot." Beauchamp proceeded to relate to the young man, who
was overwhelmed with shame and grief, the following facts.
Two days previously, the article had appeared in another
paper besides the Impartial, and, what was more serious, one
that was well known as a government paper. Beauchamp was
breakfasting when he read the paragraph. He sent immediately
for a cabriolet, and hastened to the publisher's office.
Although professing diametrically opposite principles from
those of the editor of the other paper, Beauchamp -- as it
sometimes, we may say often, happens -- was his intimate
friend. The editor was reading, with apparent delight, a
leading article in the same paper on beet-sugar, probably a
composition of his own.

"Ah, pardieu," said Beauchamp, "with the paper in your hand,
my friend, I need not tell you the cause of my visit."

"Are you interested in the sugar question?" asked the editor
of the ministerial paper.

"No," replied Beauchamp, "I have not considered the
question; a totally different subject interests me."

"What is it?"

"The article relative to Morcerf."

"Indeed? Is it not a curious affair?"

"So curious, that I think you are running a great risk of a
prosecution for defamation of character."

"Not at all; we have received with the information all the
requisite proofs, and we are quite sure M. de Morcerf will
not raise his voice against us; besides, it is rendering a
service to one's country to denounce these wretched
criminals who are unworthy of the honor bestowed on them."
Beauchamp was thunderstruck. "Who, then, has so correctly
informed you?" asked he; "for my paper, which gave the first
information on the subject, has been obliged to stop for
want of proof; and yet we are more interested than you in
exposing M. de Morcerf, as he is a peer of France, and we
are of the opposition."

"Oh, that is very simple; we have not sought to scandalize.
This news was brought to us. A man arrived yesterday from
Yanina, bringing a formidable array of documents; and when
we hesitated to publish the accusatory article, he told us
it should be inserted in some other paper."

Beauchamp understood that nothing remained but to submit,
and left the office to despatch a courier to Morcerf. But he
had been unable to send to Albert the following particulars,
as the events had transpired after the messenger's
departure; namely, that the same day a great agitation was
manifest in the House of Peers among the usually calm
members of that dignified assembly. Every one had arrived
almost before the usual hour, and was conversing on the
melancholy event which was to attract the attention of the
public towards one of their most illustrious colleagues.
Some were perusing the article, others making comments and
recalling circumstances which substantiated the charges
still more. The Count of Morcerf was no favorite with his
colleagues. Like all upstarts, he had had recourse to a
great deal of haughtiness to maintain his position. The true
nobility laughed at him, the talented repelled him, and the
honorable instinctively despised him. He was, in fact, in
the unhappy position of the victim marked for sacrifice; the
finger of God once pointed at him, every one was prepared to
raise the hue and cry.

The Count of Morcerf alone was ignorant of the news. He did
not take in the paper containing the defamatory article, and
had passed the morning in writing letters and in trying a
horse. He arrived at his usual hour, with a proud look and
insolent demeanor; he alighted, passed through the
corridors, and entered the house without observing the
hesitation of the door-keepers or the coolness of his
colleagues. Business had already been going on for half an
hour when he entered. Every one held the accusing paper,
but, as usual, no one liked to take upon himself the
responsibility of the attack. At length an honorable peer,
Morcerf's acknowledged enemy, ascended the tribune with that
solemnity which announced that the expected moment had
arrived. There was an impressive silence; Morcerf alone knew
not why such profound attention was given to an orator who
was not always listened to with so much complacency. The
count did not notice the introduction, in which the speaker
announced that his communication would be of that vital
importance that it demanded the undivided attention of the
House; but at the mention of Yanina and Colonel Fernand, he
turned so frightfully pale that every member shuddered and
fixed his eyes upon him. Moral wounds have this peculiarity,
-- they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful,
always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and
open in the heart.

The article having been read during the painful hush that
followed, a universal shudder pervaded the assembly. and
immediately the closest attention was given to the orator as
he resumed his remarks. He stated his scruples and the
difficulties of the case; it was the honor of M. de Morcerf,
and that of the whole House, he proposed to defend, by
provoking a debate on personal questions, which are always
such painful themes of discussion. He concluded by calling
for an investigation, which might dispose of the calumnious
report before it had time to spread, and restore M. de
Morcerf to the position he had long held in public opinion.
Morcerf was so completely overwhelmed by this great and
unexpected calamity that he could scarcely stammer a few
words as he looked around on the assembly. This timidity,
which might proceed from the astonishment of innocence as
well as the shame of guilt, conciliated some in his favor;
for men who are truly generous are always ready to
compassionate when the misfortune of their enemy surpasses
the limits of their hatred.

The president put it to the vote, and it was decided that
the investigation should take place. The count was asked
what time he required to prepare his defence. Morcerf's
courage had revived when he found himself alive after this
horrible blow. "My lords," answered he, "it is not by time I
could repel the attack made on me by enemies unknown to me,
and, doubtless, hidden in obscurity; it is immediately, and
by a thunderbolt, that I must repel the flash of lightning
which, for a moment, startled me. Oh, that I could, instead
of taking up this defence, shed my last drop of blood to
prove to my noble colleagues that I am their equal in
worth." These words made a favorable impression on behalf of
the accused. "I demand, then, that the examination shall
take place as soon as possible, and I will furnish the house
with all necessary information."

"What day do you fix?" asked the president.

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

"Yes," was the unanimous answer.

A committee of twelve members was chosen to examine the
proofs brought forward by Morcerf. The investigation would
begin at eight o'clock that evening in the committee-room,
and if postponement were necessary, the proceedings would be
resumed each evening at the same hour. Morcerf asked leave
to retire; he had to collect the documents he had long been
preparing against this storm, which his sagacity had
foreseen.

Albert listened, trembling now with hope, then with anger,
and then again with shame, for from Beauchamp's confidence
he knew his father was guilty, and he asked himself how,
since he was guilty, he could prove his innocence. Beauchamp
hesitated to continue his narrative. "What next?" asked
Albert.

"What next? My friend, you impose a painful task on me. Must
you know all?"

"Absolutely; and rather from your lips than another's."

"Muster up all your courage, then, for never have you
required it more." Albert passed his hand over his forehead,
as if to try his strength, as a man who is preparing to
defend his life proves his shield and bends his sword. He
thought himself strong enough, for he mistook fever for
energy. "Go on," said he.

"The evening arrived; all Paris was in expectation. Many
said your father had only to show himself to crush the
charge against him; many others said he would not appear;
while some asserted that they had seen him start for
Brussels; and others went to the police-office to inquire if
he had taken out a passport. I used all my influence with
one of the committee, a young peer of my acquaintance, to
get admission to one of the galleries. He called for me at
seven o'clock, and, before any one had arrived, asked one of
the door-keepers to place me in a box. I was concealed by a
column, and might witness the whole of the terrible scene
which was about to take place. At eight o'clock all were in
their places, and M. de Morcerf entered at the last stroke.
He held some papers in his hand; his countenance was calm,
and his step firm, and he was dressed with great care in his
military uniform, which was buttoned completely up to the
chin. His presence produced a good effect. The committee was
made up of Liberals, several of whom came forward to shake
hands with him."

Albert felt his heart bursting at these particulars, but
gratitude mingled with his sorrow: he would gladly have
embraced those who had given his father this proof of esteem
at a moment when his honor was so powerfully attacked. "At
this moment one of the door-keepers brought in a letter for
the president. `You are at liberty to speak, M. de Morcerf,'
said the president, as he unsealed the letter; and the count
began his defence, I assure you, Albert, in a most eloquent
and skilful manner. He produced documents proving that the
Vizier of Yanina had up to the last moment honored him with
his entire confidence, since he had interested him with a
negotiation of life and death with the emperor. He produced
the ring, his mark of authority, with which Ali Pasha
generally sealed his letters, and which the latter had given
him, that he might, on his return at any hour of the day or
night, gain access to the presence, even in the harem.
Unfortunately, the negotiation failed, and when he returned
to defend his benefactor, he was dead. `But,' said the
count, `so great was Ali Pasha's confidence, that on his
death-bed he resigned his favorite mistress and her daughter
to my care.'" Albert started on hearing these words; the
history of Haidee recurred to him, and he remembered what
she had said of that message and the ring, and the manner in
which she had been sold and made a slave. "And what effect
did this discourse produce?" anxiously inquired Albert. "I
acknowledge it affected me, and, indeed, all the committee
also," said Beauchamp.

"Meanwhile, the president carelessly opened the letter which
had been brought to him; but the first lines aroused his
attention; he read them again and again, and fixing his eyes
on M. de Morcerf, `Count,' said he, `you have said that the
Vizier of Yanina confided his wife and daughter to your
care?' -- `Yes, sir,' replied Morcerf; `but in that, like
all the rest, misfortune pursued me. On my return, Vasiliki
and her daughter Haidee had disappeared.' -- `Did you know
them?' -- `My intimacy with the pasha and his unlimited
confidence had gained me an introduction to them, and I had
seen them above twenty times.'

"`Have you any idea what became of them?' -- `Yes, sir; I
heard they had fallen victims to their sorrow, and, perhaps,
to their poverty. I was not rich; my life was in constant
danger; I could not seek them, to my great regret.' The
president frowned imperceptibly. `Gentlemen,' said he, `you
have heard the Comte de Morcerf's defence. Can you, sir,
produce any witnesses to the truth of what you have
asserted?' -- `Alas, no, monsieur,' replied the count; `all
those who surrounded the vizier, or who knew me at his
court, are either dead or gone away, I know not where. I
believe that I alone, of all my countrymen, survived that
dreadful war. I have only the letters of Ali Tepelini, which
I have placed before you; the ring, a token of his
good-will, which is here; and, lastly, the most convincing
proof I can offer, after an anonymous attack, and that is
the absence of any witness against my veracity and the
purity of my military life.' A murmur of approbation ran
through the assembly; and at this moment, Albert, had
nothing more transpired, your father's cause had been
gained. It only remained to put it to the vote, when the
president resumed: `Gentlemen and you, monsieur, -- you will
not be displeased, I presume, to listen to one who calls
himself a very important witness, and who has just presented
himself. He is, doubtless, come to prove the perfect
innocence of our colleague. Here is a letter I have just
received on the subject; shall it be read, or shall it be
passed over? and shall we take no notice of this incident?'
M. de Morcerf turned pale, and clinched his hands on the
papers he held. The committee decided to hear the letter;
the count was thoughtful and silent. The president read: --

"`Mr. President, -- I can furnish the committee of inquiry
into the conduct of the Lieutenant-General the Count of
Morcerf in Epirus and in Macedonia with important
particulars.'

"The president paused, and the count turned pale. The
president looked at his auditors. `Proceed,' was heard on
all sides. The president resumed: --

"`I was on the spot at the death of Ali Pasha. I was present
during his last moments. I know what is become of Vasiliki
and Haidee. I am at the command of the committee, and even
claim the honor of being heard. I shall be in the lobby when
this note is delivered to you.'

"`And who is this witness, or rather this enemy?' asked the
count, in a tone in which there was a visible alteration.
`We shall know, sir,' replied the president. `Is the
committee willing to hear this witness?' -- `Yes, yes,' they
all said at once. The door-keeper was called. `Is there any
one in the lobby?' said the president.

"`Yes, sir.' -- `Who is it?' -- `A woman, accompanied by a
servant.' Every one looked at his neighbor. `Bring her in,'
said the president. Five minutes after the door-keeper again
appeared; all eyes were fixed on the door, and I," said
Beauchamp, "shared the general expectation and anxiety.
Behind the door-keeper walked a woman enveloped in a large
veil, which completely concealed her. It was evident, from
her figure and the perfumes she had about her, that she was
young and fastidious in her tastes, but that was all. The
president requested her to throw aside her veil, and it was
then seen that she was dressed in the Grecian costume, and
was remarkably beautiful."

"Ah," said Albert, "it was she."

"Who?"

"Haidee."

"Who told you that?"

"Alas, I guess it. But go on, Beauchamp. You see I am calm
and strong. And yet we must be drawing near the disclosure."

"M. de Morcerf," continued Beauchamp, "looked at this woman
with surprise and terror. Her lips were about to pass his
sentence of life or death. To the committee the adventure
was so extraordinary and curious, that the interest they had
felt for the count's safety became now quite a secondary
matter. The president himself advanced to place a seat for
the young lady; but she declined availing herself of it. As
for the count, he had fallen on his chair; it was evident
that his legs refused to support him.

"`Madame,' said the president, `you have engaged to furnish
the committee with some important particulars respecting the
affair at Yanina, and you have stated that you were an
eyewitness of the event.' -- `I was, indeed,' said the
stranger, with a tone of sweet melancholy, and with the
sonorous voice peculiar to the East.

"`But allow me to say that you must have been very young
then.' -- `I was four years old; but as those events deeply
concerned me, not a single detail has escaped my memory.' --
`In what manner could these events concern you? and who are
you, that they should have made so deep an impression on
you?' -- `On them depended my father's life,' replied she.
`I am Haidee, the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina,
and of Vasiliki, his beloved wife.'

"The blush of mingled pride and modesty which suddenly
suffused the cheeks of the young woman, the brilliancy of
her eye, and her highly important communication, produced an
indescribable effect on the assembly. As for the count, he
could not have been more overwhelmed if a thunderbolt had
fallen at his feet and opened an immense gulf before him.
`Madame,' replied the president, bowing with profound
respect, `allow me to ask one question; it shall be the
last: Can you prove the authenticity of what you have now
stated?' -- `I can, sir,' said Haidee, drawing from under
her veil a satin satchel highly perfumed; `for here is the
register of my birth, signed by my father and his principal
officers, and that of my baptism, my father having consented
to my being brought up in my mother's faith, -- this latter
has been sealed by the grand primate of Macedonia and
Epirus; and lastly (and perhaps the most important), the
record of the sale of my person and that of my mother to the
Armenian merchant El-Kobbir, by the French officer, who, in
his infamous bargain with the Porte, had reserved as his
part of the booty the wife and daughter of his benefactor,
whom he sold for the sum of four hundred thousand francs.' A
greenish pallor spread over the count's cheeks, and his eyes
became bloodshot at these terrible imputations, which were
listened to by the assembly with ominous silence.

"Haidee, still calm, but with a calmness more dreadful than
the anger of another would have been, handed to the
president the record of her sale, written in Arabic. It had
been supposed some of the papers might be in the Arabian,
Romaic, or Turkish language, and the interpreter of the
House was in attendance. One of the noble peers, who was
familiar with the Arabic language, having studied it during
the famous Egyptian campaign, followed with his eye as the
translator read aloud: --

"`I, El-Kobbir, a slave-merchant, and purveyor of the harem
of his highness, acknowledge having received for
transmission to the sublime emperor, from the French lord,
the Count of Monte Cristo, an emerald valued at eight
hundred thousand francs; as the ransom of a young Christian
slave of eleven years of age, named Haidee, the acknowledged
daughter of the late lord Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and
of Vasiliki, his favorite; she having been sold to me seven
years previously, with her mother, who had died on arriving
at Constantinople, by a French colonel in the service of the
Vizier Ali Tepelini, named Fernand Mondego. The
above-mentioned purchase was made on his highness's account,
whose mandate I had, for the sum of four hundred thousand
francs.

"`Given at Constantinople, by authority of his highness, in
the year 1247 of the Hegira.

"`Signed El-Kobbir.'

"`That this record should have all due authority, it shall
bear the imperial seal, which the vendor is bound to have
affixed to it.'

"Near the merchant's signature there was, indeed, the seal
of the sublime emperor. A dreadful silence followed the
reading of this document; the count could only stare, and
his gaze, fixed as if unconsciously on Haidee, seemed one of
fire and blood. `Madame,' said the president, `may reference
be made to the Count of Monte Cristo, who is now, I believe,
in Paris?' -- `Sir,' replied Haidee, `the Count of Monte
Cristo, my foster-father, has been in Normandy the last
three days.'

"`Who, then, has counselled you to take this step, one for
which the court is deeply indebted to you, and which is
perfectly natural, considering your birth and your
misfortunes?' -- `Sir,' replied Haidee, `I have been led to
take this step from a feeling of respect and grief. Although
a Christian, may God forgive me, I have always sought to
revenge my illustrious father. Since I set my foot in
France, and knew the traitor lived in Paris, I have watched
carefully. I live retired in the house of my noble
protector, but I do it from choice. I love retirement and
silence, because I can live with my thoughts and
recollections of past days. But the Count of Monte Cristo
surrounds me with every paternal care, and I am ignorant of
nothing which passes in the world. I learn all in the
silence of my apartments, -- for instance, I see all the
newspapers, every periodical, as well as every new piece of
music; and by thus watching the course of the life of
others, I learned what had transpired this morning in the
House of Peers, and what was to take place this evening;
then I wrote.'

"`Then,' remarked the president, `the Count of Monte Cristo
knows nothing of your present proceedings?' -- `He is quite
unaware of them, and I have but one fear, which is that he
should disapprove of what I have done. But it is a glorious
day for me,' continued the young girl, raising her ardent
gaze to heaven, `that on which I find at last an opportunity
of avenging my father!'

"The count had not uttered one word the whole of this time.
His colleagues looked at him, and doubtless pitied his
prospects, blighted under the perfumed breath of a woman.
His misery was depicted in sinister lines on his
countenance. `M. de Morcerf,' said the president, `do you
recognize this lady as the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha
of Yanina?' -- `No,' said Morcerf, attempting to rise, `it
is a base plot, contrived by my enemies.' Haidee, whose eyes
had been fixed on the door, as if expecting some one, turned
hastily, and, seeing the count standing, shrieked, `You do
not know me?' said she. `Well, I fortunately recognize you!
You are Fernand Mondego, the French officer who led the
troops of my noble father! It is you who surrendered the
castle of Yanina! It is you who, sent by him to
Constantinople, to treat with the emperor for the life or
death of your benefactor, brought back a false mandate
granting full pardon! It is you who, with that mandate,
obtained the pasha's ring, which gave you authority over
Selim, the fire-keeper! It is you who stabbed Selim. It is
you who sold us, my mother and me, to the merchant,
El-Kobbir! Assassin, assassin, assassin, you have still on
your brow your master's blood! Look, gentlemen, all!'

"These words had been pronounced with such enthusiasm and
evident truth, that every eye was fixed on the count's
forehead, and he himself passed his hand across it, as if he
felt Ali's blood still lingering there. `You positively
recognize M. de Morcerf as the officer, Fernand Mondego?' --
`Indeed I do!' cried Haidee. `Oh, my mother, it was you who
said, "You were free, you had a beloved father, you were
destined to be almost a queen. Look well at that man; it is
he who raised your father's head on the point of a spear; it
is he who sold us; it is he who forsook us! Look well at his
right hand, on which he has a large wound; if you forgot his
features, you would know him by that hand, into which fell,
one by one, the gold pieces of the merchant El-Kobbir!" I
know him! Ah, let him say now if he does not recognize me!'
Each word fell like a dagger on Morcerf, and deprived him of
a portion of his energy; as she uttered the last, he hid his
mutilated hand hastily in his bosom, and fell back on his
seat, overwhelmed by wretchedness and despair. This scene
completely changed the opinion of the assembly respecting
the accused count.

"`Count of Morcerf,' said the president, `do not allow
yourself to be cast down; answer. The justice of the court
is supreme and impartial as that of God; it will not suffer
you to be trampled on by your enemies without giving you an
opportunity of defending yourself. Shall further inquiries
be made? Shall two members of the House be sent to Yanina?
Speak!' Morcerf did not reply. Then all the members looked
at each other with terror. They knew the count's energetic
and violent temper; it must be, indeed, a dreadful blow
which would deprive him of courage to defend himself. They
expected that his stupefied silence would be followed by a
fiery outburst. `Well,' asked the president, `what is your
decision?'

"`I have no reply to make,' said the count in a low tone.

"`Has the daughter of Ali Tepelini spoken the truth?' said
the president. `Is she, then, the terrible witness to whose
charge you dare not plead "Not guilty"? Have you really
committed the crimes of which you are accused?' The count
looked around him with an expression which might have
softened tigers, but which could not disarm his judges. Then
he raised his eyes towards the ceiling, but withdrew then,
immediately, as if he feared the roof would open and reveal
to his distressed view that second tribunal called heaven,
and that other judge named God. Then, with a hasty movement,
he tore open his coat, which seemed to stifle him, and flew
from the room like a madman; his footstep was heard one
moment in the corridor, then the rattling of his
carriage-wheels as he was driven rapidly away. `Gentlemen,'
said the president, when silence was restored, `is the Count
of Morcerf convicted of felony, treason, and conduct
unbecoming a member of this House?' -- `Yes,' replied all
the members of the committee of inquiry with a unanimous
voice.

"Haidee had remained until the close of the meeting. She
heard the count's sentence pronounced without betraying an
expression of joy or pity; then drawing her veil over her
face she bowed majestically to the councillors, and left
with that dignified step which Virgil attributes to his
goddesses."



Chapter 87
The Challenge.

"Then," continued Beauchamp, "I took advantage of the
silence and the darkness to leave the house without being
seen. The usher who had introduced me was waiting for me at
the door, and he conducted me through the corridors to a
private entrance opening into the Rue de Vaugirard. I left
with mingled feelings of sorrow and delight. Excuse me,
Albert, -- sorrow on your account, and delight with that
noble girl, thus pursuing paternal vengeance. Yes, Albert,
from whatever source the blow may have proceeded -- it may
be from an enemy, but that enemy is only the agent of
providence." Albert held his head between his hands; he
raised his face, red with shame and bathed in tears, and
seizing Beauchamp's arm, "My friend," said he, "my life is
ended. I cannot calmly say with you, `Providence has struck
the blow;' but I must discover who pursues me with this
hatred, and when I have found him I shall kill him, or he
will kill me. I rely on your friendship to assist me,
Beauchamp, if contempt has not banished it from your heart."

"Contempt, my friend? How does this misfortune affect you?
No, happily that unjust prejudice is forgotten which made
the son responsible for the father's actions. Review your
life, Albert; although it is only just beginning, did a
lovely summer's day ever dawn with greater purity than has
marked the commencement of your career? No, Albert, take my
advice. You are young and rich -- leave Paris -- all is soon
forgotten in this great Babylon of excitement and changing
tastes. You will return after three or four years with a
Russian princess for a bride, and no one will think more of
what occurred yesterday than if it had happened sixteen
years ago."

"Thank you, my dear Beauchamp, thank you for the excellent
feeling which prompts your advice; but it cannot be. I have
told you my wish, or rather my determination. You understand
that, interested as I am in this affair, I cannot see it in
the same light as you do. What appears to you to emanate
from a celestial source, seems to me to proceed from one far
less pure. Providence appears to me to have no share in this
affair; and happily so, for instead of the invisible,
impalpable agent of celestial rewards and punishments, I
shall find one both palpable and visible, on whom I shall
revenge myself, I assure you, for all I have suffered during
the last month. Now, I repeat, Beauchamp, I wish to return
to human and material existence, and if you are still the
friend you profess to be, help me to discover the hand that
struck the blow."

"Be it so," said Beauchamp; "if you must have me descend to
earth, I submit; and if you will seek your enemy, I will
assist you, and I will engage to find him, my honor being
almost as deeply interested as yours."

"Well, then, you understand, Beauchamp, that we begin our
search immediately. Each moment's delay is an eternity for
me. The calumniator is not yet punished, and he may hope
that he will not be; but, on my honor, it he thinks so, he
deceives himself."

"Well, listen, Morcerf."

"Ah, Beauchamp, I see you know something already; you will
restore me to life."

"I do not say there is any truth in what I am going to tell
you, but it is, at least, a ray of light in a dark night; by
following it we may, perhaps, discover something more
certain."

"Tell me; satisfy my impatience."

"Well, I will tell you what I did not like to mention on my
return from Yanina."

"Say on."

"I went, of course, to the chief banker of the town to make
inquiries. At the first word, before I had even mentioned
your father's name" --

"`Ah,' said he. `I guess what brings you here.'

"`How, and why?'

"`Because a fortnight since I was questioned on the same
subject.'

"`By whom?' -- `By a Paris banker, my correspondent.'

"`Whose name is' --

"`Danglars.'"

"He!" cried Albert; "yes, it is indeed he who has so long
pursued my father with jealous hatred. He, the man who would
be popular, cannot forgive the Count of Morcerf for being
created a peer; and this marriage broken off without a
reason being assigned -- yes, it is all from the same
cause."

"Make inquiries, Albert, but do not be angry without reason;
make inquiries, and if it be true" --

"Oh, yes, if it be true," cried the young man, "he shall pay
me all I have suffered."

"Beware, Morcerf, he is already an old man."

"I will respect his age as he has respected the honor of my
family; if my father had offended him, why did he not attack
him personally? Oh, no, he was afraid to encounter him face
to face."

"I do not condemn you, Albert; I only restrain you. Act
prudently."

"Oh, do not fear; besides, you will accompany me. Beauchamp,
solemn transactions should be sanctioned by a witness.
Before this day closes, if M. Danglars is guilty, he shall
cease to live, or I shall die. Pardieu, Beauchamp, mine
shall be a splendid funeral!"

"When such resolutions are made, Albert, they should be
promptly executed. Do you wish to go to M. Danglars? Let us
go immediately." They sent for a cabriolet. On entering the
banker's mansion, they perceived the phaeton and servant of
M. Andrea Cavalcanti. "Ah, parbleu, that's good," said
Albert, with a gloomy tone. "If M. Danglars will not fight
with me, I will kill his son-in-law; Cavalcanti will
certainly fight." The servant announced the young man; but
the banker, recollecting what had transpired the day before,
did not wish him admitted. It was, however, too late; Albert
had followed the footman, and, hearing the order given,
forced the door open, and followed by Beauchamp found
himself in the banker's study. "Sir," cried the latter, "am
I no longer at liberty to receive whom I choose in my house?
You appear to forget yourself sadly."

"No, sir," said Albert, coldly; "there are circumstances in
which one cannot, except through cowardice, -- I offer you
that refuge, -- refuse to admit certain persons at least."

"What is your errand, then, with me, sir?"

"I mean," said Albert, drawing near, and without apparently
noticing Cavalcanti, who stood with his back towards the
fireplace -- "I mean to propose a meeting in some retired
corner where no one will interrupt us for ten minutes; that
will be sufficient -- where two men having met, one of them
will remain on the ground." Danglars turned pale; Cavalcanti
moved a step forward, and Albert turned towards him. "And
you, too," said he, "come, if you like, monsieur; you have a
claim, being almost one of the family, and I will give as
many rendezvous of that kind as I can find persons willing
to accept them." Cavalcanti looked at Danglars with a
stupefied air, and the latter, making an effort, arose and
stepped between the two young men. Albert's attack on Andrea
had placed him on a different footing, and he hoped this
visit had another cause than that he had at first supposed.

"Indeed, sir," said he to Albert, "if you are come to
quarrel with this gentleman because I have preferred him to
you, I shall resign the case to the king's attorney."

"You mistake, sir," said Morcerf with a gloomy smile; "I am
not referring in the least to matrimony, and I only
addressed myself to M. Cavalcanti because he appeared
disposed to interfere between us. In one respect you are
right, for I am ready to quarrel with every one to-day; but
you have the first claim, M. Danglars."

"Sir," replied Danglars, pale with anger and fear, "I warn
you, when I have the misfortune to meet with a mad dog, I
kill it; and far from thinking myself guilty of a crime, I
believe I do society a kindness. Now, if you are mad and try
to bite me, I will kill you without pity. Is it my fault
that your father has dishonored himself?"

"Yes, miserable wretch!" cried Morcerf, "it is your fault."
Danglars retreated a few steps. "My fault?" said he; "you
must be mad! What do I know of the Grecian affair? Have I
travelled in that country? Did I advise your father to sell
the castle of Yanina -- to betray" --

"Silence!" said Albert, with a thundering voice. "No; it is
not you who have directly made this exposure and brought
this sorrow on us, but you hypocritically provoked it."

"I?"

"Yes; you! How came it known?"

"I suppose you read it in the paper in the account from
Yanina?"

"Who wrote to Yanina?"

"To Yanina?"

"Yes. Who wrote for particulars concerning my father?"

"I imagine any one may write to Yanina."

"But one person only wrote!"

"One only?"

"Yes; and that was you!"

"I, doubtless, wrote. It appears to me that when about to
marry your daughter to a young man, it is right to make some
inquiries respecting his family; it is not only a right, but
a duty."

"You wrote, sir, knowing what answer you would receive."

"I, indeed? I assure you," cried Danglars, with a confidence
and security proceeding less from fear than from the
interest he really felt for the young man, "I solemnly
declare to you, that I should never have thought of writing
to Yanina, did I know anything of Ali Pasha's misfortunes."

"Who, then, urged you to write? Tell me."

"Pardieu, it was the most simple thing in the world. I was
speaking of your father's past history. I said the origin of
his fortune remained obscure. The person to whom I addressed
my scruples asked me where your father had acquired his
property? I answered, `In Greece.' -- `Then,' said he,
`write to Yanina.'"

"And who thus advised you?"

"No other than your friend, Monte Cristo."

"The Count of Monte Cristo told you to write to Yanina?"

"Yes; and I wrote, and will show you my correspondence, if
you like." Albert and Beauchamp looked at each other. "Sir,"
said Beauchamp, who had not yet spoken, "you appear to
accuse the count, who is absent from Paris at this moment,
and cannot justify himself."

"I accuse no one, sir," said Danglars; "I relate, and I will
repeat before the count what I have said to you."

"Does the count know what answer you received?"

"Yes; I showed it to him."

"Did he know my father's Christian name was Fernand, and his
family name Mondego?"

"Yes, I had told him that long since, and I did only what
any other would have done in my circumstances, and perhaps
less. When, the day after the arrival of this answer, your
father came by the advice of Monte Cristo to ask my
daughter's hand for you, I decidedly refused him, but
without any explanation or exposure. In short, why should I
have any more to do with the affair? How did the honor or
disgrace of M. de Morcerf affect me? It neither increased
nor decreased my income."

Albert felt the blood mounting to his brow; there was no
doubt upon the subject. Danglars defended himself with the
baseness, but at the same time with the assurance, of a man
who speaks the truth, at least in part, if not wholly -- not
for conscience' sake, but through fear. Besides, what was
Morcerf seeking? It was not whether Danglars or Monte Cristo
was more or less guilty; it was a man who would answer for
the offence, whether trifling or serious; it was a man who
would fight, and it was evident Danglars's would not fight.
And, in addition to this, everything forgotten or
unperceived before presented itself now to his recollection.
Monte Cristo knew everything, as he had bought the daughter
of Ali Pasha; and, knowing everything, he had advised
Danglars to write to Yanina. The answer known, he had
yielded to Albert's wish to be introduced to Haidee, and
allowed the conversation to turn on the death of Ali, and
had not opposed Haidee's recital (but having, doubtless,
warned the young girl, in the few Romaic words he spoke to
her, not to implicate Morcerf's father). Besides, had he not
begged of Morcerf not to mention his father's name before
Haidee? Lastly, he had taken Albert to Normandy when he knew
the final blow was near. There could be no doubt that all
had been calculated and previously arranged; Monte Cristo
then was in league with his father's enemies. Albert took
Beauchamp aside, and communicated these ideas to him.

"You are right," said the latter; "M. Danglars has only been
a secondary agent in this sad affair, and it is of M. de
Monte Cristo that you must demand an explanation." Albert
turned. "Sir," said he to Danglars, "understand that I do
not take a final leave of you; I must ascertain if your
insinuations are just, and am going now to inquire of the
Count of Monte Cristo." He bowed to the banker, and went out
with Beauchamp, without appearing to notice Cavalcanti.
Danglars accompanied him to the door, where he again assured
Albert that no motive of personal hatred had influenced him
against the Count of Morcerf.



Chapter 88
The Insult.

At the banker's door Beauchamp stopped Morcerf. "Listen,"
said he; "just now I told you it was of M. de Monte Cristo
you must demand an explanation."

"Yes; and we are going to his house."

"Reflect, Morcerf, one moment before you go."

"On what shall I reflect?"

"On the importance of the step you are taking."

"Is it more serious than going to M. Danglars?"

"Yes; M. Danglars is a money-lover, and those who love
money, you know, think too much of what they risk to be
easily induced to fight a duel. The other is, on the
contrary, to all appearance a true nobleman; but do you not
fear to find him a bully?"

"I only fear one thing; namely, to find a man who will not
fight."

"Do not be alarmed," said Beauchamp; "he will meet you. My
only fear is that he will be too strong for you."

"My friend," said Morcerf, with a sweet smile, "that is what
I wish. The happiest thing that could occur to me, would be
to die in my father's stead; that would save us all."

"Your mother would die of grief."

"My poor mother!" said Albert, passing his hand across his
eyes, "I know she would; but better so than die of shame."

"Are you quite decided, Albert?"

"Yes; let us go."

"But do you think we shall find the count at home?"

"He intended returning some hours after me, and doubtless he
is now at home." They ordered the driver to take them to No.
30 Champs-Elysees. Beauchamp wished to go in alone, but
Albert observed that as this was an unusual circumstance he
might be allowed to deviate from the usual etiquette in
affairs of honor. The cause which the young man espoused was
one so sacred that Beauchamp had only to comply with all his
wishes; he yielded and contented himself with following
Morcerf. Albert sprang from the porter's lodge to the steps.
He was received by Baptistin. The count had, indeed, just
arrived, but he was in his bath, and had forbidden that any
one should be admitted. "But after his bath?" asked Morcerf.

"My master will go to dinner."

"And after dinner?"

"He will sleep an hour."

"Then?"

"He is going to the opera."

"Are you sure of it?" asked Albert.

"Quite, sir; my master has ordered his horses at eight
o'clock precisely."

"Very good," replied Albert; "that is all I wished to know."
Then, turning towards Beauchamp, "If you have anything to
attend to, Beauchamp, do it directly; if you have any
appointment for this evening, defer it till tomorrow. I
depend on you to accompany me to the opera; and if you can,
bring Chateau-Renaud with you."

Beauchamp availed himself of Albert's permission, and left
him, promising to call for him at a quarter before eight. On
his return home, Albert expressed his wish to Franz Debray,
and Morrel, to see them at the opera that evening. Then he
went to see his mother, who since the events of the day
before had refused to see any one, and had kept her room. He
found her in bed, overwhelmed with grief at this public
humiliation. The sight of Albert produced the effect which
might naturally be expected on Mercedes; she pressed her
son's hand and sobbed aloud, but her tears relieved her.
Albert stood one moment speechless by the side of his
mother's bed. It was evident from his pale face and knit
brows that his resolution to revenge himself was growing
weaker. "My dear mother," said he, "do you know if M. de
Morcerf has any enemy?" Mercedes started; she noticed that
the young man did not say "my father." "My son," she said,
"persons in the count's situation have many secret enemies.
Those who are known are not the most dangerous."

"I know it, and appeal to your penetration. You are of so
superior a mind, nothing escapes you."

"Why do you say so?"

"Because, for instance, you noticed on the evening of the
ball we gave, that M. de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in
our house." Mercedes raised herself on her feverish arm. "M.
de Monte Cristo!" she exclaimed; "and how is he connected
with the question you asked me?"

"You know, mother, M. de Monte Cristo is almost an Oriental,
and it is customary with the Orientals to secure full
liberty for revenge by not eating or drinking in the houses
of their enemies."

"Do you say M. de Monte Cristo is our enemy?" replied
Mercedes, becoming paler than the sheet which covered her.
"Who told you so? Why, you are mad, Albert! M. de Monte
Cristo has only shown us kindness. M. de Monte Cristo saved
your life; you yourself presented him to us. Oh, I entreat
you, my son, if you had entertained such an idea, dispel it;
and my counsel to you -- nay, my prayer -- is to retain his
friendship."

"Mother," replied the young man, "you have especial reasons
for telling me to conciliate that man."

"I?" said Mercedes, blushing as rapidly as she had turned
pale, and again becoming paler than ever.

"Yes, doubtless; and is it not that he may never do us any
harm?" Mercedes shuddered, and, fixing on her son a
scrutinizing gaze, "You speak strangely," said she to
Albert, "and you appear to have some singular prejudices.
What has the count done? Three days since you were with him
in Normandy; only three days since we looked on him as our
best friend."

An ironical smile passed over Albert's lips. Mercedes saw it
and with the double instinct of woman and mother guessed
all; but as she was prudent and strong-minded she concealed
both her sorrows and her fears. Albert was silent; an
instant after, the countess resumed: "You came to inquire
after my health; I will candidly acknowledge that I am not
well. You should install yourself here, and cheer my
solitude. I do not wish to be left alone."

"Mother," said the young man, "you know how gladly I would
obey your wish, but an urgent and important affair obliges
me to leave you for the whole evening."

"Well," replied Mercedes, sighing, "go, Albert; I will not
make you a slave to your filial piety." Albert pretended he
did not hear, bowed to his mother, and quitted her. Scarcely
had he shut her door, when Mercedes called a confidential
servant, and ordered him to follow Albert wherever he should
go that evening, and to come and tell her immediately what
he observed. Then she rang for her lady's maid, and, weak as
she was, she dressed, in order to be ready for whatever
might happen. The footman's mission was an easy one. Albert
went to his room, and dressed with unusual care. At ten
minutes to eight Beauchamp arrived; he had seen
Chateau-Renaud, who had promised to be in the orchestra
before the curtain was raised. Both got into Albert's coupe;
and, as the young man had no reason to conceal where he was
going, he called aloud, "To the opera." In his impatience he
arrived before the beginning of the performance.

Chateau-Renaud was at his post; apprised by Beauchamp of the
circumstances, he required no explanation from Albert. The
conduct of the son in seeking to avenge his father was so
natural that Chateau-Renaud did not seek to dissuade him,
and was content with renewing his assurances of devotion.
Debray was not yet come, but Albert knew that he seldom lost
a scene at the opera. Albert wandered about the theatre
until the curtain was drawn up. He hoped to meet with M. de
Monte Cristo either in the lobby or on the stairs. The bell
summoned him to his seat, and he entered the orchestra with
Chateau-Renaud and Beauchamp. But his eyes scarcely quitted
the box between the columns, which remained obstinately
closed during the whole of the first act. At last, as Albert
was looking at his watch for about the hundredth time, at
the beginning of the second act the door opened, and Monte
Cristo entered, dressed in black, and, leaning over the
front of the box, looked around the pit. Morrel followed
him, and looked also for his sister and brother in-law; he
soon discovered them in another box, and kissed his hand to
them.

The count, in his survey of the pit, encountered a pale face
and threatening eyes, which evidently sought to gain his
attention. He recognized Albert, but thought it better not
to notice him, as he looked so angry and discomposed.
Without communicating his thoughts to his companion, he sat
down, drew out his opera-glass, and looked another way.
Although apparently not noticing Albert, he did not,
however, lose sight of him, and when the curtain fell at the
end of the second act, he saw him leave the orchestra with
his two friends. Then his head was seen passing at the back
of the boxes, and the count knew that the approaching storm
was intended to fall on him. He was at the moment conversing
cheerfully with Morrel, but he was well prepared for what
might happen. The door opened, and Monte Cristo, turning
round, saw Albert, pale and trembling, followed by Beauchamp
and Chateau-Renaud.

"Well," cried he, with that benevolent politeness which
distinguished his salutation from the common civilities of
the world, "my cavalier has attained his object.
Good-evening, M. de Morcerf." The countenance of this man,
who possessed such extraordinary control over his feelings,
expressed the most perfect cordiality. Morrel only then
recollected the letter he had received from the viscount, in
which, without assigning any reason, he begged him to go to
the opera, but he understood that something terrible was
brooding.

"We are not come here, sir, to exchange hypocritical
expressions of politeness, or false professions of
friendship," said Albert, "but to demand an explanation."
The young man's trembling voice was scarcely audible. "An
explanation at the opera?" said the count, with that calm
tone and penetrating eye which characterize the man who
knows his cause is good. "Little acquainted as I am with the
habits of Parisians, I should not have thought this the
place for such a demand."

"Still, if people will shut themselves up," said Albert,
"and cannot be seen because they are bathing, dining, or
asleep, we must avail ourselves of the opportunity whenever
they are to be seen."

"I am not difficult of access, sir; for yesterday, if my
memory does not deceive me, you were at my house."

"Yesterday I was at your house, sir," said the young man;
"because then I knew not who you were." In pronouncing these
words Albert had raised his voice so as to be heard by those
in the adjoining boxes and in the lobby. Thus the attention
of many was attracted by this altercation. "Where are you
come from, sir? You do not appear to be in the possession of
your senses."

"Provided I understand your perfidy, sir, and succeed in
making you understand that I will be revenged, I shall be
reasonable enough," said Albert furiously.

"I do not understand you, sir," replied Monte Cristo; "and
if I did, your tone is too high. I am at home here, and I
alone have a right to raise my voice above another's. Leave
the box, sir!" Monte Cristo pointed towards the door with
the most commanding dignity. "Ah, I shall know how to make
you leave your home!" replied Albert, clasping in his
convulsed grasp the glove, which Monte Cristo did not lose
sight of.

"Well, well," said Monte Cristo quietly, "I see you wish to
quarrel with me; but I would give you one piece of advice,
which you will do well to keep in mind. It is in poor taste
to make a display of a challenge. Display is not becoming to
every one, M. de Morcerf."

At this name a murmur of astonishment passed around the
group of spectators of this scene. They had talked of no one
but Morcerf the whole day. Albert understood the allusion in
a moment, and was about to throw his glove at the count,
when Morrel seized his hand, while Beauchamp and
Chateau-Renaud, fearing the scene would surpass the limits
of a challenge, held him back. But Monte Cristo, without
rising, and leaning forward in his chair, merely stretched
out his arm and, taking the damp, crushed glove from the
clinched hand of the young man, "Sir," said he in a solemn
tone, "I consider your glove thrown, and will return it to
you wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me or I will summon
my servants to throw you out at the door."

Wild, almost unconscious, and with eyes inflamed, Albert
stepped back, and Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo took
up his glass again as if nothing had happened; his face was
like marble, and his heart was like bronze. Morrel
whispered, "What have you done to him?"

"I? Nothing -- at least personally," said Monte Cristo.

"But there must be some cause for this strange scene."

"The Count of Morcerf's adventure exasperates the young
man."

"Have you anything to do with it?"

"It was through Haidee that the Chamber was informed of his
father's treason."

"Indeed?" said Morrel. "I had been told, but would not
credit it, that the Grecian slave I have seen with you here
in this very box was the daughter of Ali Pasha."

"It is true, nevertheless."

"Then," said Morrel, "I understand it all, and this scene
was premeditated."

"How so?"

"Yes. Albert wrote to request me to come to the opera,
doubtless that I might be a witness to the insult he meant
to offer you."

"Probably," said Monte Cristo with his imperturbable
tranquillity.

"But what shall you do with him?"

"With whom?"

"With Albert."

"What shall I do with Albert? As certainly, Maximilian, as I
now press your hand, I shall kill him before ten o'clock
to-morrow morning." Morrel, in his turn, took Monte Cristo's
hand in both of his, and he shuddered to feel how cold and
steady it was.

"Ah, Count," said he, "his father loves him so much!"

"Do not speak to me of that," said Monte Cristo, with the
first movement of anger he had betrayed; "I will make him
suffer." Morrel, amazed, let fall Monte Cristo's hand.
"Count, count!" said he.

"Dear Maximilian," interrupted the count, "listen how
adorably Duprez is singing that line, --

`O Mathilde! idole de mon ame!'

"I was the first to discover Duprez at Naples, and the first
to applaud him. Bravo, bravo!" Morrel saw it was useless to
say more, and refrained. The curtain, which had risen at the
close of the scene with Albert, again fell, and a rap was
heard at the door.

"Come in," said Monte Cristo with a voice that betrayed not
the least emotion; and immediately Beauchamp appeared.
"Good-evening, M. Beauchamp," said Monte Cristo, as if this
was the first time he had seen the journalist that evening;
"be seated."

Beauchamp bowed, and, sitting down, "Sir," said he, "I just
now accompanied M. de Morcerf, as you saw."

"And that means," replied Monte Cristo, laughing, "that you
had, probably, just dined together. I am happy to see, M.
Beauchamp, that you are more sober than he was."

"Sir," said M. Beauchamp, "Albert was wrong, I acknowledge,
to betray so much anger, and I come, on my own account, to
apologize for him. And having done so, entirely on my own
account, be it understood, I would add that I believe you
too gentlemanly to refuse giving him some explanation
concerning your connection with Yanina. Then I will add two
words about the young Greek girl." Monte Cristo motioned him
to be silent. "Come," said he, laughing, "there are all my
hopes about to be destroyed."

"How so?" asked Beauchamp.

"Doubtless you wish to make me appear a very eccentric
character. I am, in your opinion, a Lara, a Manfred, a Lord
Ruthven; then, just as I am arriving at the climax, you
defeat your own end, and seek to make an ordinary man of me.
You bring me down to your own level, and demand
explanations! Indeed, M. Beauchamp, it is quite laughable."

"Yet," replied Beauchamp haughtily, "there are occasions
when probity commands" --

"M. Beauchamp," interposed this strange man, "the Count of
Monte Cristo bows to none but the Count of Monte Cristo
himself. Say no more, I entreat you. I do what I please, M.
Beauchamp, and it is always well done."

"Sir," replied the young man, "honest men are not to be paid
with such coin. I require honorable guaranties."

"I am, sir, a living guaranty," replied Monte Cristo,
motionless, but with a threatening look; "we have both blood
in our veins which we wish to shed -- that is our mutual
guaranty. Tell the viscount so, and that to-morrow, before
ten o'clock, I shall see what color his is."

"Then I have only to make arrangements for the duel," said
Beauchamp.

"It is quite immaterial to me," said Monte Cristo, "and it
was very unnecessary to disturb me at the opera for such a
trifle. In France people fight with the sword or pistol, in
the colonies with the carbine, in Arabia with the dagger.
Tell your client that, although I am the insulted party, in
order to carry out my eccentricity, I leave him the choice
of arms, and will accept without discussion, without
dispute, anything, even combat by drawing lots, which is
always stupid, but with me different from other people, as I
am sure to gain."

"Sure to gain!" repeated Beauchamp, looking with amazement
at the count.

"Certainly," said Monte Cristo, slightly shrugging his
shoulders; "otherwise I would not fight with M. de Morcerf.
I shall kill him -- I cannot help it. Only by a single line
this evening at my house let me know the arms and the hour;
I do not like to be kept waiting."

"Pistols, then, at eight o'clock, in the Bois de Vincennes,"
said Beauchamp, quite disconcerted, not knowing if he was
dealing with an arrogant braggadocio or a supernatural
being.

"Very well, sir," said Monte Cristo. "Now all that is
settled, do let me see the performance, and tell your friend
Albert not to come any more this evening; he will hurt
himself with all his ill-chosen barbarisms: let him go home
and go to sleep." Beauchamp left the box, perfectly amazed.
"Now," said Monte Cristo, turning towards Morrel, "I may
depend upon you, may I not?"

"Certainly," said Morrel, "I am at your service, count;
still" --

"What?"

"It is desirable I should know the real cause."

"That is to say, you would rather not?"

"No."

"The young man himself is acting blindfolded, and knows not
the true cause, which is known only to God and to me; but I
give you my word, Morrel, that God, who does know it, will
be on our side."

"Enough," said Morrel; "who is your second witness?"

"I know no one in Paris, Morrel, on whom I could confer that
honor besides you and your brother Emmanuel. Do you think
Emmanuel would oblige me?"

"I will answer for him, count."

"Well? that is all I require. To-morrow morning, at seven
o'clock, you will be with me, will you not?"

"We will."

"Hush, the curtain is rising. Listen! I never lose a note of
this opera if I can avoid it; the music of William Tell is
so sweet."



Chapter 89
A Nocturnal Interview.

Monte Cristo waited, according to his usual custom, until
Duprez had sung his famous "Suivez-moi;" then he rose and
went out. Morrel took leave of him at the door, renewing his
promise to be with him the next morning at seven o'clock,
and to bring Emmanuel. Then he stepped into his coupe, calm
and smiling, and was at home in five minutes. No one who
knew the count could mistake his expression when, on
entering, he said, "Ali, bring me my pistols with the ivory
cross."

Ali brought the box to his master, who examined the weapons
with a solicitude very natural to a man who is about to
intrust his life to a little powder and shot. These were
pistols of an especial pattern, which Monte Cristo had had
made for target practice in his own room. A cap was
sufficient to drive out the bullet, and from the adjoining
room no one would have suspected that the count was, as
sportsmen would say, keeping his hand in. He was just taking
one up and looking for the point to aim at on a little iron
plate which served him as a target, when his study door
opened, and Baptistin entered. Before he had spoken a word,
the count saw in the next room a veiled woman, who had
followed closely after Baptistin, and now, seeing the count
with a pistol in his hand and swords on the table, rushed
in. Baptistin looked at his master, who made a sign to him,
and he went out, closing the door after him. "Who are you,
madame?" said the count to the veiled woman.

The stranger cast one look around her, to be certain that
they were quite alone; then bending as if she would have
knelt, and joining her hands, she said with an accent of
despair, "Edmond, you will not kill my son?" The count
retreated a step, uttered a slight exclamation, and let fall
the pistol he held. "What name did you pronounce then,
Madame de Morcerf?" said he. "Yours!" cried she, throwing
back her veil, -- "yours, which I alone, perhaps, have not
forgotten. Edmond, it is not Madame de Morcerf who is come
to you, it is Mercedes."

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

"Mercedes lives, sir, and she remembers, for she alone
recognized you when she saw you, and even before she saw
you, by your voice, Edmond, -- by the simple sound of your
voice; and from that moment she has followed your steps,
watched you, feared you, and she needs not to inquire what
hand has dealt the blow which now strikes M. de Morcerf."

"Fernand, do you mean?" replied Monte Cristo, with bitter
irony; "since we are recalling names, let us remember them
all." Monte Cristo had pronounced the name of Fernand with
such an expression of hatred that Mercedes felt a thrill of
horror run through every vein. "You see, Edmond, I am not
mistaken, and have cause to say, `Spare my son!'"

"And who told you, madame, that I have any hostile
intentions against your son?"

"No one, in truth; but a mother has twofold sight. I guessed
all; I followed him this evening to the opera, and,
concealed in a parquet box, have seen all."

"If you have seen all, madame, you know that the son of
Fernand has publicly insulted me," said Monte Cristo with
awful calmness.

"Oh, for pity's sake!"

"You have seen that he would have thrown his glove in my
face if Morrel, one of my friends, had not stopped him."

"Listen to me, my son has also guessed who you are, -- he
attributes his father's misfortunes to you."

"Madame, you are mistaken, they are not misfortunes, -- it
is a punishment. It is not I who strike M. de Morcerf; it is
providence which punishes him."

"And why do you represent providence?" cried Mercedes. "Why
do you remember when it forgets? What are Yanina and its
vizier to you, Edmond? What injury his Fernand Mondego done
you in betraying Ali Tepelini?"

"Ah, madame," replied Monte Cristo, "all this is an affair
between the French captain and the daughter of Vasiliki. It
does not concern me, you are right; and if I have sworn to
revenge myself, it is not on the French captain, or the
Count of Morcerf, but on the fisherman Fernand, the husband
of Mercedes the Catalane."

"Ah, sir!" cried the countess, "how terrible a vengeance for
a fault which fatality made me commit! -- for I am the only
culprit, Edmond, and if you owe revenge to any one, it is to
me, who had not fortitude to bear your absence and my
solitude."

"But," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "why was I absent? And why
were you alone?"

"Because you had been arrested, Edmond, and were a
prisoner."

"And why was I arrested? Why was I a prisoner?"

"I do not know," said Mercedes. "You do not, madame; at
least, I hope not. But I will tell you. I was arrested and
became a prisoner because, under the arbor of La Reserve,
the day before I was to marry you, a man named Danglars
wrote this letter, which the fisherman Fernand himself
posted." Monte Cristo went to a secretary, opened a drawer
by a spring, from which he took a paper which had lost its
original color, and the ink of which had become of a rusty
hue -- this he placed in the hands of Mercedes. It was
Danglars' letter to the king's attorney, which the Count of
Monte Cristo, disguised as a clerk from the house of Thomson
& French, had taken from the file against Edmond Dantes, on
the day he had paid the two hundred thousand francs to M. de
Boville. Mercedes read with terror the following lines: --

"The king's attorney is informed by a friend to the throne
and religion that one Edmond Dantes, second in command on
board the Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after
having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, is the bearer of
a letter from Murat to the usurper, and of another letter
from the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample
corroboration of this statement may be obtained by arresting
the above-mentioned Edmond Dantes, who either carries the
letter for Paris about with him, or has it at his father's
abode. Should it not be found in possession of either father
or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in the cabin
belonging to the said Dantes on board the Pharaon."

"How dreadful!" said Mercedes, passing her hand across her
brow, moist with perspiration; "and that letter" --

"I bought it for two hundred thousand francs, madame," said
Monte Cristo; "but that is a trifle, since it enables me to
justify myself to you."

"And the result of that letter" --

"You well know, madame, was my arrest; but you do not know
how long that arrest lasted. You do not know that I remained
for fourteen years within a quarter of a league of you, in a
dungeon in the Chateau d'If. You do not know that every day
of those fourteen years I renewed the vow of vengeance which
I had made the first day; and yet I was not aware that you
had married Fernand, my calumniator, and that my father had
died of hunger!"

"Can it be?" cried Mercedes, shuddering.

"That is what I heard on leaving my prison fourteen years
after I had entered it; and that is why, on account of the
living Mercedes and my deceased father, I have sworn to
revenge myself on Fernand, and -- I have revenged myself."

"And you are sure the unhappy Fernand did that?"

"I am satisfied, madame, that he did what I have told you;
besides, that is not much more odious than that a Frenchman
by adoption should pass over to the English; that a Spaniard
by birth should have fought against the Spaniards; that a
stipendiary of Ali should have betrayed and murdered Ali.
Compared with such things, what is the letter you have just
read? -- a lover's deception, which the woman who has
married that man ought certainly to forgive; but not so the
lover who was to have married her. Well, the French did not
avenge themselves on the traitor, the Spaniards did not
shoot the traitor, Ali in his tomb left the traitor
unpunished; but I, betrayed, sacrificed, buried, have risen
from my tomb, by the grace of God, to punish that man. He
sends me for that purpose, and here I am." The poor woman's
head and arms fell; her legs bent under her, and she fell on
her knees. "Forgive, Edmond, forgive for my sake, who love
you still!"

The dignity of the wife checked the fervor of the lover and
the mother. Her forehead almost touched the carpet, when the
count sprang forward and raised her. Then seated on a chair,
she looked at the manly countenance of Monte Cristo, on
which grief and hatred still impressed a threatening
expression. "Not crush that accursed race?" murmured he;
"abandon my purpose at the moment of its accomplishment?
Impossible, madame, impossible!"

"Edmond," said the poor mother, who tried every means, "when
I call you Edmond, why do you not call me Mercedes?"

"Mercedes!" repeated Monte Cristo; "Mercedes! Well yes, you
are right; that name has still its charms, and this is the
first time for a long period that I have pronounced it so
distinctly. Oh, Mercedes, I have uttered your name with the
sigh of melancholy, with the groan of sorrow, with the last
effort of despair; I have uttered it when frozen with cold,
crouched on the straw in my dungeon; I have uttered it,
consumed with heat, rolling on the stone floor of my prison.
Mercedes, I must revenge myself, for I suffered fourteen
years, -- fourteen years I wept, I cursed; now I tell you,
Mercedes, I must revenge myself."

The count, fearing to yield to the entreaties of her he had
so ardently loved, called his sufferings to the assistance
of his hatred. "Revenge yourself, then, Edmond," cried the
poor mother; "but let your vengeance fall on the culprits,
-- on him, on me, but not on my son!"

"It is written in the good book," said Monte Cristo, "that
the sins of the fathers shall fall upon their children to
the third and fourth generation. Since God himself dictated
those words to his prophet, why should I seek to make myself
better than God?"

"Edmond," continued Mercedes, with her arms extended towards
the count, "since I first knew you, I have adored your name,
have respected your memory. Edmond, my friend, do not compel
me to tarnish that noble and pure image reflected
incessantly on the mirror of my heart. Edmond, if you knew
all the prayers I have addressed to God for you while I
thought you were living and since I have thought you must be
dead! Yes, dead, alas! I imagined your dead body buried at
the foot of some gloomy tower, or cast to the bottom of a
pit by hateful jailers, and I wept! What could I do for you,
Edmond, besides pray and weep? Listen; for ten years I
dreamed each night the same dream. I had been told that you
had endeavored to escape; that you had taken the place of
another prisoner; that you had slipped into the winding
sheet of a dead body; that you had been thrown alive from
the top of the Chateau d'If, and that the cry you uttered as
you dashed upon the rocks first revealed to your jailers
that they were your murderers. Well, Edmond, I swear to you,
by the head of that son for whom I entreat your pity, --
Edmond, for ten years I saw every night every detail of that
frightful tragedy, and for ten years I heard every night the
cry which awoke me, shuddering and cold. And I, too, Edmond
-- oh! believe me -- guilty as I was -- oh, yes, I, too,
have suffered much!"

"Have you known what it is to have your father starve to
death in your absence?" cried Monte Cristo, thrusting his
hands into his hair; "have you seen the woman you loved
giving her hand to your rival, while you were perishing at
the bottom of a dungeon?"

"No," interrupted Mercedes, "but I have seen him whom I
loved on the point of murdering my son." Mercedes uttered
these words with such deep anguish, with an accent of such
intense despair, that Monte Cristo could not restrain a sob.
The lion was daunted; the avenger was conquered. "What do
you ask of me?" said he, -- "your son's life? Well, he shall
live!" Mercedes uttered a cry which made the tears start
from Monte Cristo's eyes; but these tears disappeared almost
instantaneously, for, doubtless, God had sent some angel to
collect them -- far more precious were they in his eyes than
the richest pearls of Guzerat and Ophir.

"Oh," said she, seizing the count's hand and raising it to
her lips; "oh, thank you, thank you, Edmond! Now you are
exactly what I dreamt you were, -- the man I always loved.
Oh, now I may say so!"

"So much the better," replied Monte Cristo; "as that poor
Edmond will not have long to be loved by you. Death is about
to return to the tomb, the phantom to retire in darkness."

"What do you say, Edmond?"

"I say, since you command me, Mercedes, I must die."

"Die? and why so? Who talks of dying? Whence have you these
ideas of death?"

"You do not suppose that, publicly outraged in the face of a
whole theatre, in the presence of your friends and those of
your son -- challenged by a boy who will glory in my
forgiveness as if it were a victory -- you do not suppose
that I can for one moment wish to live. What I most loved
after you, Mercedes, was myself, my dignity, and that
strength which rendered me superior to other men; that
strength was my life. With one word you have crushed it, and
I die."

"But the duel will not take place, Edmond, since you
forgive?"

"It will take place," said Monte Cristo, in a most solemn
tone; "but instead of your son's blood to stain the ground,
mine will flow." Mercedes shrieked, and sprang towards Monte
Cristo, but, suddenly stopping, "Edmond," said she, "there
is a God above us, since you live and since I have seen you
again; I trust to him from my heart. While waiting his
assistance I trust to your word; you have said that my son
should live, have you not?"

"Yes, madame, he shall live," said Monte Cristo, surprised
that without more emotion Mercedes had accepted the heroic
sacrifice he made for her. Mercedes extended her hand to the
count.

"Edmond," said she, and her eyes were wet with tears while
looking at him to whom she spoke, "how noble it is of you,
how great the action you have just performed, how sublime to
have taken pity on a poor woman who appealed to you with
every chance against her, Alas, I am grown old with grief
more than with years, and cannot now remind my Edmond by a
smile, or by a look, of that Mercedes whom he once spent so
many hours in contemplating. Ah, believe me, Edmond, as I
told you, I too have suffered much; I repeat, it is
melancholy to pass one's life without having one joy to
recall, without preserving a single hope; but that proves
that all is not yet over. No, it is not finished; I feel it
by what remains in my heart. Oh, I repeat it, Edmond; what
you have just done is beautiful -- it is grand; it is
sublime."

"Do you say so now, Mercedes? -- then what would you say if
you knew the extent of the sacrifice I make to you? Suppose
that the Supreme Being, after having created the world and
fertilized chaos, had paused in the work to spare an angel
the tears that might one day flow for mortal sins from her
immortal eyes; suppose that when everything was in readiness
and the moment had come for God to look upon his work and
see that it was good -- suppose he had snuffed out the sun
and tossed the world back into eternal night -- then -- even
then, Mercedes, you could not imagine what I lose in
sacrificing my life at this moment." Mercedes looked at the
count in a way which expressed at the same time her
astonishment, her admiration, and her gratitude. Monte
Cristo pressed his forehead on his burning hands, as if his
brain could no longer bear alone the weight of its thoughts.
"Edmond," said Mercedes, "I have but one word more to say to
you." The count smiled bitterly. "Edmond," continued she,
"you will see that if my face is pale, if my eyes are dull,
if my beauty is gone; if Mercedes, in short, no longer
resembles her former self in her features, you will see that
her heart is still the same. Adieu, then, Edmond; I have
nothing more to ask of heaven -- I have seen you again, and
have found you as noble and as great as formerly you were.
Adieu, Edmond, adieu, and thank you."

But the count did not answer. Mercedes opened the door of
the study and had disappeared before he had recovered from
the painful and profound revery into which his thwarted
vengeance had plunged him. The clock of the Invalides struck
one when the carriage which conveyed Madame de Morcerf away
rolled on the pavement of the Champs-Elysees, and made Monte
Cristo raise his head. "What a fool I was," said he, "not to
tear my heart out on the day when I resolved to avenge
myself!"



Chapter 90
The Meeting.

After Mercedes had left Monte Cristo, he fell into profound
gloom. Around him and within him the flight of thought
seemed to have stopped; his energetic mind slumbered, as the
body does after extreme fatigue. "What?" said he to himself,
while the lamp and the wax lights were nearly burnt out, and
the servants were waiting impatiently in the anteroom;
"what? this edifice which I have been so long preparing,
which I have reared with so much care and toil, is to be
crushed by a single touch, a word, a breath! Yes, this self,
of whom I thought so much, of whom I was so proud, who had
appeared so worthless in the dungeons of the Chateau d'If,
and whom I had succeeded in making so great, will be but a
lump of clay to-morrow. Alas, it is not the death of the
body I regret; for is not the destruction of the vital
principle, the repose to which everything is tending, to
which every unhappy being aspires, -- is not this the repose
of matter after which I so long sighed, and which I was
seeking to attain by the painful process of starvation when
Faria appeared in my dungeon? What is death for me? One step
farther into rest, -- two, perhaps, into silence.

"No, it is not existence, then, that I regret, but the ruin
of projects so slowly carried out, so laboriously framed.
Providence is now opposed to them, when I most thought it
would be propitious. It is not God's will that they should
be accomplished. This burden, almost as heavy as a world,
which I had raised, and I had thought to bear to the end,
was too great for my strength, and I was compelled to lay it
down in the middle of my career. Oh, shall I then, again
become a fatalist, whom fourteen years of despair and ten of
hope had rendered a believer in providence? And all this --
all this, because my heart, which I thought dead, was only
sleeping; because it has awakened and has begun to beat
again, because I have yielded to the pain of the emotion
excited in my breast by a woman's voice. Yet," continued the
count, becoming each moment more absorbed in the
anticipation of the dreadful sacrifice for the morrow, which
Mercedes had accepted, "yet, it is impossible that so
noble-minded a woman should thus through selfishness consent
to my death when I am in the prime of life and strength; it
is impossible that she can carry to such a point maternal
love, or rather delirium. There are virtues which become
crimes by exaggeration. No, she must have conceived some
pathetic scene; she will come and throw herself between us;
and what would be sublime here will there appear
ridiculous." The blush of pride mounted to the count's
forehead as this thought passed through his mind.
"Ridiculous?" repeated he; "and the ridicule will fall on
me. I ridiculous? No, I would rather die."

By thus exaggerating to his own mind the anticipated
ill-fortune of the next day, to which he had condemned
himself by promising Mercedes to spare her son, the count at
last exclaimed, "Folly, folly, folly! -- to carry generosity
so far as to put myself up as a mark for that young man to
aim at. He will never believe that my death was suicide; and
yet it is important for the honor of my memory, -- and this
surely is not vanity, but a justifiable pride, -- it is
important the world should know that I have consented, by my
free will, to stop my arm, already raised to strike, and
that with the arm which has been so powerful against others
I have struck myself. It must be; it shall be."

Seizing a pen, he drew a paper from a secret drawer in his
desk, and wrote at the bottom of the document (which was no
other than his will, made since his arrival in Paris) a sort
of codicil, clearly explaining the nature of his death. "I
do this, O my God," said he, with his eyes raised to heaven,
"as much for thy honor as for mine. I have during ten years
considered myself the agent of thy vengeance, and other
wretches, like Morcerf, Danglars, Villefort, even Morcerf
himself, must not imagine that chance has freed them from
their enemy. Let them know, on the contrary, that their
punishment, which had been decreed by providence, is only
delayed by my present determination, and although they
escape it in this world, it awaits them in another, and that
they are only exchanging time for eternity."

While he was thus agitated by gloomy uncertainties, --
wretched waking dreams of grief, -- the first rays of
morning pierced his windows, and shone upon the pale blue
paper on which he had just inscribed his justification of
providence. It was just five o'clock in the morning when a
slight noise like a stifled sigh reached his ear. He turned
his head, looked around him, and saw no one; but the sound
was repeated distinctly enough to convince him of its
reality.

He arose, and quietly opening the door of the drawing-room,
saw Haidee, who had fallen on a chair, with her arms hanging
down and her beautiful head thrown back. She had been
standing at the door, to prevent his going out without
seeing her, until sleep, which the young cannot resist, had
overpowered her frame, wearied as she was with watching. The
noise of the door did not awaken her, and Monte Cristo gazed
at her with affectionate regret. "She remembered that she
had a son," said he; "and I forgot I had a daughter." Then,
shaking his head sorrowfully, "Poor Haidee," said he; "she
wished to see me, to speak to me; she has feared or guessed
something. Oh, I cannot go without taking leave of her; I
cannot die without confiding her to some one." He quietly
regained his seat, and wrote under the other lines: --

"I bequeath to Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis, -- and
son of my former patron, Pierre Morrel, shipowner at
Marseilles, -- the sum of twenty millions, a part of which
may be offered to his sister Julia and brother-in-law
Emmanuel, if he does not fear this increase of fortune may
mar their happiness. These twenty millions are concealed in
my grotto at Monte Cristo, of which Bertuccio knows the
secret. If his heart is free, and he will marry Haidee, the
daughter of Ali Pasha of Yanina, whom I have brought up with
the love of a father, and who has shown the love and
tenderness of a daughter for me, he will thus accomplish my
last wish. This will has already constituted Haidee heiress
of the rest of my fortune, consisting of lands, funds in
England, Austria, and Holland, furniture in my different
palaces and houses, and which without the twenty millions
and the legacies to my servants, may still amount to sixty
millions."

He was finishing the last line when a cry behind him made
him start, and the pen fell from his hand. "Haidee," said
he. "did you read it?"

"Oh, my lord," said she, "why are you writing thus at such
an hour? Why are you bequeathing all your fortune to me? Are
you going to leave me?"

"I am going on a journey, dear child," said Monte Cristo,
with an expression of infinite tenderness and melancholy;
"and if any misfortune should happen to me"

The count stopped. "Well?" asked the young girl, with an
authoritative tone the count had never observed before, and
which startled him. "Well, if any misfortune happen to me,"
replied Monte Cristo, "I wish my daughter to be happy."
Haidee smiled sorrowfully, and shook her head. "Do you think
of dying, my lord?" said she.

"The wise man, my child, has said, `It is good to think of
death.'"

"Well, if you die," said she, "bequeath your fortune to
others, for if you die I shall require nothing;" and, taking
the paper, she tore it in four pieces, and threw it into the
middle of the room. Then, the effort having exhausted her
strength, she fell not asleep this time, but fainting on the
floor. The count leaned over her and raised her in his arms;
and seeing that sweet pale face, those lovely eyes closed,
that beautiful form motionless and to all appearance
lifeless, the idea occurred to him for the first time, that
perhaps she loved him otherwise than as a daughter loves a
father.

"Alas," murmured he, with intense suffering, "I might, then,
have been happy yet." Then he carried Haidee to her room,
resigned her to the care of her attendants, and returning to
his study, which he shut quickly this time, he again copied
the destroyed will. As he was finishing, the sound of a
cabriolet entering the yard was heard. Monte Cristo
approached the window, and saw Maximilian and Emmanuel
alight. "Good," said he; "it was time," -- and he sealed his
will with three seals. A moment afterwards he heard a noise
in the drawing-room, and went to open the door himself.
Morrel was there; he had come twenty minutes before the time
appointed. "I am perhaps come too soon, count," said he,
"but I frankly acknowledge that I have not closed my eyes
all night, nor has any one in my house. I need to see you
strong in your courageous assurance, to recover myself."
Monte Cristo could not resist this proof of affection; he
not only extended his hand to the young man, but flew to him
with open arms. "Morrel," said he, "it is a happy day for
me, to feel that I am beloved by such a man as you.
Good-morning, Emmanuel; you will come with me then,
Maximilian?"

"Did you doubt it?" said the young captain.

"But if I were wrong" --

"I watched you during the whole scene of that challenge
yesterday; I have been thinking of your firmness all night,
and I said to myself that justice must be on your side, or
man's countenance is no longer to be relied on."

"But, Morrel, Albert is your friend?"

"Simply an acquaintance, sir."

"You met on the same day you first saw me?"

"Yes, that is true; but I should not have recollected it if
you had not reminded me."

"Thank you, Morrel." Then ringing the bell once, "Look."
said he to Ali, who came immediately, "take that to my
solicitor. It is my will, Morrel. When I am dead, you will
go and examine it."

"What?" said Morrel, "you dead?"

"Yes; must I not be prepared for everything, dear friend?
But what did you do yesterday after you left me?"

"I went to Tortoni's, where, as I expected, I found
Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud. I own I was seeking them."

"Why, when all was arranged?"

"Listen, count; the affair is serious and unavoidable."

"Did you doubt it!"

"No; the offence was public, and every one is already
talking of it."

"Well?"

"Well, I hoped to get an exchange of arms, -- to substitute
the sword for the pistol; the pistol is blind."

"Have you succeeded?" asked Monte Cristo quickly, with an
imperceptible gleam of hope.

"No; for your skill with the sword is so well known."

"Ah? -- who has betrayed me?"

"The skilful swordsman whom you have conquered."

"And you failed?"

"They positively refused."

"Morrel," said the count, "have you ever seen me fire a
pistol?"

"Never."

"Well, we have time; look." Monte Cristo took the pistols he
held in his hand when Mercedes entered, and fixing an ace of
clubs against the iron plate, with four shots he
successively shot off the four sides of the club. At each
shot Morrel turned pale. He examined the bullets with which
Monte Cristo performed this dexterous feat, and saw that
they were no larger than buckshot. "It is astonishing," said
he. "Look, Emmanuel." Then turning towards Monte Cristo,
"Count," said he, "in the name of all that is dear to you, I
entreat you not to kill Albert! -- the unhappy youth has a
mother."

"You are right," said Monte Cristo; "and I have none." These
words were uttered in a tone which made Morrel shudder. "You
are the offended party, count."

"Doubtless; what does that imply?"

"That you will fire first."

"I fire first?"

"Oh, I obtained, or rather claimed that; we had conceded
enough for them to yield us that."

"And at what distance?"

"Twenty paces." A smile of terrible import passed over the
count's lips. "Morrel," said he, "do not forget what you
have just seen."

"The only chance for Albert's safety, then, will arise from
your emotion."

"I suffer from emotion?" said Monte Cristo.

"Or from your generosity, my friend; to so good a marksman
as you are, I may say what would appear absurd to another."

"What is that?"

"Break his arm -- wound him -- but do not kill him."

"I will tell you, Morrel," said the count, "that I do not
need entreating to spare the life of M. de Morcerf; he shall
be so well spared, that he will return quietly with his two
friends, while I" --

"And you?"

"That will be another thing; I shall be brought home."

"No, no," cried Maximilian, quite unable to restrain his
feelings.

"As I told you, my dear Morrel, M. de Morcerf will kill me."
Morrel looked at him in utter amazement. "But what has
happened, then, since last evening, count?"

"The same thing that happened to Brutus the night before the
battle of Philippi; I have seen a ghost."

"And that ghost" --

"Told me, Morrel, that I had lived long enough." Maximilian
and Emmanuel looked at each other. Monte Cristo drew out his
watch. "Let us go," said he; "it is five minutes past seven,
and the appointment was for eight o'clock." A carriage was
in readiness at the door. Monte Cristo stepped into it with
his two friends. He had stopped a moment in the passage to
listen at a door, and Maximilian and Emmanuel, who had
considerately passed forward a few steps, thought they heard
him answer by a sigh to a sob from within. As the clock
struck eight they drove up to the place of meeting. "We are
first," said Morrel, looking out of the window. "Excuse me,
sir," said Baptistin, who had followed his master with
indescribable terror, "but I think I see a carriage down
there under the trees."

Monte Cristo sprang lightly from the carriage, and offered
his hand to assist Emmanuel and Maximilian. The latter
retained the count's hand between his. "I like," said he,
"to feel a hand like this, when its owner relies on the
goodness of his cause."

"It seems to me," said Emmanuel, "that I see two young men
down there, who are evidently, waiting." Monte Cristo drew
Morrel a step or two behind his brother-in-law.
"Maximilian," said he, "are your affections disengaged?"
Morrel looked at Monte Cristo with astonishment. "I do not
seek your confidence, my dear friend. I only ask you a
simple question; answer it; -- that is all I require."

"I love a young girl, count."

"Do you love her much?"

"More than my life."

"Another hope defeated!" said the count. Then, with a sigh,
"Poor Haidee!" murmured he.

"To tell the truth, count, if I knew less of you, I should
think that you were less brave than you are."

"Because I sigh when thinking of some one I am leaving?
Come, Morrel, it is not like a soldier to be so bad a judge
of courage. Do I regret life? What is it to me, who have
passed twenty years between life and death? Moreover, do not
alarm yourself, Morrel; this weakness, if it is such, is
betrayed to you alone. I know the world is a drawing-room,
from which we must retire politely and honestly; that is,
with a bow, and our debts of honor paid."

"That is to the purpose. Have you brought your arms?"

"I? -- what for? I hope these gentlemen have theirs."

"I will inquire," said Morrel.

"Do; but make no treaty -- you understand me?"

"You need not fear." Morrel advanced towards Beauchamp and
Chateau-Renaud, who, seeing his intention, came to meet him.
The three young men bowed to each other courteously, if not
affably.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Morrel, "but I do not see M. de
Morcerf."

"He sent us word this morning," replied Chateau-Renaud,
"that he would meet us on the ground."

"Ah," said Morrel. Beauchamp pulled out his watch. "It is
only five minutes past eight," said he to Morrel; "there is
not much time lost yet."

"Oh, I made no allusion of that kind," replied Morrel.

"There is a carriage coming," said Chateau-Renaud. It
advanced rapidly along one of the avenues leading towards
the open space where they were assembled. "You are doubtless
provided with pistols, gentlemen? M. de Monte Cristo yields
his right of using his."

"We had anticipated this kindness on the part of the count,"
said Beauchamp, "and I have brought some weapons which I
bought eight or ten days since, thinking to want them on a
similar occasion. They are quite new, and have not yet been
used. Will you examine them."

"Oh, M. Beauchamp, if you assure me that M. de Morcerf does
not know these pistols, you may readily believe that your
word will be quite sufficient."

"Gentlemen," said Chateau-Renaud, "it is not Morcerf coming
in that carriage; -- faith, it is Franz and Debray!" The two
young men he announced were indeed approaching. "What chance
brings you here, gentlemen?" said Chateau-Renaud, shaking
hands with each of them. "Because," said Debray, "Albert
sent this morning to request us to come." Beauchamp and
Chateau-Renaud exchanged looks of astonishment. "I think I
understand his reason," said Morrel.

"What is it?"

"Yesterday afternoon I received a letter from M. de Morcerf,
begging me to attend the opera."

"And I," said Debray.

"And I also," said Franz.

"And we, too," added Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud.

"Having wished you all to witness the challenge, he now
wishes you to be present at the combat."

"Exactly so," said the young men; "you have probably guessed
right."

"But, after all these arrangements, he does not come
himself," said Chateau-Renaud. "Albert is ten minutes after
time."

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

"How imprudent," said Chateau-Renaud, "to come on horseback
to fight a duel with pistols, after all the instructions I
had given him."

"And besides," said Beauchamp, "with a collar above his
cravat, an open coat and white waistcoat! Why has he not
painted a spot upon his heart? -- it would have been more
simple." Meanwhile Albert had arrived within ten paces of
the group formed by the five young men. He jumped from his
horse, threw the bridle on his servant's arms, and joined
them. He was pale, and his eyes were red and swollen; it was
evident that he had not slept. A shade of melancholy gravity
overspread his countenance, which was not natural to him. "I
thank you, gentlemen," said he, "for having complied with my
request; I feel extremely grateful for this mark of
friendship." Morrel had stepped back as Morcerf approached,
and remained at a short distance. "And to you also, M.
Morrel, my thanks are due. Come, there cannot be too many."

"Sir," said Maximilian, "you are not perhaps aware that I am
M. de Monte Cristo's friend?"

"I was not sure, but I thought it might be so. So much the
better; the more honorable men there are here the better I
shall be satisfied."

"M. Morrel," said Chateau-Renaud, "will you apprise the
Count of Monte Cristo that M. de Morcerf is arrived, and we
are at his disposal?" Morrel was preparing to fulfil his
commission. Beauchamp had meanwhile drawn the box of pistols
from the carriage. "Stop, gentlemen," said Albert; "I have
two words to say to the Count of Monte Cristo."

"In private?" asked Morrel.

"No, sir; before all who are here."

Albert's witnesses looked at each other. Franz and Debray
exchanged some words in a whisper, and Morrel, rejoiced at
this unexpected incident, went to fetch the count, who was
walking in a retired path with Emmanuel. "What does he want
with me?" said Monte Cristo.

"I do not know, but he wishes to speak to you."

"Ah?" said Monte Cristo, "I trust he is not going to tempt
me by some fresh insult!"

"I do not think that such is his intention," said Morrel.

The count advanced, accompanied by Maximilian and Emmanuel.
His calm and serene look formed a singular contrast to
Albert's grief-stricken face, who approached also, followed
by the other four young men. When at three paces distant
from each other, Albert and the count stopped.

"Approach, gentlemen," said Albert; "I wish you not to lose
one word of what I am about to have the honor of saying to
the Count of Monte Cristo, for it must be repeated by you to
all who will listen to it, strange as it may appear to you."

"Proceed, sir," said the count.

"Sir," said Albert, at first with a tremulous voice, but
which gradually because firmer, "I reproached you with
exposing the conduct of M. de Morcerf in Epirus, for guilty
as I knew he was, I thought you had no right to punish him;
but I have since learned that you had that right. It is not
Fernand Mondego's treachery towards Ali Pasha which induces
me so readily to excuse you, but the treachery of the
fisherman Fernand towards you, and the almost unheard-of
miseries which were its consequences; and I say, and
proclaim it publicly, that you were justified in revenging
yourself on my father, and I, his son, thank you for not
using greater severity."

Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of the spectators of
this unexpected scene, it would not have surprised them more
than did Albert's declaration. As for Monte Cristo, his eyes
slowly rose towards heaven with an expression of infinite
gratitude. He could not understand how Albert's fiery
nature, of which he had seen so much among the Roman
bandits, had suddenly stooped to this humiliation. He
recognized the influence of Mercedes, and saw why her noble
heart had not opposed the sacrifice she knew beforehand
would be useless. "Now, sir," said Albert, "if you think my
apology sufficient, pray give me your hand. Next to the
merit of infallibility which you appear to possess, I rank
that of candidly acknowledging a fault. But this confession
concerns me only. I acted well as a man, but you have acted
better than man. An angel alone could have saved one of us
from death -- that angel came from heaven, if not to make us
friends (which, alas, fatality renders impossible), at least
to make us esteem each other."

Monte Cristo, with moistened eye, heaving breast, and lips
half open, extended to Albert a hand which the latter
pressed with a sentiment resembling respectful fear.
"Gentlemen," said he, "M. de Monte Cristo receives my
apology. I had acted hastily towards him. Hasty actions are
generally bad ones. Now my fault is repaired. I hope the
world will not call me cowardly for acting as my conscience
dictated. But if any one should entertain a false opinion of
me," added he, drawing himself up as if he would challenge
both friends and enemies, "I shall endeavor to correct his
mistake."

"What happened during the night?" asked Beauchamp of
Chateau-Renaud; "we appear to make a very sorry figure
here."

"In truth, what Albert has just done is either very
despicable or very noble," replied the baron.

"What can it mean?" said Debray to Franz. "The Count of
Monte Cristo acts dishonorably to M. de Morcerf, and is
justified by his son! Had I ten Yaninas in my family, I
should only consider myself the more bound to fight ten
times." As for Monte Cristo, his head was bent down, his
arms were powerless. Bowing under the weight of twenty-four
years' reminiscences, he thought not of Albert, of
Beauchamp, of Chateau-Renaud, or of any of that group; but
he thought of that courageous woman who had come to plead
for her son's life, to whom he had offered his, and who had
now saved it by the revelation of a dreadful family secret,
capable of destroying forever in that young man's heart
every feeling of filial piety.

"Providence still," murmured he; "now only am I fully
convinced of being the emissary of God!"



Chapter 91
Mother and Son.

The Count of Monte Cristo bowed to the five young men with a
melancholy and dignified smile, and got into his carriage
with Maximilian and Emmanuel. Albert, Beauchamp, and
Chateau-Renaud remained alone. Albert looked at his two
friends, not timidly, but in a way that appeared to ask
their opinion of what he had just done.

"Indeed, my dear friend," said Beauchamp first, who had
either the most feeling or the least dissimulation, "allow
me to congratulate you; this is a very unhoped-for
conclusion of a very disagreeable affair."

Albert remained silent and wrapped in thought.
Chateau-Renaud contented himself with tapping his boot with
his flexible cane. "Are we not going?" said he, after this
embarrassing silence. "When you please," replied Beauchamp;
"allow me only to compliment M. de Morcerf, who has given
proof to-day of rare chivalric generosity."

"Oh, yes," said Chateau-Renaud.

"It is magnificent," continued Beauchamp, "to be able to
exercise so much self-control!"

"Assuredly; as for me, I should have been incapable of it,"
said Chateau-Renaud, with most significant coolness.

"Gentlemen," interrupted Albert, "I think you did not
understand that something very serious had passed between M.
de Monte Cristo and myself."

"Possibly, possibly," said Beauchamp immediately; "but every
simpleton would not be able to understand your heroism, and
sooner or later you will find yourself compelled to explain
it to them more energetically than would be convenient to
your bodily health and the duration of your life. May I give
you a friendly counsel? Set out for Naples, the Hague, or
St. Petersburg -- calm countries, where the point of honor
is better understood than among our hot-headed Parisians.
Seek quietude and oblivion, so that you may return peaceably
to France after a few years. Am I not right, M. de
Chateau-Renaud?"

"That is quite my opinion," said the gentleman; "nothing
induces serious duels so much as a duel forsworn."

"Thank you, gentlemen," replied Albert, with a smile of
indifference; "I shall follow your advice -- not because you
give it, but because I had before intended to quit France. I
thank you equally for the service you have rendered me in
being my seconds. It is deeply engraved on my heart, and,
after what you have just said, I remember that only."
Chateau-Renaud and Beauchamp looked at each other; the
impression was the same on both of them, and the tone in
which Morcerf had just expressed his thanks was so
determined that the position would have become embarrassing
for all if the conversation had continued.

"Good-by, Albert," said Beauchamp suddenly, carelessly
extending his hand to the young man. The latter did not
appear to arouse from his lethargy; in fact, he did not
notice the offered hand. "Good-by," said Chateau-Renaud in
his turn, keeping his little cane in his left hand, and
saluting with his right. Albert's lips scarcely whispered
"Good-by," but his look was more explicit; it expressed a
whole poem of restrained anger, proud disdain, and generous
indignation. He preserved his melancholy and motionless
position for some time after his two friends had regained
their carriage; then suddenly unfastening his horse from the
little tree to which his servant had tied it, he mounted and
galloped off in the direction of Paris.

In a quarter of an hour he was entering the house in the Rue
du Helder. As he alighted, he thought he saw his father's
pale face behind the curtain of the count's bedroom. Albert
turned away his head with a sigh, and went to his own
apartments. He cast one lingering look on all the luxuries
which had rendered life so easy and so happy since his
infancy; he looked at the pictures, whose faces seemed to
smile, and the landscapes, which appeared painted in
brighter colors. Then he took away his mother's portrait,
with its oaken frame, leaving the gilt frame from which he
took it black and empty. Then he arranged all his beautiful
Turkish arms, his fine English guns, his Japanese china, his
cups mounted in silver, his artistic bronzes by Feucheres
and Barye; examined the cupboards, and placed the key in
each; threw into a drawer of his secretary, which he left
open, all the pocket-money he had about him, and with it the
thousand fancy jewels from his vases and his jewel-boxes;
then he made an exact inventory of everything, and placed it
in the most conspicuous part of the table, after putting
aside the books and papers which had collected there.

At the beginning of this work, his servant, notwithstanding
orders to the contrary, came to his room. "What do you
want?" asked he, with a more sorrowful than angry tone.
"Pardon me, sir," replied the valet; "you had forbidden me
to disturb you, but the Count of Morcerf has called me."

"Well!" said Albert.

"I did not like to go to him without first seeing you."

"Why?"

"Because the count is doubtless aware that I accompanied you
to the meeting this morning."

"It is probable," said Albert.

"And since he has sent for me, it is doubtless to question
me on what happened there. What must I answer?"

"The truth."

"Then I shall say the duel did not take place?"

"You will say I apologized to the Count of Monte Cristo.
Go."

The valet bowed and retired, and Albert returned to his
inventory. As he was finishing this work, the sound of
horses prancing in the yard, and the wheels of a carriage
shaking his window, attracted his attention. He approached
the window, and saw his father get into it, and drive away.
The door was scarcely closed when Albert bent his steps to
his mother's room; and, no one being there to announce him,
he advanced to her bed-chamber, and distressed by what he
saw and guessed, stopped for one moment at the door. As if
the same idea had animated these two beings, Mercedes was
doing the same in her apartments that he had just done in
his. Everything was in order, -- laces, dresses, jewels,
linen, money, all were arranged in the drawers, and the
countess was carefully collecting the keys. Albert saw all
these preparations and understood them, and exclaiming, "My
mother!" he threw his arms around her neck.

The artist who could have depicted the expression of these
two countenances would certainly have made of them a
beautiful picture. All these proofs of an energetic
resolution, which Albert did not fear on his own account,
alarmed him for his mother. "What are you doing?" asked he.

"What were you doing?" replied she.

"Oh, my mother!" exclaimed Albert, so overcome he could
scarcely speak; "it is not the same with you and me -- you
cannot have made the same resolution I have, for I have come
to warn you that I bid adieu to your house, and -- and to
you."

"I also," replied Mercedes, "am going, and I acknowledge I
had depended on your accompanying me; have I deceived
myself?"

"Mother," said Albert with firmness. "I cannot make you
share the fate I have planned for myself. I must live
henceforth without rank and fortune, and to begin this hard
apprenticeship I must borrow from a friend the loaf I shall
eat until I have earned one. So, my dear mother, I am going
at once to ask Franz to lend me the small sum I shall
require to supply my present wants."

"You, my poor child, suffer poverty and hunger? Oh, do not
say so; it will break my resolutions."

"But not mine, mother," replied Albert. "I am young and
strong; I believe I am courageous, and since yesterday I
have learned the power of will. Alas, my dear mother, some
have suffered so much, and yet live, and have raised a new
fortune on the ruin of all the promises of happiness which
heaven had made them -- on the fragments of all the hope
which God had given them! I have seen that, mother; I know
that from the gulf in which their enemies have plunged them
they have risen with so much vigor and glory that in their
turn they have ruled their former conquerors, and have
punished them. No. mother; from this moment I have done with
the past, and accept nothing from it -- not even a name,
because you can understand that your son cannot bear the
name of a man who ought to blush for it before another."

"Albert, my child," said Mercedes, "if I had a stronger
heart that is the counsel I would have given you; your
conscience has spoken when my voice became too weak; listen
to its dictates. You had friends, Albert; break off their
acquaintance. But do not despair; you have life before you,
my dear Albert, for you are yet scarcely twenty-two years
old; and as a pure heart like yours wants a spotless name,
take my father's -- it was Herrera. I am sure, my dear
Albert, whatever may be your career, you will soon render
that name illustrious. Then, my son, return to the world
still more brilliant because of your former sorrows; and if
I am wrong, still let me cherish these hopes, for I have no
future to look forward to. For me the grave opens when I
pass the threshold of this house."

"I will fulfil all your wishes, my dear mother," said the
young man. "Yes, I share your hopes; the anger of heaven
will not pursue us, since you are pure and I am innocent.
But, since our resolution is formed, let us act promptly. M.
de Morcerf went out about half an hour ago; the opportunity
in favorable to avoid an explanation."

"I am ready, my son," said Mercedes. Albert ran to fetch a
carriage. He recollected that there was a small furnished
house to let in the Rue de Saints Peres, where his mother
would find a humble but decent lodging, and thither he
intended conducting the countess. As the carriage stopped at
the door, and Albert was alighting, a man approached and
gave him a letter. Albert recognized the bearer. "From the
count," said Bertuccio. Albert took the letter, opened, and
read it, then looked round for Bertuccio, but he was gone.
He returned to Mercedes with tears in his eyes and heaving
breast, and without uttering a word he gave her the letter.
Mercedes read: --

Albert, -- While showing you that I have discovered your
plans, I hope also to convince you of my delicacy. You are
free, you leave the count's house, and you take your mother
to your home; but reflect, Albert, you owe her more than
your poor noble heart can pay her. Keep the struggle for
yourself, bear all the suffering, but spare her the trial of
poverty which must accompany your first efforts; for she
deserves not even the shadow of the misfortune which has
this day fallen on her, and providence is not willing that
the innocent should suffer for the guilty. I know you are
going to leave the Rue du Helder without taking anything
with you. Do not seek to know how I discovered it; I know it
-- that is sufficient.

Now, listen, Albert. Twenty-four years ago I returned, proud
and joyful, to my country. I had a betrothed, Albert, a
lovely girl whom I adored, and I was bringing to my
betrothed a hundred and fifty louis, painfully amassed by
ceaseless toil. This money was for her; I destined it for
her, and, knowing the treachery of the sea I buried our
treasure in the little garden of the house my father lived
in at Marseilles, on the Allees de Meillan. Your mother,
Albert, knows that poor house well. A short time since I
passed through Marseilles, and went to see the old place,
which revived so many painful recollections; and in the
evening I took a spade and dug in the corner of the garden
where I had concealed my treasure. The iron box was there --
no one had touched it -- under a beautiful fig-tree my
father had planted the day I was born, which overshadowed
the spot. Well, Albert, this money, which was formerly
designed to promote the comfort and tranquillity of the
woman I adored, may now, through strange and painful
circumstances, be devoted to the same purpose. Oh, feel for
me, who could offer millions to that poor woman, but who
return her only the piece of black bread forgotten under my
poor roof since the day I was torn from her I loved. You are
a generous man, Albert, but perhaps you may be blinded by
pride or resentment; if you refuse me, if you ask another
for what I have a right to offer you, I will say it is
ungenerous of you to refuse the life of your mother at the
hands of a man whose father was allowed by your father to
die in all the horrors of poverty and despair.

Albert stood pale and motionless to hear what his mother
would decide after she had finished reading this letter.
Mercedes turned her eyes with an ineffable look towards
heaven. "I accept it," said she; "he has a right to pay the
dowry, which I shall take with me to some convent!" Putting
the letter in her bosom, she took her son's arm, and with a
firmer step than she even herself expected she went
down-stairs.



Chapter 92
The Suicide.

Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also returned to town with
Emmanuel and Maximilian. Their return was cheerful. Emmanuel
did not conceal his joy at the peaceful termination of the
affair, and was loud in his expressions of delight. Morrel,
in a corner of the carriage, allowed his brother-in-law's
gayety to expend itself in words, while he felt equal inward
joy, which, however, betrayed itself only in his
countenance. At the Barriere du Trone they met Bertuccio,
who was waiting there, motionless as a sentinel at his post.
Monte Cristo put his head out of the window, exchanged a few
words with him in a low tone, and the steward disappeared.
"Count," said Emmanuel, when they were at the end of the
Place Royale, "put me down at my door, that my wife may not
have a single moment of needless anxiety on my account or
yours."

"If it were not ridiculous to make a display of our triumph,
I would invite the count to our house; besides that, he
doubtless has some trembling heart to comfort. So we will
take leave of our friend, and let him hasten home."

"Stop a moment," said Monte Cristo; "do not let me lose both
my companions. Return, Emmanuel, to your charming wife, and
present my best compliments to her; and do you, Morrel,
accompany me to the Champs Elysees."

"Willingly," said Maximilian; "particularly as I have
business in that quarter."

"Shall we wait breakfast for you?" asked Emmanuel.

"No," replied the young man. The door was closed, and the
carriage proceeded. "See what good fortune I brought you!"
said Morrel, when he was alone with the count. "Have you not
thought so?"

"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "for that reason I wished to keep
you near me."

"It is miraculous!" continued Morrel, answering his own
thoughts.

"What?" said Monte Cristo.

"What has just happened."

"Yes," said the Count, "you are right -- it is miraculous."

"For Albert is brave," resumed Morrel.

"Very brave," said Monte Cristo; "I have seen him sleep with
a sword suspended over his head."

"And I know he has fought two duels," said Morrel. "How can
you reconcile that with his conduct this morning?"

"All owing to your influence," replied Monte Cristo,
smiling.

"It is well for Albert he is not in the army," said Morrel.

"Why?"

"An apology on the ground!" said the young captain, shaking
his head.

"Come," said the count mildly, "do not entertain the
prejudices of ordinary men, Morrel! Acknowledge, that if
Albert is brave, he cannot be a coward; he must then have
had some reason for acting as he did this morning, and
confess that his conduct is more heroic than otherwise."

"Doubtless, doubtless," said Morrel; "but I shall say, like
the Spaniard, `He has not been so brave to-day as he was
yesterday.'"

"You will breakfast with me, will you not, Morrel?" said the
count, to turn the conversation.

"No; I must leave you at ten o'clock."

"Your engagement was for breakfast, then?" said the count.

Morrel smiled, and shook his head. "Still you must breakfast
somewhere."

"But if I am not hungry?" said the young man.

"Oh," said the count, "I only know two things which destroy
the appetite, -- grief -- and as I am happy to see you very
cheerful, it is not that -- and love. Now after what you
told me this morning of your heart, I may believe" --

"Well, count," replied Morrel gayly, "I will not dispute
it."

"But you will not make me your confidant, Maximilian?" said
the count, in a tone which showed how gladly he would have
been admitted to the secret.

"I showed you this morning that I had a heart, did I not,
count?" Monte Cristo only answered by extending his hand to
the young man. "Well," continued the latter, "since that
heart is no longer with you in the Bois de Vincennes, it is
elsewhere, and I must go and find it."

"Go," said the count deliberately; "go, dear friend, but
promise me if you meet with any obstacle to remember that I
have some power in this world, that I am happy to use that
power in the behalf of those I love, and that I love you,
Morrel."

"I will remember it," said the young man, "as selfish
children recollect their parents when they want their aid.
When I need your assistance, and the moment arrives, I will
come to you, count."

"Well, I rely upon your promise. Good-by, then."

"Good-by, till we meet again." They had arrived in the
Champs Elysees. Monte Cristo opened the carriage-door,
Morrel sprang out on the pavement, Bertuccio was waiting on
the steps. Morrel disappeared down the Avenue de Marigny,
and Monte Cristo hastened to join Bertuccio.

"Well?" asked he.

"She is going to leave her house," said the steward.

"And her son?"

"Florentin, his valet, thinks he is going to do the same."

"Come this way." Monte Cristo took Bertuccio into his study,
wrote the letter we have seen, and gave it to the steward.
"Go," said he quickly. "But first, let Haidee be informed
that I have returned."

"Here I am," said the young girl, who at the sound of the
carriage had run down-stairs and whose face was radiant with
joy at seeing the count return safely. Bertuccio left. Every
transport of a daughter finding a father, all the delight of
a mistress seeing an adored lover, were felt by Haidee
during the first moments of this meeting, which she had so
eagerly expected. Doubtless, although less evident, Monte
Cristo's joy was not less intense. Joy to hearts which have
suffered long is like the dew on the ground after a long
drought; both the heart and the ground absorb that
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 Mercedes in
the world, and he might yet be happy. His eye, elate with
happiness, was reading eagerly the tearful gaze of Haidee,
when suddenly the door opened. The count knit his brow. "M.
de Morcerf!" said Baptistin, as if that name sufficed for
his excuse. In fact, the count's face brightened.

"Which," asked he, "the viscount or the count?"

"The count."

"Oh," exclaimed Haidee, "is it not yet over?"

"I know not if it is finished, my beloved child," said Monte
Cristo, taking the young girl's hands; "but I do know you
have nothing more to fear."

"But it is the wretched" --

"That man cannot injure me, Haidee," said Monte Cristo; "it
was his son alone that there was cause to fear."

"And what I have suffered," said the young girl, "you shall
never know, my lord." Monte Cristo smiled. "By my father's
tomb," said he, extending his hand over the head of the
young girl, "I swear to you, Haidee, that if any misfortune
happens, it will not be to me."

"I believe you, my lord, as implicitly as if God had spoken
to me," said the young girl, presenting her forehead to him.
Monte Cristo pressed on that pure beautiful forehead a kiss
which made two hearts throb at once, the one violently, the
other heavily. "Oh," murmured the count, "shall I then be
permitted to love again? Ask M. de Morcerf into the
drawing-room," said he to Baptistin, while he led the
beautiful Greek girl to a private staircase.

We must explain this visit, which although expected by Monte
Cristo, is unexpected to our readers. While Mercedes, as we
have said, was making a similar inventory of her property to
Albert's, while she was arranging her jewels, shutting her
drawers, collecting her keys, to leave everything in perfect
order, she did not perceive a pale and sinister face at a
glass door which threw light into the passage, from which
everything could be both seen and heard. He who was thus
looking, without being heard or seen, probably heard and saw
all that passed in Madame de Morcerf's apartments. From that
glass door the pale-faced man went to the count's bedroom
and raised with a constricted hand the curtain of a window
overlooking the court-yard. He remained there ten minutes,
motionless and dumb, listening to the beating of his own
heart. For him those ten minutes were very long. It was then
Albert, returning from his meeting with the count, perceived
his father watching for his arrival behind a curtain, and
turned aside. The count's eye expanded; he knew Albert had
insulted the count dreadfully, and that in every country in
the world such an insult would lead to a deadly duel. Albert
returned safely -- then the count was revenged.

An indescribable ray of joy illumined that wretched
countenance like the last ray of the sun before it
disappears behind the clouds which bear the aspect, not of a
downy couch, but of a tomb. But as we have said, he waited
in vain for his son to come to his apartment with the
account of his triumph. He easily understood why his son did
not come to see him before he went to avenge his father's
honor; but when that was done, why did not his son come and
throw himself into his arms?

It was then, when the count could not see Albert, that he
sent for his servant, who he knew was authorized not to
conceal anything from him. Ten minutes afterwards, General
Morcerf was seen on the steps in a black coat with a
military collar, black pantaloons, and black gloves. He had
apparently given previous orders, for as he reached the
bottom step his carriage came from the coach-house ready for
him. The valet threw into the carriage his military cloak,
in which two swords were wrapped, and, shutting the door, he
took his seat by the side of the coachman. The coachman
stooped down for his orders.

"To the Champs Elysees," said the general; "the Count of
Monte Cristo's. Hurry!" The horses bounded beneath the whip;
and in five minutes they stopped before the count's door. M.
de Morcerf opened the door himself, and as the carriage
rolled away he passed up the walk, rang, and entered the
open door with his servant.

A moment afterwards, Baptistin announced the Count of
Morcerf to Monte Cristo, and the latter, leading Haidee
aside, ordered that Morcerf be asked into the drawing-room.
The general was pacing the room the third time when, in
turning, he perceived Monte Cristo at the door. "Ah, it is
M. de Morcerf," said Monte Cristo quietly; "I thought I had
not heard aright."

"Yes, it is I," said the count, whom a frightful contraction
of the lips prevented from articulating freely.

"May I know the cause which procures me the pleasure of
seeing M. de Morcerf so early?"

"Had you not a meeting with my son this morning?" asked the
general.

"I had," replied the count.

"And I know my son had good reasons to wish to fight with
you, and to endeavor to kill you."

"Yes, sir, he had very good ones; but you see that in spite
of them he has not killed me, and did not even fight."

"Yet he considered you the cause of his father's dishonor,
the cause of the fearful ruin which has fallen on my house."

"It is true, sir," said Monte Cristo with his dreadful
calmness; "a secondary cause, but not the principal."

"Doubtless you made, then, some apology or explanation?"

"I explained nothing, and it is he who apologized to me."

"But to what do you attribute this conduct?"

"To the conviction, probably, that there was one more guilty
than I."

"And who was that?"

"His father."

"That may be," said the count, turning pale; "but you know
the guilty do not like to find themselves convicted."

"I know it, and I expected this result."

"You expected my son would be a coward?" cried the count.

"M. Albert de Morcerf is no coward!" said Monte Cristo.

"A man who holds a sword in his hand, and sees a mortal
enemy within reach of that sword, and does not fight, is a
coward! Why is he not here that I may tell him so?"

"Sir." replied Monte Cristo coldly, "I did not expect that
you had come here to relate to me your little family
affairs. Go and tell M. Albert that, and he may know what to
answer you."

"Oh, no, no," said the general, smiling faintly, "I did not
come for that purpose; you are right. I came to tell you
that I also look upon you as my enemy. I came to tell you
that I hate you instinctively; that it seems as if I had
always known you, and always hated you; and, in short, since
the young people of the present day will not fight, it
remains for us to do so. Do you think so, sir?"

"Certainly. And when I told you I had foreseen the result,
it is the honor of your visit I alluded to."

"So much the better. Are you prepared?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know that we shall fight till one of us is dead," said
the general, whose teeth were clinched with rage. "Until one
of us dies," repeated Monte Cristo, moving his head slightly
up and down.

"Let us start, then; we need no witnesses."

"Very true," said Monte Cristo; "it is unnecessary, we know
each other so well!"

"On the contrary," said the count, "we know so little of
each other."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo, with the same indomitable
coolness; "let us see. Are you not the soldier Fernand who
deserted on the eve of the battle of Waterloo? Are you not
the Lieutenant Fernand who served as guide and spy to the
French army in Spain? Are you not the Captain Fernand who
betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And have
not all these Fernands, united, made Lieutenant-General, the
Count of Morcerf, peer of France?"

"Oh," cried the general, as it branded with a hot iron,
"wretch, -- to reproach me with my shame when about,
perhaps, to kill me! No, I did not say I was a stranger to
you. I know well, demon, that you have penetrated into the
darkness of the past, and that you have read, by the light
of what torch I know not, every page of my life; but perhaps
I may be more honorable in my shame than you under your
pompous coverings. No -- no, I am aware you know me; but I
know you only as an adventurer sewn up in gold and
jewellery. You call yourself in Paris the Count of Monte
Cristo; in Italy, Sinbad the Sailor; in Malta, I forget
what. But it is your real name I want to know, in the midst
of your hundred names, that I may pronounce it when we meet
to fight, at the moment when I plunge my sword through your
heart."

The Count of Monte Cristo turned dreadfully pale; his eye
seemed to burn with a devouring fire. He leaped towards a
dressing-room near his bedroom, and in less than a moment,
tearing off his cravat, his coat and waistcoat, he put on a
sailor's jacket and hat, from beneath which rolled his long
black hair. He returned thus, formidable and implacable,
advancing with his arms crossed on his breast, towards the
general, who could not understand why he had disappeared,
but who on seeing him again, and feeling his teeth chatter
and his legs sink under him, drew back, and only stopped
when he found a table to support his clinched hand.
"Fernand," cried he, "of my hundred names I need only tell
you one, to overwhelm you! But you guess it now, do you not?
-- or, rather, you remember it? For, notwithstanding all my
sorrows and my tortures, I show you to-day a face which the
happiness of revenge makes young again -- a face you must
often have seen in your dreams since your marriage with
Mercedes, my betrothed!"

The general, with his head thrown back, hands extended, gaze
fixed, looked silently at this dreadful apparition; then
seeking the wall to support him, he glided along close to it
until he reached the door, through which he went out
backwards, uttering this single mournful, lamentable,
distressing cry, -- "Edmond Dantes!" Then, with sighs which
were unlike any human sound, he dragged himself to the door,
reeled across the court-yard, and falling into the arms of
his valet, he said in a voice scarcely intelligible, --
"Home, home." The fresh air and the shame he felt at having
exposed himself before his servants, partly recalled his
senses, but the ride was short, and as he drew near his
house all his wretchedness revived. He stopped at a short
distance from the house and alighted.

The door was wide open, a hackney-coach was standing in the
middle of the yard -- a strange sight before so noble a
mansion; the count looked at it with terror, but without
daring to inquire its meaning, he rushed towards his
apartment. Two persons were coming down the stairs; he had
only time to creep into an alcove to avoid them. It was
Mercedes leaning on her son's arm and leaving the house.
They passed close by the unhappy being, who, concealed
behind the damask curtain, almost felt Mercedes dress brush
past him, and his son's warm breath, pronouncing these
words, -- "Courage, mother! Come, this is no longer our
home!" The words died away, the steps were lost in the
distance. The general drew himself up, clinging to the
curtain; he uttered the most dreadful sob which ever escaped
from the bosom of a father abandoned at the same time by his
wife and son. He soon heard the clatter of the iron step of
the hackney-coach, then the coachman's voice, and then the
rolling of the heavy vehicle shook the windows. He darted to
his bedroom to see once more all he had loved in the world;
but the hackney-coach drove on and the head of neither
Mercedes nor her son appeared at the window to take a last
look at the house or the deserted father and husband. And at
the very moment when the wheels of that coach crossed the
gateway a report was heard, and a thick smoke escaped
through one of the panes of the window, which was broken by
the explosion.



Chapter 93
Valentine.

We may easily conceive where Morrel's appointment was. On
leaving Monte Cristo he walked slowly towards Villefort's;
we say slowly, for Morrel had more than half an hour to
spare to go five hundred steps, but he had hastened to take
leave of Monte Cristo because he wished to be alone with his
thoughts. He knew his time well -- the hour when Valentine
was giving Noirtier his breakfast, and was sure not to be
disturbed in the performance of this pious duty. Noirtier
and Valentine had given him leave to go twice a week, and he
was now availing himself of that permission. He had arrived;
Valentine was expecting him. Uneasy and almost crazed, she
seized his hand and led him to her grandfather. This
uneasiness, amounting almost to frenzy, arose from the
report Morcerf's adventure had made in the world, for the
affair at the opera was generally known. No one at
Villefort's doubted that a duel would ensue from it.
Valentine, with her woman's instinct, guessed that Morrel
would be Monte Cristo's second, and from the young man's
well-known courage and his great affection for the count,
she feared that he would not content himself with the
passive part assigned to him. We may easily understand how
eagerly the particulars were asked for, given, and received;
and Morrel could read an indescribable joy in the eyes of
his beloved, when she knew that the termination of this
affair was as happy as it was unexpected.

"Now," said Valentine, motioning to Morrel to sit down near
her grandfather, while she took her seat on his footstool,
-- "now let us talk about our own affairs. You know,
Maximilian, grandpapa once thought of leaving this house,
and taking an apartment away from M. de Villefort's."

"Yes," said Maximilian, "I recollect the project, of which I
highly approved."

"Well," said Valentine, "you may approve again, for
grandpapa is again thinking of it."

"Bravo," said Maximilian.

"And do you know," said Valentine, "what reason grandpapa
gives for leaving this house." Noirtier looked at Valentine
to impose silence, but she did not notice him; her looks,
her eyes, her smile, were all for Morrel.

"Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier's reason," answered Morrel,
"I can readily believe it to be a good one."

"An excellent one," said Valentine. "He pretends the air of
the Faubourg St. Honore is not good for me."

"Indeed?" said Morrel; "in that M. Noirtier may be right;
you have not seemed to be well for the last fortnight."

"Not very," said Valentine. "And grandpapa has become my
physician, and I have the greatest confidence in him,
because he knows everything."

"Do you then really suffer?" asked Morrel quickly.

"Oh, it must not be called suffering; I feel a general
uneasiness, that is all. I have lost my appetite, and my
stomach feels as if it were struggling to get accustomed to
something." Noirtier did not lose a word of what Valentine
said. "And what treatment do you adopt for this singular
complaint?"

"A very simple one," said Valentine. "I swallow every
morning a spoonful of the mixture prepared for my
grandfather. When I say one spoonful, I began by one -- now
I take four. Grandpapa says it is a panacea." Valentine
smiled, but it was evident that she suffered.

Maximilian, in his devotedness, gazed silently at her. She
was very beautiful, but her usual pallor had increased; her
eyes were more brilliant than ever, and her hands, which
were generally white like mother-of-pearl, now more
resembled wax, to which time was adding a yellowish hue.
From Valentine the young man looked towards Noirtier. The
latter watched with strange and deep interest the young
girl, absorbed by her affection, and he also, like Morrel,
followed those traces of inward suffering which was so
little perceptible to a common observer that they escaped
the notice of every one but the grandfather and the lover.

"But," said Morrel, "I thought this mixture, of which you
now take four spoonfuls, was prepared for M. Noirtier?"

"I know it is very bitter," said Valentine; "so bitter, that
all I drink afterwards appears to have the same taste."
Noirtier looked inquiringly at his granddaughter. "Yes,
grandpapa," said Valentine; "it is so. Just now, before I
came down to you, I drank a glass of sugared water; I left
half, because it seemed so bitter." Noirtier turned pale,
and made a sign that he wished to speak. Valentine rose to
fetch the dictionary. Noirtier watched her with evident
anguish. In fact, the blood was rushing to the young girl's
head already, her cheeks were becoming red. "Oh," cried she,
without losing any of her cheerfulness, "this is singular! I
can't see! Did the sun shine in my eyes?" And she leaned
against the window.

"The sun is not shining," said Morrel, more alarmed by
Noirtier's expression than by Valentine's indisposition. He
ran towards her. The young girl smiled. "Cheer up," said she
to Noirtier. "Do not be alarmed, Maximilian; it is nothing,
and has already passed away. But listen! Do I not hear a
carriage in the court-yard?" She opened Noirtier's door, ran
to a window in the passage, and returned hastily. "Yes,"
said she, "it is Madame Danglars and her daughter, who have
come to call on us. Good-by; -- I must run away, for they
would send here for me, or, rather, farewell till I see you
again. Stay with grandpapa, Maximilian; I promise you not to
persuade them to stay."

Morrel watched her as she left the room; he heard her ascend
the little staircase which led both to Madame de Villefort's
apartments and to hers. As soon as she was gone, Noirtier
made a sign to Morrel to take the dictionary. Morrel obeyed;
guided by Valentine, he had learned how to understand the
old man quickly. Accustomed, however, as he was to the work,
he had to repeat most of the letters of the alphabet and to
find every word in the dictionary, so that it was ten
minutes before the thought of the old man was translated by
these words, "Fetch the glass of water and the decanter from
Valentine's room."

Morrel rang immediately for the servant who had taken
Barrois's situation, and in Noirtier's name gave that order.
The servant soon returned. The decanter and the glass were
completely empty. Noirtier made a sign that he wished to
speak. "Why are the glass and decanter empty?" asked he;
"Valentine said she only drank half the glassful." The
translation of this new question occupied another five
minutes. "I do not know," said the servant, "but the
housemaid is in Mademoiselle Valentine's room: perhaps she
has emptied them."

"Ask her," said Morrel, translating Noirtier's thought this
time by his look. The servant went out, but returned almost
immediately. "Mademoiselle Valentine passed through the room
to go to Madame de Villefort's," said he; "and in passing,
as she was thirsty, she drank what remained in the glass; as
for the decanter, Master Edward had emptied that to make a
pond for his ducks." Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as
a gambler does who stakes his all on one stroke. From that
moment the old man's eyes were fixed on the door, and did
not quit it.

It was indeed Madame Danglars and her daughter whom
Valentine had seen; they had been ushered into Madame de
Villefort's room, who had said she would receive them there.
That is why Valentine passed through her room, which was on
a level with Valentine's, and only separated from it by
Edward's. The two ladies entered the drawing-room with that
sort of official stiffness which preludes a formal
communication. Among worldly people manner is contagious.
Madame de Villefort received them with equal solemnity.
Valentine entered at this moment, and the formalities were
resumed. "My dear friend," said the baroness, while the two
young people were shaking hands, "I and Eugenie are come to
be the first to announce to you the approaching marriage of
my daughter with Prince Cavalcanti." Danglars kept up the
title of prince. The popular banker found that it answered
better than count. "Allow me to present you my sincere
congratulations," replied Madame de Villefort. "Prince
Cavalcanti appears to be a young man of rare qualities."

"Listen," said the baroness, smiling; "speaking to you as a
friend I can say that the prince does not yet appear all he
will be. He has about him a little of that foreign manner by
which French persons recognize, at first sight, the Italian
or German nobleman. Besides, he gives evidence of great
kindness of disposition, much keenness of wit, and as to
suitability, M. Danglars assures me that his fortune is
majestic -- that is his word."

"And then," said Eugenie, while turning over the leaves of
Madame de Villefort's album, "add that you have taken a
great fancy to the young man."

"And," said Madame de Villefort, "I need not ask you if you
share that fancy."

"I?" replied Eugenie with her usual candor. "Oh, not the
least in the world, madame! My wish was not to confine
myself to domestic cares, or the caprices of any man, but to
be an artist, and consequently free in heart, in person, and
in thought." Eugenie pronounced these words with so firm a
tone that the color mounted to Valentine's cheeks. The timid
girl could not understand that vigorous nature which
appeared to have none of the timidities of woman.

"At any rate," said she, "since I am to be married whether I
will or not, I ought to be thankful to providence for having
released me from my engagement with M. Albert de Morcerf, or
I should this day have been the wife of a dishonored man."

"It is true," said the baroness, with that strange
simplicity sometimes met with among fashionable ladies, and
of which plebeian intercourse can never entirely deprive
them, -- "it is very true that had not the Morcerfs
hesitated, my daughter would have married Monsieur Albert.
The general depended much on it; he even came to force M.
Danglars. We have had a narrow escape."

"But," said Valentine, timidly, "does all the father's shame
revert upon the son? Monsieur Albert appears to me quite
innocent of the treason charged against the general."

"Excuse me," said the implacable young girl, "Monsieur
Albert claims and well deserves his share. It appears that
after having challenged M. de Monte Cristo at the Opera
yesterday, he apologized on the ground to-day."

"Impossible," said Madame de Villefort.

"Ah, my dear friend," said Madame Danglars, with the same
simplicity we before noticed, "it is a fact. I heard it from
M. Debray, who was present at the explanation." Valentine
also knew the truth, but she did not answer. A single word
had reminded her that Morrel was expecting her in M.
Noirtier's room. Deeply engaged with a sort of inward
contemplation, Valentine had ceased for a moment to join in
the conversation. She would, indeed, have found it
impossible to repeat what had been said the last few
minutes, when suddenly Madame Danglars' hand, pressed on her
arm, aroused her from her lethargy.

"What is it?" said she, starting at Madame Danglars, touch
as she would have done from an electric shock. "It is, my
dear Valentine," said the baroness, "that you are,
doubtless, suffering."

"I?" said the young girl, passing her hand across her
burning forehead.

"Yes, look at yourself in that glass; you have turned pale
and then red successively, three or four times in one
minute."

"Indeed," cried Eugenie, "you are very pale!"

"Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so for many days."
Artless as she was, the young girl knew that this was an
opportunity to leave, and besides, Madame de Villefort came
to her assistance. "Retire, Valentine," said she; "you are
really suffering, and these ladies will excuse you; drink a
glass of pure water, it will restore you." Valentine kissed
Eugenie, bowed to Madame Danglars, who had already risen to
take her leave, and went out. "That poor child," said Madame
de Villefort when Valentine was gone, "she makes me very
uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she had some
serious illness."

Meanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of excitement which she
could not quite understand, had crossed Edward's room
without noticing some trick of the child, and through her
own had reached the little staircase. She was within three
steps of the bottom; she already heard Morrel's voice, when
suddenly a cloud passed over her eyes, her stiffened foot
missed the step, her hands had no power to hold the
baluster, and falling against the wall she lost her balance
wholly and toppled to the floor. Morrel bounded to the door,
opened it, and found Valentine stretched out at the bottom
of the stairs. Quick as a flash, he raised her in his arms
and placed her in a chair. Valentine opened her eyes.

"Oh, what a clumsy thing I am," said she with feverish
volubility; "I don't know my way. I forgot there were three
more steps before the landing."

"You have hurt yourself, perhaps," said Morrel. "What can I
do for you, Valentine?" Valentine looked around her; she saw
the deepest terror depicted in Noirtier's eyes. "Don't
worry, dear grandpapa," said she, endeavoring to smile; "it
is nothing -- it is nothing; I was giddy, that is all."

"Another attack of giddiness," said Morrel, clasping his
hands. "Oh, attend to it, Valentine, I entreat you."

"But no," said Valentine, -- "no, I tell you it is all past,
and it was nothing. Now, let me tell you some news; Eugenie
is to be married in a week, and in three days there is to be
a grand feast, a betrothal festival. We are all invited, my
father, Madame de Villefort, and I -- at least, I understood
it so."

"When will it be our turn to think of these things? Oh,
Valentine, you who have so much influence over your
grandpapa, try to make him answer -- Soon."

"And do you," said Valentine, "depend on me to stimulate the
tardiness and arouse the memory of grandpapa?"

"Yes," cried Morrel, "make haste. So long as you are not
mine, Valentine, I shall always think I may lose you."

"Oh," replied Valentine with a convulsive movement, "oh,
indeed, Maximilian, you are too timid for an officer, for a
soldier who, they say, never knows fear. Ah, ha, ha!" she
burst into a forced and melancholy laugh, her arms stiffened
and twisted, her head fell back on her chair, and she
remained motionless. The cry of terror which was stopped on
Noirtier's lips, seemed to start from his eyes. Morrel
understood it; he knew he must call assistance. The young
man rang the bell violently; the housemaid who had been in
Mademoiselle Valentine's room, and the servant who had
replaced Barrois, ran in at the same moment. Valentine was
so pale, so cold, so inanimate that without listening to
what was said to them they were seized with the fear which
pervaded that house, and they flew into the passage crying
for help. Madame Danglars and Eugenie were going out at that
moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance. "I told you
so!" exclaimed Madame de Villefort. "Poor child!"



Chapter 94
Maximilian's Avowal.

At the same moment M. de Villefort's voice was heard calling
from his study, "What is the matter?" Morrel looked at
Noirtier who had recovered his self-command, and with a
glance indicated the closet where once before under somewhat
similar circumstances, he had taken refuge. He had only time
to get his hat and throw himself breathless into the closet
when the procureur's footstep was heard in the passage.
Villefort sprang into the room, ran to Valentine, and took
her in his arms. "A physician, a physician, -- M.
d'Avrigny!" cried Villefort; "or rather I will go for him
myself." He flew from the apartment, and Morrel at the same
moment darted out at the other door. He had been struck to
the heart by a frightful recollection -- the conversation he
had heard between the doctor and Villefort the night of
Madame de Saint-Meran's death, recurred to him; these
symptoms, to a less alarming extent, were the same which had
preceded the death of Barrois. At the same time Monte
Cristo's voice seemed to resound in his ear with the words
he had heard only two hours before, "Whatever you want,
Morrel, come to me; I have great power." More rapidly than
thought, he darted down the Rue Matignon, and thence to the
Avenue des Champs Elysees.

Meanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a hired cabriolet at M.
d'Avrigny's door. He rang so violently that the porter was
alarmed. Villefort ran up-stairs without saying a word. The
porter knew him, and let him pass, only calling to him, "In
his study, Monsieur Procureur -- in his study!" Villefort
pushed, or rather forced, the door open. "Ah," said the
doctor, "is it you?"

"Yes," said Villefort, closing the door after him, "it is I,
who am come in my turn to ask you if we are quite alone.
Doctor, my house is accursed!"

"What?" said the latter with apparent coolness, but with
deep emotion, "have you another invalid?"

"Yes, doctor," cried Villefort, clutching his hair, "yes!"

D'Avrigny's look implied, "I told you it would be so." Then
he slowly uttered these words, "Who is now dying in your
house? What new victim is going to accuse you of weakness
before God?" A mournful sob burst from Villefort's heart; he
approached the doctor, and seizing his arm, -- "Valentine,"
said he, "it is Valentine's turn!"

"Your daughter?" cried d'Avrigny with grief and surprise.

"You see you were deceived," murmured the magistrate; "come
and see her, and on her bed of agony entreat her pardon for
having suspected her."

"Each time you have applied to me," said the doctor, "it has
been too late; still I will go. But let us make haste, sir;
with the enemies you have to do with there is no time to be
lost."

"Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not have to reproach me
with weakness. This time I will know the assassin, and will
pursue him."

"Let us try first to save the victim before we think of
revenging her," said d'Avrigny. "Come." The same cabriolet
which had brought Villefort took them back at full speed,
and at this moment Morrel rapped at Monte Cristo's door. The
count was in his study and was reading with an angry look
something which Bertuccio had brought in haste. Hearing the
name of Morrel, who had left him only two hours before, the
count raised his head, arose, and sprang to meet him. "What
is the matter, Maximilian?" asked he; "you are pale, and the
perspiration rolls from your forehead." Morrel fell into a
chair. "Yes," said he, "I came quickly; I wanted to speak to
you."

"Are all your family well?" asked the count, with an
affectionate benevolence, whose sincerity no one could for a
moment doubt.

"Thank you, count -- thank you," said the young man,
evidently embarrassed how to begin the conversation; "yes,
every one in my family is well."

"So much the better; yet you have something to tell me?"
replied the count with increased anxiety.

"Yes," said Morrel, "it is true; I have but now left a house
where death has just entered, to run to you."

"Are you then come from M. de Morcerf's?" asked Monte
Cristo.

"No," said Morrel; "is some one dead in his house?"

"The general has just blown his brains out," replied Monte
Cristo with great coolness.

"Oh, what a dreadful event!" cried Maximilian.

"Not for the countess, or for Albert," said Monte Cristo; "a
dead father or husband is better than a dishonored one, --
blood washes out shame."

"Poor countess," said Maximilian, "I pity her very much; she
is so noble a woman!"

"Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for believe me he is the
worthy son of the countess. But let us return to yourself.
You have hastened to me -- can I have the happiness of being
useful to you?"

"Yes, I need your help: that is I thought like a madman that
you could lend me your assistance in a case where God alone
can succor me."

"Tell me what it is," replied Monte Cristo.

"Oh," said Morrel, "I know not, indeed, if I may reveal this
secret to mortal ears, but fatality impels me, necessity
constrains me, count" -- Morrel hesitated. "Do you think I
love you?" said Monte Cristo, taking the young man's hand
affectionately in his.

"Oh, you encourage me, and something tells me there,"
placing his hand on his heart, "that I ought to have no
secret from you."

"You are right, Morrel; God is speaking to your heart, and
your heart speaks to you. Tell me what it says."

"Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after
some one you know?"

"I am at your service, and still more my servants."

"Oh, I cannot live if she is not better."

"Shall I ring for Baptistin?"

"No, I will go and speak to him myself." Morrel went out,
called Baptistin, and whispered a few words to him. The
valet ran directly. "Well, have you sent?" asked Monte
Cristo, seeing Morrel return.

"Yes, and now I shall be more calm."

"You know I am waiting," said Monte Cristo, smiling.

"Yes, and I will tell you. One evening I was in a garden; a
clump of trees concealed me; no one suspected I was there.
Two persons passed near me -- allow me to conceal their
names for the present; they were speaking in an undertone,
and yet I was so interested in what they said that I did not
lose a single word."

"This is a gloomy introduction, if I may judge from your
pallor and shuddering, Morrel."

"Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Some one had just died in
the house to which that garden belonged. One of the persons
whose conversation I overheard was the master of the house;
the other, the physician. The former was confiding to the
latter his grief and fear, for it was the second time within
a month that death had suddenly and unexpectedly entered
that house which was apparently destined to destruction by
some exterminating angel, as an object of God's anger."

"Ah, indeed?" said Monte Cristo, looking earnestly at the
young man, and by an imperceptible movement turning his
chair, so that he remained in the shade while the light fell
full on Maximilian's face. "Yes," continued Morrel, "death
had entered that house twice within one month."

"And what did the doctor answer?" asked Monte Cristo.

"He replied -- he replied, that the death was not a natural
one, and must be attributed" --

"To what?"

"To poison."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo with a slight cough which in
moments of extreme emotion helped him to disguise a blush,
or his pallor, or the intense interest with which he
listened; "indeed, Maximilian, did you hear that?"

"Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and the doctor added that
if another death occurred in a similar way he must appeal to
justice." Monte Cristo listened, or appeared to do so, with
the greatest calmness. "Well," said Maximilian, "death came
a third time, and neither the master of the house nor the
doctor said a word. Death is now, perhaps, striking a fourth
blow. Count, what am I bound to do, being in possession of
this secret?"

"My dear friend," said Monte Cristo, "you appear to be
relating an adventure which we all know by heart. I know the
house where you heard it, or one very similar to it; a house
with a garden, a master, a physician, and where there have
been three unexpected and sudden deaths. Well, I have not
intercepted your confidence, and yet I know all that as well
as you, and I have no conscientious scruples. No, it does
not concern me. You say an exterminating angel appears to
have devoted that house to God's anger -- well, who says
your supposition is not reality? Do not notice things which
those whose interest it is to see them pass over. If it is
God's justice, instead of his anger, which is walking
through that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let
his justice accomplish its purpose." Morrel shuddered. There
was something mournful, solemn, and terrible in the count's
manner. "Besides," continued he, in so changed a tone that
no one would have supposed it was the same person speaking
-- "besides, who says that it will begin again?"

"It has returned, count," exclaimed Morrel; "that is why I
hastened to you."

"Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you wish me, for
instance, to give information to the procureur?" Monte
Cristo uttered the last words with so much meaning that
Morrel, starting up, cried out, "You know of whom I speak,
count, do you not?"

"Perfectly well, my good friend; and I will prove it to you
by putting the dots to the `i,' or rather by naming the
persons. You were walking one evening in M. de Villefort's
garden; from what you relate, I suppose it to have been the
evening of Madame de Saint-Meran's death. You heard M. de
Villefort talking to M. d'Avrigny about the death of M. de
Saint-Meran, and that no less surprising, of the countess.
M. d'Avrigny said he believed they both proceeded from
poison; and you, honest man, have ever since been asking
your heart and sounding your conscience to know if you ought
to expose or conceal this secret. Why do you torment them?
`Conscience, what hast thou to do with me?' as Sterne said.
My dear fellow, let them sleep on, if they are asleep; let
them grow pale in their drowsiness, if they are disposed to
do so, and pray do you remain in peace, who have no remorse
to disturb you." Deep grief was depicted on Morrel's
features; he seized Monte Cristo's hand. "But it is
beginning again, I say!"

"Well," said the Count, astonished at his perseverance,
which he could not understand, and looking still more
earnestly at Maximilian, "let it begin again, -- it is like
the house of the Atreidae;* God has condemned them, and they
must submit to their punishment. They will all disappear,
like the fabrics children build with cards, and which fall,
one by one, under the breath of their builder, even if there
are two hundred of them. Three months since it was M. de
Saint-Meran; Madame de Saint-Meran two months since; the
other day it was Barrois; to-day, the old Noirtier, or young
Valentine."

* In the old Greek legend the Atreidae, or children of
Atreus, were doomed to punishment because of the abominable
crime of their father. The Agamemnon of Aeschylus is based
on this legend.

"You knew it?" cried Morrel, in such a paroxysm of terror
that Monte Cristo started, -- he whom the falling heavens
would have found unmoved; "you knew it, and said nothing?"

"And what is it to me?" replied Monte Cristo, shrugging his
shoulders; "do I know those people? and must I lose the one
to save the other? Faith, no, for between the culprit and
the victim I have no choice."

"But I," cried Morrel, groaning with sorrow, "I love her!"

"You love? -- whom?" cried Monte Cristo, starting to his
feet, and seizing the two hands which Morrel was raising
towards heaven.

"I love most fondly -- I love madly -- I love as a man who
would give his life-blood to spare her a tear -- I love
Valentine de Villefort, who is being murdered at this
moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and I ask God and
you how I can save her?" Monte Cristo uttered a cry which
those only can conceive who have heard the roar of a wounded
lion. "Unhappy man," cried he, wringing his hands in his
turn; "you love Valentine, -- that daughter of an accursed
race!" Never had Morrel witnessed such an expression --
never had so terrible an eye flashed before his face --
never had the genius of terror he had so often seen, either
on the battle-field or in the murderous nights of Algeria,
shaken around him more dreadful fire. He drew back
terrified.

As for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his
eyes as if dazzled by internal light. In a moment he
restrained himself so powerfully that the tempestuous
heaving of his breast subsided, as turbulent and foaming
waves yield to the sun's genial influence when the cloud has
passed. This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted
about twenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face.
"See," said he, "my dear friend, how God punishes the most
thoughtless and unfeeling men for their indifference, by
presenting dreadful scenes to their view. I, who was looking
on, an eager and curious spectator, -- I, who was watching
the working of this mournful tragedy, -- I, who like a
wicked angel was laughing at the evil men committed
protected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich
and powerful), I am in my turn bitten by the serpent whose
tortuous course I was watching, and bitten to the heart!"

Morrel groaned. "Come, come," continued the count,
"complaints are unavailing, be a man, be strong, be full of
hope, for I am here and will watch over you." Morrel shook
his head sorrowfully. "I tell you to hope. Do you understand
me?" cried Monte Cristo. "Remember that I never uttered a
falsehood and am never deceived. It is twelve o'clock,
Maximilian; thank heaven that you came at noon rather than
in the evening, or to-morrow morning. Listen, Morrel -- it
is noon; if Valentine is not now dead, she will not die."

"How so?" cried Morrel, "when I left her dying?" Monte
Cristo pressed his hands to his forehead. What was passing
in that brain, so loaded with dreadful secrets? What does
the angel of light or the angel of darkness say to that
mind, at once implacable and generous? God only knows.

Monte Cristo raised his head once more, and this time he was
calm as a child awaking from its sleep. "Maximilian," said
he, "return home. I command you not to stir -- attempt
nothing, not to let your countenance betray a thought, and I
will send you tidings. Go."

"Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that coolness. Have you,
then, power against death? Are you superhuman? Are you an
angel?" And the young man, who had never shrunk from danger,
shrank before Monte Cristo with indescribable terror. But
Monte Cristo looked at him with so melancholy and sweet a
smile, that Maximilian felt the tears filling his eyes. "I
can do much for you, my friend," replied the count. "Go; I
must be alone." Morrel, subdued by the extraordinary
ascendancy Monte Cristo exercised over everything around
him, did not endeavor to resist it. He pressed the count's
hand and left. He stopped one moment at the door for
Baptistin, whom he saw in the Rue Matignon, and who was
running.

Meanwhile, Villefort and d'Avrigny had made all possible
haste, Valentine had not revived from her fainting fit on
their arrival, and the doctor examined the invalid with all
the care the circumstances demanded, and with an interest
which the knowledge of the secret intensified twofold.
Villefort, closely watching his countenance and his lips,
awaited the result of the examination. Noirtier, paler than
even the young girl, more eager than Villefort for the
decision, was watching also intently and affectionately. At
last d'Avrigny slowly uttered these words: -- "she is still
alive!"

"Still?" cried Villefort; "oh, doctor, what a dreadful word
is that."

"Yes," said the physician, "I repeat it; she is still alive,
and I am astonished at it."

"But is she safe?" asked the father.

"Yes, since she lives." At that moment d'Avrigny's glance
met Noirtier's eye. It glistened with such extraordinary
joy, so rich and full of thought, that the physician was
struck. He placed the young girl again on the chair, -- her
lips were scarcely discernible, they were so pale and white,
as well as her whole face, -- and remained motionless,
looking at Noirtier, who appeared to anticipate and commend
all he did. "Sir," said d'Avrigny to Villefort, "call
Mademoiselle Valentine's maid, if you please." Villefort
went himself to find her; and d'Avrigny approached Noirtier.
"Have you something to tell me?" asked he. The old man
winked his eyes expressively, which we may remember was his
only way of expressing his approval.

"Privately?"

"Yes."

"Well, I will remain with you." At this moment Villefort
returned, followed by the lady's maid; and after her came
Madame de Villefort.

"What is the matter, then, with this dear child? she has
just left me, and she complained of being indisposed, but I
did not think seriously of it." The young woman with tears
in her eyes and every mark of affection of a true mother,
approached Valentine and took her hand. D'Avrigny continued
to look at Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old man dilate
and become round, his cheeks turn pale and tremble; the
perspiration stood in drops upon his forehead. "Ah," said
he, involuntarily following Noirtier's eyes, which were
fixed on Madame de Villefort, who repeated, -- "This poor
child would be better in bed. Come, Fanny, we will put her
to bed." M. d'Avrigny, who saw that would be a means of his
remaining alone with Noirtier, expressed his opinion that it
was the best thing that could be done; but he forbade that
anything should be given to her except what he ordered.

They carried Valentine away; she had revived, but could
scarcely move or speak, so shaken was her frame by the
attack. She had, however, just power to give one parting
look to her grandfather, who in losing her seemed to be
resigning his very soul. D'Avrigny followed the invalid,
wrote a prescription, ordered Villefort to take a cabriolet,
go in person to a chemist's to get the prescribed medicine,
bring it himself, and wait for him in his daughter's room.
Then, having renewed his injunction not to give Valentine
anything, he went down again to Noirtier, shut the doors
carefully, and after convincing himself that no one was
listening, -- "Do you," said he, "know anything of this
young lady's illness?"

"Yes," said the old man.

"We have no time to lose; I will question, and do you answer
me." Noirtier made a sign that he was ready to answer. "Did
you anticipate the accident which has happened to your
granddaughter?"

"Yes." D'Avrigny reflected a moment; then approaching
Noirtier, -- "Pardon what I am going to say," added he, "but
no indication should be neglected in this terrible
situation. Did you see poor Barrois die?" Noirtier raised
his eyes to heaven. "Do you know of what he died!" asked
d'Avrigny, placing his hand on Noirtier's shoulder.

"Yes," replied the old man.

"Do you think he died a natural death?" A sort of smile was
discernible on the motionless lips of Noirtier.

"Then you have thought that Barrois was poisoned?"

"Yes."

"Do you think the poison he fell a victim to was intended
for him?"

"No."

"Do you think the same hand which unintentionally struck
Barrois has now attacked Valentine?"

"Yes."

"Then will she die too?" asked d'Avrigny, fixing his
penetrating gaze on Noirtier. He watched the effect of this
question on the old man. "No," replied he with an air of
triumph which would have puzzled the most clever diviner.
"Then you hope?" said d'Avrigny, with surprise.

"Yes."

"What do you hope?" The old man made him understand with his
eyes that he could not answer. "Ah, yes, it is true,"
murmured d'Avrigny. Then, turning to Noirtier, -- "Do you
hope the assassin will be tried?"

"No."

"Then you hope the poison will take no effect on Valentine?"

"Yes."

"It is no news to you," added d'Avrigny, "to tell you that
an attempt has been made to poison her?" The old man made a
sign that he entertained no doubt upon the subject. "Then
how do you hope Valentine will escape?" Noirtier kept his
eyes steadfastly fixed on the same spot. D'Avrigny followed
the direction and saw that they were fixed on a bottle
containing the mixture which he took every morning. "Ah,
indeed?" said d'Avrigny, struck with a sudden thought, "has
it occurred to you" -- Noirtier did not let him finish.
"Yes," said he. "To prepare her system to resist poison?"

"Yes."

"By accustoming her by degrees" --

"Yes, yes, yes," said Noirtier, delighted to be understood.

"Of course. I had told you that there was brucine in the
mixture I give you."

"Yes."

"And by accustoming her to that poison, you have endeavored
to neutralize the effect of a similar poison?" Noirtier's
joy continued. "And you have succeeded," exclaimed
d'Avrigny. "Without that precaution Valentine would have
died before assistance could have been procured. The dose
has been excessive, but she has only been shaken by it; and
this time, at any rate, Valentine will not die." A
superhuman joy expanded the old man's eyes, which were
raised towards heaven with an expression of infinite
gratitude. At this moment Villefort returned. "Here,
doctor," said he, "is what you sent me for."

"Was this prepared in your presence?"

"Yes," replied the procureur.

"Have you not let it go out of your hands?"

"No." D'Avrigny took the bottle, poured some drops of the
mixture it contained in the hollow of his hand, and
swallowed them. "Well," said he, "let us go to Valentine; I
will give instructions to every one, and you, M. de
Villefort, will yourself see that no one deviates from
them."

At the moment when d'Avrigny was returning to Valentine's
room, accompanied by Villefort, an Italian priest, of
serious demeanor and calm and firm tone, hired for his use
the house adjoining the hotel of M. de Villefort. No one
knew how the three former tenants of that house left it.
About two hours afterwards its foundation was reported to be
unsafe; but the report did not prevent the new occupant
establishing himself there with his modest furniture the
same day at five o'clock. The lease was drawn up for three,
six, or nine years by the new tenant, who, according to the
rule of the proprietor, paid six months in advance. This new
tenant, who, as we have said, was an Italian, was called Il
Signor Giacomo Busoni. Workmen were immediately called in,
and that same night the passengers at the end of the
faubourg saw with surprise that carpenters and masons were
occupied in repairing the lower part of the tottering house.



Chapter 95
Father and Daughter.

We saw in a preceding chapter how Madame Danglars went
formally to announce to Madame de Villefort the approaching
marriage of Eugenie Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This
announcement, which implied or appeared to imply, the
approval of all the persons concerned in this momentous
affair, had been preceded by a scene to which our readers
must be admitted. We beg them to take one step backward, and
to transport themselves, the morning of that day of great
catastrophes, into the showy, gilded salon we have before
shown them, and which was the pride of its owner, Baron
Danglars. In this room, at about ten o'clock in the morning,
the banker himself had been walking to and fro for some
minutes thoughtfully and in evident uneasiness, watching
both doors, and listening to every sound. When his patience
was exhausted, he called his valet. "Etienne," said he, "see
why Mademoiselle Eugenie has asked me to meet her in the
drawing-room, and why she makes me wait so long."

Having given this vent to his ill-humor, the baron became
more calm; Mademoiselle Danglars had that morning requested
an interview with her father, and had fixed on the gilded
drawing-room as the spot. The singularity of this step, and
above all its formality, had not a little surprised the
banker, who had immediately obeyed his daughter by repairing
first to the drawing-room. Etienne soon returned from his
errand. "Mademoiselle's lady's maid says, sir, that
mademoiselle is finishing her toilette, and will be here
shortly."

Danglars nodded, to signify that he was satisfied. To the
world and to his servants Danglars assumed the character of
the good-natured man and the indulgent father. This was one
of his parts in the popular comedy he was performing, -- a
make-up he had adopted and which suited him about as well as
the masks worn on the classic stage by paternal actors, who
seen from one side, were the image of geniality, and from
the other showed lips drawn down in chronic ill-temper. Let
us hasten to say that in private the genial side descended
to the level of the other, so that generally the indulgent
man disappeared to give place to the brutal husband and
domineering father. "Why the devil does that foolish girl,
who pretends to wish to speak to me, not come into my study?
and why on earth does she want to speak to me at all?"

He was turning this thought over in his brain for the
twentieth time, when the door opened and Eugenie appeared,
attired in a figured black satin dress, her hair dressed and
gloves on, as if she were going to the Italian Opera. "Well,
Eugenie, what is it you want with me? and why in this solemn
drawing-room when the study is so comfortable?"

"I quite understand why you ask, sir," said Eugenie, making
a sign that her father might be seated, "and in fact your
two questions suggest fully the theme of our conversation. I
will answer them both, and contrary to the usual method, the
last first, because it is the least difficult. I have chosen
the drawing-room, sir, as our place of meeting, in order to
avoid the disagreeable impressions and influences of a
banker's study. Those gilded cashbooks, drawers locked like
gates of fortresses, heaps of bank-bills, come from I know
not where, and the quantities of letters from England,
Holland, Spain, India, China, and Peru, have generally a
strange influence on a father's mind, and make him forget
that there is in the world an interest greater and more
sacred than the good opinion of his correspondents. I have,
therefore, chosen this drawing-room, where you see, smiling
and happy in their magnificent frames, your portrait, mine,
my mother's, and all sorts of rural landscapes and touching
pastorals. I rely much on external impressions; perhaps,
with regard to you, they are immaterial, but I should be no
artist if I had not some fancies."

"Very well," replied M. Danglars, who had listened to all
this preamble with imperturbable coolness, but without
understanding a word, since like every man burdened with
thoughts of the past, he was occupied with seeking the
thread of his own ideas in those of the speaker.

"There is, then, the second point cleared up, or nearly so,"
said Eugenie, without the least confusion, and with that
masculine pointedness which distinguished her gesture and
her language; "and you appear satisfied with the
explanation. Now, let us return to the first. You ask me why
I have requested this interview; I will tell you in two
words, sir; I will not marry count Andrea Cavalcanti."

Danglars leaped from his chair and raised his eyes and arms
towards heaven.

"Yes, indeed, sir," continued Eugenie, still quite calm;
"you are astonished, I see; for since this little affair
began, I have not manifested the slightest opposition, and
yet I am always sure, when the opportunity arrives, to
oppose a determined and absolute will to people who have not
consulted me, and things which displease me. However, this
time, my tranquillity, or passiveness as philosophers say,
proceeded from another source; it proceeded from a wish,
like a submissive and devoted daughter" (a slight smile was
observable on the purple lips of the young girl), "to
practice obedience."

"Well?" asked Danglars.

"Well, sir," replied Eugenie, "I have tried to the very last
and now that the moment has come, I feel in spite of all my
efforts that it is impossible."

"But," said Danglars, whose weak mind was at first quite
overwhelmed with the weight of this pitiless logic, marking
evident premeditation and force of will, "what is your
reason for this refusal, Eugenie? what reason do you
assign?"

"My reason?" replied the young girl. "Well, it is not that
the man is more ugly, more foolish, or more disagreeable
than any other; no, M. Andrea Cavalcanti may appear to those
who look at men's faces and figures as a very good specimen
of his kind. It is not, either, that my heart is less
touched by him than any other; that would be a schoolgirl's
reason, which I consider quite beneath me. I actually love
no one, sir; you know it, do you not? I do not then see why,
without real necessity, I should encumber my life with a
perpetual companion. Has not some sage said, `Nothing too
much'? and another, `I carry all my effects with me'? I have
been taught these two aphorisms in Latin and in Greek; one
is, I believe, from Phaedrus, and the other from Bias. Well,
my dear father, in the shipwreck of life -- for life is an
eternal shipwreck of our hopes -- I cast into the sea my
useless encumbrance, that is all, and I remain with my own
will, disposed to live perfectly alone, and consequently
perfectly free."

"Unhappy girl, unhappy girl!" murmured Danglars, turning
pale, for he knew from long experience the solidity of the
obstacle he had so suddenly encountered.

"Unhappy girl," replied Eugenie, "unhappy girl, do you say,
sir? No, indeed; the exclamation appears quite theatrical
and affected. Happy, on the contrary, for what am I in want
of! The world calls me beautiful. It is something to be well
received. I like a favorable reception; it expands the
countenance, and those around me do not then appear so ugly.
I possess a share of wit, and a certain relative
sensibility, which enables me to draw from life in general,
for the support of mine, all I meet with that is good, like
the monkey who cracks the nut to get at its contents. I am
rich, for you have one of the first fortunes in France. I am
your only daughter, and you are not so exacting as the
fathers of the Porte Saint-Martin and Gaiete, who disinherit
their daughters for not giving them grandchildren. Besides,
the provident law has deprived you of the power to
disinherit me, at least entirely, as it has also of the
power to compel me to marry Monsieur This or Monsieur That.
And so -- being, beautiful, witty, somewhat talented, as the
comic operas say, and rich -- and that is happiness, sir --
why do you call me unhappy?"

Danglars, seeing his daughter smiling, and proud even to
insolence, could not entirely repress his brutal feelings,
but they betrayed themselves only by an exclamation. Under
the fixed and inquiring gaze levelled at him from under
those beautiful black eyebrows, he prudently turned away,
and calmed himself immediately, daunted by the power of a
resolute mind. "Truly, my daughter," replied he with a
smile, "you are all you boast of being, excepting one thing;
I will not too hastily tell you which, but would rather
leave you to guess it." Eugenie looked at Danglars, much
surprised that one flower of her crown of pride, with which
she had so superbly decked herself, should be disputed. "My
daughter," continued the banker, "you have perfectly
explained to me the sentiments which influence a girl like
you, who is determined she will not marry; now it remains
for me to tell you the motives of a father like me, who has
decided that his daughter shall marry." Eugenie bowed, not
as a submissive daughter, but as an adversary prepared for a
discussion.

"My daughter," continued Danglars, "when a father asks his
daughter to choose a husband, he has always some reason for
wishing her to marry. Some are affected with the mania of
which you spoke just now, that of living again in their
grandchildren. This is not my weakness, I tell you at once;
family joys have no charm for me. I may acknowledge this to
a daughter whom I know to be philosophical enough to
understand my indifference, and not to impute it to me as a
crime."

"This is not to the purpose," said Eugenie; "let us speak
candidly, sir; I admire candor."

"Oh," said Danglars, "I can, when circumstances render it
desirable, adopt your system, although it may not be my
general practice. I will therefore proceed. I have proposed
to you to marry, not for your sake, for indeed I did not
think of you in the least at the moment (you admire candor,
and will now be satisfied, I hope); but because it suited me
to marry you as soon as possible, on account of certain
commercial speculations I am desirous of entering into."
Eugenie became uneasy.

"It is just as I tell you, I assure you, and you must not be
angry with me, for you have sought this disclosure. I do not
willingly enter into arithmetical explanations with an
artist like you, who fears to enter my study lest she should
imbibe disagreeable or anti-poetic impressions and
sensations. But in that same banker's study, where you very
willingly presented yourself yesterday to ask for the
thousand francs I give you monthly for pocket-money, you
must know, my dear young lady, that many things may be
learned, useful even to a girl who will not marry. There one
may learn, for instance, what, out of regard to your nervous
susceptibility, I will inform you of in the drawing-room,
namely, that the credit of a banker is his physical and
moral life; that credit sustains him as breath animates the
body; and M. de Monte Cristo once gave me a lecture on that
subject, which I have never forgotten. There we may learn
that as credit sinks, the body becomes a corpse, and this is
what must happen very soon to the banker who is proud to own
so good a logician as you for his daughter." But Eugenie,
instead of stooping, drew herself up under the blow.
"Ruined?" said she.

"Exactly, my daughter; that is precisely what I mean," said
Danglars, almost digging his nails into his breast, while he
preserved on his harsh features the smile of the heartless
though clever man; "ruined -- yes, that is it."

"Ah!" said Eugenie.

"Yes, ruined! Now it is revealed, this secret so full of
horror, as the tragic poet says. Now, my daughter, learn
from my lips how you may alleviate this misfortune, so far
as it will affect you."

"Oh," cried Eugenie, "you are a bad physiognomist, if you
imagine I deplore on my own account the catastrophe of which
you warn me. I ruined? and what will that signify to me?
Have I not my talent left? Can I not, like Pasta, Malibran,
Grisi, acquire for myself what you would never have given
me, whatever might have been your fortune, a hundred or a
hundred and fifty thousand livres per annum, for which I
shall be indebted to no one but myself; and which, instead
of being given as you gave me those poor twelve thousand
francs, with sour looks and reproaches for my prodigality,
will be accompanied with acclamations, with bravos, and with
flowers? And if I do not possess that talent, which your
smiles prove to me you doubt, should I not still have that
ardent love of independence, which will be a substitute for
wealth, and which in my mind supersedes even the instinct of
self-preservation? No, I grieve not on my own account, I
shall always find a resource; my books, my pencils, my
piano, all the things which cost but little, and which I
shall be able to procure, will remain my own.

"Do you think that I sorrow for Madame Danglars? Undeceive
yourself again; either I am greatly mistaken, or she has
provided against the catastrophe which threatens you, and,
which will pass over without affecting her. She has taken
care for herself, -- at least I hope so, -- for her
attention has not been diverted from her projects by
watching over me. She has fostered my independence by
professedly indulging my love for liberty. Oh, no, sir; from
my childhood I have seen too much, and understood too much,
of what has passed around me, for misfortune to have an
undue power over me. From my earliest recollections, I have
been beloved by no one -- so much the worse; that has
naturally led me to love no one -- so much the better -- now
you have my profession of faith."

"Then," said Danglars, pale with anger, which was not at all
due to offended paternal love, -- "then, mademoiselle, you
persist in your determination to accelerate my ruin?"

"Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? What do you mean? I do
not understand you."

"So much the better, I have a ray of hope left; listen."

"I am all attention," said Eugenie, looking so earnestly at
her father that it was an effort for the latter to endure
her unrelenting gaze.

"M. Cavalcanti," continued Danglars, "is about to marry you,
and will place in my hands his fortune, amounting to three
million livres."

"That is admirable!" said Eugenie with sovereign contempt,
smoothing her gloves out one upon the other.

"You think I shall deprive you of those three millions,"
said Danglars; "but do not fear it. They are destined to
produce at least ten. I and a brother banker have obtained a
grant of a railway, the only industrial enterprise which in
these days promises to make good the fabulous prospects that
Law once held out to the eternally deluded Parisians, in the
fantastic Mississippi scheme. As I look at it, a millionth
part of a railway is worth fully as much as an acre of waste
land on the banks of the Ohio. We make in our case a
deposit, on a mortgage, which is an advance, as you see,
since we gain at least ten, fifteen, twenty, or a hundred
livres' worth of iron in exchange for our money. Well,
within a week I am to deposit four millions for my share;
the four millions, I promise you, will produce ten or
twelve."

"But during my visit to you the day before yesterday, sir,
which you appear to recollect so well," replied Eugenie, "I
saw you arranging a deposit -- is not that the term? -- of
five millions and a half; you even pointed it out to me in
two drafts on the treasury, and you were astonished that so
valuable a paper did not dazzle my eyes like lightning."

"Yes, but those five millions and a half are not mine, and
are only a proof of the great confidence placed in me; my
title of popular banker has gained me the confidence of
charitable institutions, and the five millions and a half
belong to them; at any other time I should not have
hesitated to make use of them, but the great losses I have
recently sustained are well known, and, as I told you, my
credit is rather shaken. That deposit may be at any moment
withdrawn, and if I had employed it for another purpose, I
should bring on me a disgraceful bankruptcy. I do not
despise bankruptcies, believe me, but they must be those
which enrich, not those which ruin. Now, if you marry M.
Cavalcanti, and I get the three millions, or even if it is
thought I am going to get them, my credit will be restored,
and my fortune, which for the last month or two has been
swallowed up in gulfs which have been opened in my path by
an inconceivable fatality, will revive. Do you understand
me?"

"Perfectly; you pledge me for three millions, do you not?"

"The greater the amount, the more flattering it is to you;
it gives you an idea of your value."

"Thank you. One word more, sir; do you promise me to make
what use you can of the report of the fortune M. Cavalcanti
will bring without touching the money? This is no act of
selfishness, but of delicacy. I am willing to help rebuild
your fortune, but I will not be an accomplice in the ruin of
others."

"But since I tell you," cried Danglars, "that with these
three million" --

"Do you expect to recover your position, sir, without
touching those three million?"

"I hope so, if the marriage should take place and confirm my
credit."

"Shall you be able to pay M. Cavalcanti the five hundred
thousand francs you promise for my dowry?"

"He shall receive then on returning from the mayor's."*

* The performance of the civil marriage.

"Very well!"

"What next? what more do you want?"

"I wish to know if, in demanding my signature, you leave me
entirely free in my person?"

"Absolutely."

"Then, as I said before, sir, -- very well; I am ready to
marry M. Cavalcanti."

"But what are you up to?"

"Ah, that is my affair. What advantage should I have over
you, if knowing your secret I were to tell you mine?"
Danglars bit his lips. "Then," said he, "you are ready to
pay the official visits, which are absolutely
indispensable?"

"Yes," replied Eugenie.

"And to sign the contract in three days?"

"Yes."

"Then, in my turn, I also say, very well!" Danglars pressed
his daughter's hand in his. But, extraordinary to relate,
the father did not say, "Thank you, my child," nor did the
daughter smile at her father. "Is the conference ended?"
asked Eugenie, rising. Danglars motioned that he had nothing
more to say. Five minutes afterwards the piano resounded to
the touch of Mademoiselle d'Armilly's fingers, and
Mademoiselle Danglars was singing Brabantio's malediction on
Desdemona. At the end of the piece Etienne entered, and
announced to Eugenie that the horses were in the carriage,
and that the baroness was waiting for her to pay her visits.
We have seen them at Villefort's; they proceeded then on
their course.



Chapter 96
The Contract.

Three days after the scene we have just described, namely
towards five o'clock in the afternoon of the day fixed for
the signature of the contract between Mademoiselle Eugenie
Danglars and Andrea Cavalcanti, -- whom the banker persisted
in calling prince, -- a fresh breeze was stirring the leaves
in the little garden in front of the Count of Monte Cristo's
house, and the count was preparing to go out. While his
horses were impatiently pawing the ground, -- held in by the
coachman, who had been seated a quarter of an hour on his
box, -- the elegant phaeton with which we are familiar
rapidly turned the angle of the entrance-gate, and cast out
on the doorsteps M. Andrea Cavalcanti, as decked up and gay
as if he were going to marry a princess. He inquired after
the count with his usual familiarity, and ascending lightly
to the second story met him at the top of the stairs. The
count stopped on seeing the young man. As for Andrea, he was
launched, and when he was once launched nothing stopped him.
"Ah, good morning, my dear count," said he. "Ah, M. Andrea,"
said the latter, with his half-jesting tone; "how do you
do."

"Charmingly, as you see. I am come to talk to you about a
thousand things; but, first tell me, were you going out or
just returned?"

"I was going out, sir."

"Then, in order not to hinder you, I will get up with you if
you please in your carriage, and Tom shall follow with my
phaeton in tow."

"No," said the count, with an imperceptible smile of
contempt, for he had no wish to be seen in the young man's
society, -- "no; I prefer listening to you here, my dear M.
Andrea; we can chat better in-doors, and there is no
coachman to overhear our conversation." The count returned
to a small drawing-room on the first floor, sat down, and
crossing his legs motioned to the young man to take a seat
also. Andrea assumed his gayest manner. "You know, my dear
count," said he, "the ceremony is to take place this
evening. At nine o'clock the contract is to be signed at my
father-in-law's."

"Ah, indeed?" said Monte Cristo.

"What; is it news to you? Has not M. Danglars informed you
of the ceremony?"

"Oh, yes," said the count; "I received a letter from him
yesterday, but I do not think the hour was mentioned."

"Possibly my father-in-law trusted to its general
notoriety."

"Well," said Monte Cristo, "you are fortunate, M.
Cavalcanti; it is a most suitable alliance you are
contracting, and Mademoiselle Danglars is a handsome girl."

"Yes, indeed she is," replied Cavalcanti, in a very modest
tone.

"Above all, she is very rich, -- at least, I believe so,"
said Monte Cristo.

"Very rich, do you think?" replied the young man.

"Doubtless; it is said M. Danglars conceals at least half of
his fortune."

"And he acknowledges fifteen or twenty millions," said
Andrea with a look sparkling with joy.

"Without reckoning," added Monte Cristo, "that he is on the
eve of entering into a sort of speculation already in vogue
in the United States and in England, but quite novel in
France."

"Yes, yes, I know what you mean, -- the railway, of which he
has obtained the grant, is it not?"

"Precisely; it is generally believed he will gain ten
millions by that affair."

"Ten millions! Do you think so? It is magnificent!" said
Cavalcanti, who was quite confounded at the metallic sound
of these golden words. "Without reckoning," replied Monte
Cristo, "that all his fortune will come to you, and justly
too, since Mademoiselle Danglars is an only daughter.
Besides, your own fortune, as your father assured me, is
almost equal to that of your betrothed. But enough of money
matters. Do you know, M. Andrea, I think you have managed
this affair rather skilfully?"

"Not badly, by any means," said the young man; "I was born
for a diplomatist."

"Well, you must become a diplomatist; diplomacy, you know,
is something that is not to be acquired; it is instinctive.
Have you lost your heart?"

"Indeed, I fear it," replied Andrea, in the tone in which he
had heard Dorante or Valere reply to Alceste* at the Theatre
Francais.

"Is your love returned?"

* In Moliere's comedy, Le Misanthrope.

"I suppose so," said Andrea with a triumphant smile, "since
I am accepted. But I must not forget one grand point."

"Which?"

"That I have been singularly assisted."

"Nonsense."

"I have, indeed."

"By circumstances?"

"No; by you."

"By me? Not at all, prince," said Monte Cristo laying a
marked stress on the title, "what have I done for you? Are
not your name, your social position, and your merit
sufficient?"

"No," said Andrea, -- "no; it is useless for you to say so,
count. I maintain that the position of a man like you has
done more than my name, my social position, and my merit."

"You are completely mistaken, sir," said Monte Cristo
coldly, who felt the perfidious manoeuvre of the young man,
and understood the bearing of his words; "you only acquired
my protection after the influence and fortune of your father
had been ascertained; for, after all, who procured for me,
who had never seen either you or your illustrious father,
the pleasure of your acquaintance? -- two of my good
friends, Lord Wilmore and the Abbe Busoni. What encouraged
me not to become your surety, but to patronize you? -- your
father's name, so well known in Italy and so highly honored.
Personally, I do not know you." This calm tone and perfect
ease made Andrea feel that he was, for the moment,
restrained by a more muscular hand than his own, and that
the restraint could not be easily broken through.

"Oh, then my father has really a very large fortune, count?"

"It appears so, sir," replied Monte Cristo.

"Do you know if the marriage settlement he promised me has
come?"

"I have been advised of it."

"But the three millions?"

"The three millions are probably on the road."

"Then I shall really have them?"

"Oh, well," said the count, "I do not think you have yet
known the want of money." Andrea was so surprised that he
pondered the matter for a moment. Then, arousing from his
revery, -- "Now, sir, I have one request to make to you,
which you will understand, even if it should be disagreeable
to you."

"Proceed," said Monte Cristo.

"I have formed an acquaintance, thanks to my good fortune,
with many noted persons, and have, at least for the moment,
a crowd of friends. But marrying, as I am about to do,
before all Paris, I ought to be supported by an illustrious
name, and in the absence of the paternal hand some powerful
one ought to lead me to the altar; now, my father is not
coming to Paris, is he? He is old, covered with wounds, and
suffers dreadfully, he says, in travelling."

"Indeed?"

"Well, I am come to ask a favor of you."

"Of me?"

"Yes, of you."

"And pray what may it be?"

"Well, to take his part."

"Ah, my dear sir! What? -- after the varied relations I have
had the happiness to sustain towards you, can it be that you
know me so little as to ask such a thing? Ask me to lend you
half a million and, although such a loan is somewhat rare,
on my honor, you would annoy me less! Know, then, what I
thought I had already told you, that in participation in
this world's affairs, more especially in their moral
aspects, the Count of Monte Cristo has never ceased to
entertain the scruples and even the superstitions of the
East. I, who have a seraglio at Cairo, one at Smyrna, and
one at Constantinople, preside at a wedding? -- never!"

"Then you refuse me?"

"Decidedly; and were you my son or my brother I would refuse
you in the same way."

"But what must be done?" said Andrea, disappointed.

"You said just now that you had a hundred friends."

"Very true, but you introduced me at M. Danglars'."

"Not at all! Let us recall the exact facts. You met him at a
dinner party at my house, and you introduced yourself at his
house; that is a totally different affair."

"Yes, but, by my marriage, you have forwarded that."

"I? -- not in the least, I beg you to believe. Recollect
what I told you when you asked me to propose you. `Oh, I
never make matches, my dear prince, it is my settled
principle.'" Andrea bit his lips.

"But, at least, you will be there?"

"Will all Paris be there?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Well, like all Paris, I shall be there too," said the
count.

"And will you sign the contract?"

"I see no objection to that; my scruples do not go thus
far."

"Well, since you will grant me no more, I must be content
with what you give me. But one word more, count."

"What is it?"

"Advice."

"Be careful; advice is worse than a service."

"Oh, you can give me this without compromising yourself."

"Tell me what it is."

"Is my wife's fortune five hundred thousand livres?"

"That is the sum M. Danglars himself announced."

"Must I receive it, or leave it in the hands of the notary?"

"This is the way such affairs are generally arranged when it
is wished to do them stylishly: Your two solicitors appoint
a meeting, when the contract is signed, for the next or the
following day; then they exchange the two portions, for
which they each give a receipt; then, when the marriage is
celebrated, they place the amount at your disposal as the
chief member of the alliance."

"Because," said Andrea, with a certain ill-concealed
uneasiness, "I thought I heard my father-in-law say that he
intended embarking our property in that famous railway
affair of which you spoke just now."

"Well," replied Monte Cristo, "it will be the way, everybody
says, of trebling your fortune in twelve months. Baron
Danglars is a good father, and knows how to calculate."

"In that case," said Andrea, "everything is all right,
excepting your refusal, which quite grieves me."

"You must attribute it only to natural scruples under
similar circumstances."

"Well," said Andrea, "let it be as you wish. This evening,
then, at nine o'clock."

"Adieu till then." Notwithstanding a slight resistance on
the part of Monte Cristo, whose lips turned pale, but who
preserved his ceremonious smile, Andrea seized the count's
hand, pressed it, jumped into his phaeton, and disappeared.

The four or five remaining hours before nine o'clock
arrived, Andrea employed in riding, paying visits, --
designed to induce those of whom he had spoken to appear at
the banker's in their gayest equipages, -- dazzling them by
promises of shares in schemes which have since turned every
brain, and in which Danglars was just taking the initiative.
In fact, at half-past eight in the evening the grand salon,
the gallery adjoining, and the three other drawing-rooms on
the same floor, were filled with a perfumed crowd, who
sympathized but little in the event, but who all
participated in that love of being present wherever there is
anything fresh to be seen. An Academician would say that the
entertainments of the fashionable world are collections of
flowers which attract inconstant butterflies, famished bees,
and buzzing drones.

No one could deny that the rooms were splendidly
illuminated; the light streamed forth on the gilt mouldings
and the silk hangings; and all the bad taste of decorations,
which had only their richness to boast of, shone in its
splendor. Mademoiselle Eugenie was dressed with elegant
simplicity in a figured white silk dress, and a white rose
half concealed in her jet black hair was her only ornament,
unaccompanied by a single jewel. Her eyes, however, betrayed
that perfect confidence which contradicted the girlish
simplicity of this modest attire. Madame Danglars was
chatting at a short distance with Debray, Beauchamp, and
Chateau-Renaud.

Debray was admitted to the house for this grand ceremony,
but on the same plane with every one else, and without any
particular privilege. M. Danglars, surrounded by deputies
and men connected with the revenue, was explaining a new
theory of taxation which he intended to adopt when the
course of events had compelled the government to call him
into the ministry. Andrea, on whose arm hung one of the most
consummate dandies of the opera, was explaining to him
rather cleverly, since he was obliged to be bold to appear
at ease, his future projects, and the new luxuries he meant
to introduce to Parisian fashions with his hundred and
seventy-five thousand livres per annum.

The crowd moved to and fro in the rooms like an ebb and flow
of turquoises, rubies, emeralds, opals, and diamonds. As
usual, the oldest women were the most decorated, and the
ugliest the most conspicuous. If there was a beautiful lily,
or a sweet rose, you had to search for it, concealed in some
corner behind a mother with a turban, or an aunt with a bird
of paradise.

At each moment, in the midst of the crowd, the buzzing, and
the laughter, the door-keeper's voice was heard announcing
some name well known in the financial department, respected
in the army, or illustrious in the literary world, and which
was acknowledged by a slight movement in the different
groups. But for one whose privilege it was to agitate that
ocean of human waves, how many were received with a look of
indifference or a sneer of disdain! At the moment when the
hand of the massive time-piece, representing Endymion
asleep, pointed to nine on its golden face, and the hammer,
the faithful type of mechanical thought, struck nine times,
the name of the Count of Monte Cristo resounded in its turn,
and as if by an electric shock all the assembly turned
towards the door.

The count was dressed in black and with his habitual
simplicity; his white waistcoat displayed his expansive
noble chest and his black stock was singularly noticeable
because of its contrast with the deadly paleness of his
face. His only jewellery was a chain, so fine that the
slender gold thread was scarcely perceptible on his white
waistcoat. A circle was immediately formed around the door.
The count perceived at one glance Madame Danglars at one end
of the drawing-room, M. Danglars at the other, and Eugenie
in front of him. He first advanced towards the baroness, who
was chatting with Madame de Villefort, who had come alone,
Valentine being still an invalid; and without turning aside,
so clear was the road left for him, he passed from the
baroness to Eugenie, whom he complimented in such rapid and
measured terms, that the proud artist was quite struck. Near
her was Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly, who thanked the count
for the letters of introduction he had so kindly given her
for Italy, which she intended immediately to make use of. On
leaving these ladies he found himself with Danglars, who had
advanced to meet him.

Having accomplished these three social duties, Monte Cristo
stopped, looking around him with that expression peculiar to
a certain class, which seems to say, "I have done my duty,
now let others do theirs." Andrea, who was in an adjoining
room, had shared in the sensation caused by the arrival of
Monte Cristo, and now came forward to pay his respects to
the count. He found him completely surrounded; all were
eager to speak to him, as is always the case with those
whose words are few and weighty. The solicitors arrived at
this moment and arranged their scrawled papers on the velvet
cloth embroidered with gold which covered the table prepared
for the signature; it was a gilt table supported on lions'
claws. One of the notaries sat down, the other remained
standing. They were about to proceed to the reading of the
contract, which half Paris assembled was to sign. All took
their places, or rather the ladies formed a circle, while
the gentlemen (more indifferent to the restraints of what
Boileau calls the "energetic style") commented on the
feverish agitation of Andrea, on M. Danglars' riveted
attention, Eugenie's composure, and the light and sprightly
manner in which the baroness treated this important affair.

The contract was read during a profound silence. But as soon
as it was finished, the buzz was redoubled through all the
drawing-rooms; the brilliant sums, the rolling millions
which were to be at the command of the two young people, and
which crowned the display of the wedding presents and the
young lady's diamonds, which had been made in a room
entirely appropriated for that purpose, had exercised to the
full their delusions over the envious assembly. Mademoiselle
Danglars' charms were heightened in the opinion of the young
men, and for the moment seemed to outvie the sun in
splendor. As for the ladies, it is needless to say that
while they coveted the millions, they thought they did not
need them for themselves, as they were beautiful enough
without them. Andrea, surrounded by his friends,
complimented, flattered, beginning to believe in the reality
of his dream, was almost bewildered. The notary solemnly
took the pen, flourished it above his head, and said,
"Gentlemen, we are about to sign the contract."

The baron was to sign first, then the representative of M.
Cavalcanti, senior, then the baroness, afterwards the
"future couple," as they are styled in the abominable
phraseology of legal documents. The baron took the pen and
signed, then the representative. The baroness approached,
leaning on Madame de Villefort's arm. "My dear," said she,
as she took the pen, "is it not vexatious? An unexpected
incident, in the affair of murder and theft at the Count of
Monte Cristo's, in which he nearly fell a victim, deprives
us of the pleasure of seeing M. de Villefort."

"Indeed?" said M. Danglars, in the same tone in which he
would have said, "Oh, well, what do I care?"

"As a matter of fact," said Monte Cristo, approaching, "I am
much afraid that I am the involuntary cause of his absence."

"What, you, count?" said Madame Danglars, signing; "if you
are, take care, for I shall never forgive you." Andrea
pricked up his ears.

"But it is not my fault, as I shall endeavor to prove."
Every one listened eagerly; Monte Cristo who so rarely
opened his lips, was about to speak. "You remember," said
the count, during the most profound silence, "that the
unhappy wretch who came to rob me died at my house; the
supposition is that he was stabbed by his accomplice, on
attempting to leave it."

"Yes," said Danglars.

"In order that his wounds might be examined he was
undressed, and his clothes were thrown into a corner, where
the police picked them up, with the exception of the
waistcoat, which they overlooked." Andrea turned pale, and
drew towards the door; he saw a cloud rising in the horizon,
which appeared to forebode a coming storm.

"Well, this waistcoat was discovered to-day, covered with
blood, and with a hole over the heart." The ladies screamed,
and two or three prepared to faint. "It was brought to me.
No one could guess what the dirty rag could be; I alone
suspected that it was the waistcoat of the murdered man. My
valet, in examining this mournful relic, felt a paper in the
pocket and drew it out; it was a letter addressed to you,
baron."

"To me?" cried Danglars.

"Yes, indeed, to you; I succeeded in deciphering your name
under the blood with which the letter was stained," replied
Monte Cristo, amid the general outburst of amazement.

"But," asked Madame Danglars, looking at her husband with
uneasiness, "how could that prevent M. de Villefort" --

"In this simple way, madame," replied Monte Cristo; "the
waistcoat and the letter were both what is termed
circumstantial evidence; I therefore sent them to the king's
attorney. You understand, my dear baron, that legal methods
are the safest in criminal cases; it was, perhaps, some plot
against you." Andrea looked steadily at Monte Cristo and
disappeared in the second drawing-room.

"Possibly," said Danglars; "was not this murdered man an old
galley-slave?"

"Yes," replied the count; "a felon named Caderousse."
Danglars turned slightly pale; Andrea reached the anteroom
beyond the little drawing-room.

"But go on signing," said Monte Cristo; "I perceive that my
story has caused a general emotion, and I beg to apologize
to you, baroness, and to Mademoiselle Danglars." The
baroness, who had signed, returned the pen to the notary.
"Prince Cavalcanti," said the latter; "Prince Cavalcanti,
where are you?"

"Andrea, Andrea," repeated several young people, who were
already on sufficiently intimate terms with him to call him
by his Christian name.

"Call the prince; inform him that it is his turn to sign,"
cried Danglars to one of the floorkeepers.

But at the same instant the crowd of guests rushed in alarm
into the principal salon as if some frightful monster had
entered the apartments, quaerens quem devoret. There was,
indeed, reason to retreat, to be alarmed, and to scream. An
officer was placing two soldiers at the door of each
drawing-room, and was advancing towards Danglars, preceded
by a commissary of police, girded with his scarf. Madame
Danglars uttered a scream and fainted. Danglars, who thought
himself threatened (certain consciences are never calm), --
Danglars even before his guests showed a countenance of
abject terror.

"What is the matter, sir?" asked Monte Cristo, advancing to
meet the commissioner.

"Which of you gentlemen," asked the magistrate, without
replying to the count, "answers to the name of Andrea
Cavalcanti?" A cry of astonishment was heard from all parts
of the room. They searched; they questioned. "But who then
is Andrea Cavalcanti?" asked Danglars in amazement.

"A galley-slave, escaped from confinement at Toulon."

"And what crime has he committed?"

"He is accused," said the commissary with his inflexible
voice, "of having assassinated the man named Caderousse, his
former companion in prison, at the moment he was making his
escape from the house of the Count of Monte Cristo." Monte
Cristo cast a rapid glance around him. Andrea was gone.



Chapter 97
The Departure for Belgium.

A few minutes after the scene of confusion produced in the
salons of M. Danglars by the unexpected appearance of the
brigade of soldiers, and by the disclosure which had
followed, the mansion was deserted with as much rapidity as
if a case of plague or of cholera morbus had broken out
among the guests. In a few minutes, through all the doors,
down all the staircases, by every exit, every one hastened
to retire, or rather to fly; for it was a situation where
the ordinary condolences, -- which even the best friends are
so eager to offer in great catastrophes, -- were seen to be
utterly futile. There remained in the banker's house only
Danglars, closeted in his study, and making his statement to
the officer of gendarmes; Madame Danglars, terrified, in the
boudoir with which we are acquainted; and Eugenie, who with
haughty air and disdainful lip had retired to her room with
her inseparable companion, Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly. As
for the numerous servants (more numerous that evening than
usual, for their number was augmented by cooks and butlers
from the Cafe de Paris), venting on their employers their
anger at what they termed the insult to which they had been
subjected, they collected in groups in the hall, in the
kitchens, or in their rooms, thinking very little of their
duty, which was thus naturally interrupted. Of all this
household, only two persons deserve our notice; these are
Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars and Mademoiselle Louise
d'Armilly.

The betrothed had retired, as we said, with haughty air,
disdainful lip, and the demeanor of an outraged queen,
followed by her companion, who was paler and more disturbed
than herself. On reaching her room Eugenie locked her door,
while Louise fell on a chair. "Ah, what a dreadful thing,"
said the young musician; "who would have suspected it? M.
Andrea Cavalcanti a murderer -- a galley-slave escaped -- a
convict!" An ironical smile curled the lip of Eugenie. "In
truth I was fated," said she. "I escaped the Morcerf only to
fall into the Cavalcanti."

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

"Hold your tongue! The men are all infamous, and I am happy
to be able now to do more than detest them -- I despise
them."

"What shall we do?" asked Louise.

"What shall we do?"

"Yes."

"Why, the same we had intended doing three days since -- set
off."

"What? -- although you are not now going to be married, you
intend still" --

"Listen, Louise. I hate this life of the fashionable world,
always ordered, measured, ruled, like our music-paper. What
I have always wished for, desired, and coveted, is the life
of an artist, free and independent, relying only on my own
resources, and accountable only to myself. Remain here? What
for? -- that they may try, a month hence, to marry me again;
and to whom? -- M. Debray, perhaps, as it was once proposed.
No, Louise, no! This evening's adventure will serve for my
excuse. I did not seek one, I did not ask for one. God sends
me this, and I hail it joyfully!"

"How strong and courageous you are!" said the fair, frail
girl to her brunette companion.

"Did you not yet know me? Come, Louise, let us talk of our
affairs. The post-chaise" --

"Was happily bought three days since."

"Have you had it sent where we are to go for it?"

"Yes."

"Our passport?"

"Here it is."

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

"M. Leon d'Armilly, twenty years of age; profession, artist;
hair black, eyes black; travelling with his sister."

"Capital! How did you get this passport?"

"When I went to ask M. de Monte Cristo for letters to the
directors of the theatres at Rome and Naples, I expressed my
fears of travelling as a woman; he perfectly understood
them, and undertook to procure for me a man's passport, and
two days after I received this, to which I have added with
my own hand, `travelling with his sister.'"

"Well," said Eugenie cheerfully, "we have then only to pack
up our trunks; we shall start the evening of the signing of
the contract, instead of the evening of the wedding -- that
is all."

"But consider the matter seriously, Eugenie!"

"Oh, I am done with considering! I am tired of hearing only
of market reports, of the end of the month, of the rise and
fall of Spanish funds, of Haitian bonds. Instead of that,
Louise -- do you understand? -- air, liberty, melody of
birds, plains of Lombardy, Venetian canals, Roman palaces,
the Bay of Naples. How much have we, Louise?" The young girl
to whom this question was addressed drew from an inlaid
secretary a small portfolio with a lock, in which she
counted twenty-three bank-notes.

"Twenty-three thousand francs," said she.

"And as much, at least, in pearls, diamonds, and jewels,"
said Eugenie. "We are rich. With forty-five thousand francs
we can live like princesses for two years, and comfortably
for four; but before six months -- you with your music, and
I with my voice -- we shall double our capital. Come, you
shall take charge of the money, I of the jewel-box; so that
if one of us had the misfortune to lose her treasure, the
other would still have hers left. Now, the portmanteau --
let us make haste -- the portmanteau!"

"Stop!" said Louise, going to listen at Madame Danglars'
door.

"What do you fear?"

"That we may be discovered."

"The door is locked."

"They may tell us to open it."

"They may if they like, but we will not."

"You are a perfect Amazon, Eugenie!" And the two young girls
began to heap into a trunk all the things they thought they
should require. "There now," said Eugenie, "while I change
my costume do you lock the portmanteau." Louise pressed with
all the strength of her little hands on the top of the
portmanteau. "But I cannot," said she; "I am not strong
enough; do you shut it."

"Ah, you do well to ask," said Eugenie, laughing; "I forgot
that I was Hercules, and you only the pale Omphale!" And the
young girl, kneeling on the top, pressed the two parts of
the portmanteau together, and Mademoiselle d'Armilly passed
the bolt of the padlock through. When this was done, Eugenie
opened a drawer, of which she kept the key, and took from it
a wadded violet silk travelling cloak. "Here," said she,
"you see I have thought of everything; with this cloak you
will not be cold."

"But you?"

"Oh, I am never cold, you know! Besides, with these men's
clothes" --

"Will you dress here?"

"Certainly."

"Shall you have time?"

"Do not be uneasy, you little coward! All our servants are
busy, discussing the grand affair. Besides, what is there
astonishing, when you think of the grief I ought to be in,
that I shut myself up? -- tell me!"

"No, truly -- you comfort me."

"Come and help me."

From the same drawer she took a man's complete costume, from
the boots to the coat, and a provision of linen, where there
was nothing superfluous, but every requisite. Then, with a
promptitude which indicated that this was not the first time
she had amused herself by adopting the garb of the opposite
sex, Eugenie drew on the boots and pantaloons, tied her
cravat, buttoned her waistcoat up to the throat, and put on
a coat which admirably fitted her beautiful figure. "Oh,
that is very good -- indeed, it is very good!" said Louise,
looking at her with admiration; "but that beautiful black
hair, those magnificent braids, which made all the ladies
sigh with envy, -- will they go under a man's hat like the
one I see down there?"

"You shall see," said Eugenie. And with her left hand
seizing the thick mass, which her long fingers could
scarcely grasp, she took in her right hand a pair of long
scissors, and soon the steel met through the rich and
splendid hair, which fell in a cluster at her feet as she
leaned back to keep it from her coat. Then she grasped the
front hair, which she also cut off, without expressing the
least regret; on the contrary, her eyes sparkled with
greater pleasure than usual under her ebony eyebrows. "Oh,
the magnificent hair!" said Louise, with regret.

"And am I not a hundred times better thus?" cried Eugenie,
smoothing the scattered curls of her hair, which had now
quite a masculine appearance; "and do you not think me
handsomer so?"

"Oh, you are beautiful -- always beautiful!" cried Louise.
"Now, where are you going?"

"To Brussels, if you like; it is the nearest frontier. We
can go to Brussels, Liege, Aix-la-Chapelle; then up the
Rhine to Strasburg. We will cross Switzerland, and go down
into Italy by the Saint-Gothard. Will that do?"

"Yes."

"What are you looking at?"

"I am looking at you; indeed you are adorable like that! One
would say you were carrying me off."

"And they would be right, pardieu!"

"Oh, I think you swore, Eugenie." And the two young girls,
whom every one might have thought plunged in grief, the one
on her own account, the other from interest in her friend,
burst out laughing, as they cleared away every visible trace
of the disorder which had naturally accompanied the
preparations for their escape. Then, having blown out the
lights, the two fugitives, looking and listening eagerly,
with outstretched necks, opened the door of a dressing-room
which led by a side staircase down to the yard, -- Eugenie
going first, and holding with one arm the portmanteau, which
by the opposite handle Mademoiselle d'Armilly scarcely
raised with both hands. The yard was empty; the clock was
striking twelve. The porter was not yet gone to bed. Eugenie
approached softly, and saw the old man sleeping soundly in
an arm-chair in his lodge. She returned to Louise, took up
the portmanteau, which she had placed for a moment on the
ground, and they reached the archway under the shadow of the
wall.

Eugenie concealed Louise in an angle of the gateway, so that
if the porter chanced to awake he might see but one person.
Then placing herself in the full light of the lamp which lit
the yard, -- "Gate!" cried she, with her finest contralto
voice, and rapping at the window.

The porter got up as Eugenie expected, and even advanced
some steps to recognize the person who was going out, but
seeing a young man striking his boot impatiently with his
riding-whip, he opened it immediately. Louise slid through
the half-open gate like a snake, and bounded lightly
forward. Eugenie, apparently calm, although in all
probability her heart beat somewhat faster than usual, went
out in her turn. A porter was passing and they gave him the
portmanteau; then the two young girls, having told him to
take it to No. 36, Rue de la Victoire, walked behind this
man, whose presence comforted Louise. As for Eugenie, she
was as strong as a Judith or a Delilah. They arrived at the
appointed spot. Eugenie ordered the porter to put down the
portmanteau, gave him some pieces of money, and having
rapped at the shutter sent him away. The shutter where
Eugenie had rapped was that of a little laundress, who had
been previously warned, and was not yet gone to bed. She
opened the door.

"Mademoiselle," said Eugenie, "let the porter get the
post-chaise from the coach-house, and fetch some post-horses
from the hotel. Here are five francs for his trouble."

"Indeed," said Louise, "I admire you, and I could almost say
respect you." The laundress looked on in astonishment, but
as she had been promised twenty louis, she made no remark.

In a quarter of an hour the porter returned with a post-boy
and horses, which were harnessed, and put in the post-chaise
in a minute, while the porter fastened the portmanteau on
with the assistance of a cord and strap. "Here is the
passport," said the postilion, "which way are we going,
young gentleman?"

"To Fontainebleau," replied Eugenie with an almost masculine
voice.

"What do you say?" said Louise.

"I am giving them the slip," said Eugenie; "this woman to
whom we have given twenty louis may betray us for forty; we
will soon alter our direction." And the young girl jumped
into the britzska, which was admirably arranged for sleeping
in, without scarcely touching the step. "You are always
right," said the music teacher, seating herself by the side
of her friend.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the postilion, having been
put in the right road, passed with a crack of his whip
through the gateway of the Barriere Saint-Martin. "Ah," said
Louise, breathing freely, "here we are out of Paris."

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

"I shall bring that forward as an extenuating circumstance,"
replied Eugenie. These words were lost in the noise which
the carriage made in rolling over the pavement of La
Villette. M. Danglars no longer had a daughter.



Chapter 98
The Bell and Bottle Tavern.

And now let us leave Mademoiselle Danglars and her friend
pursuing their way to Brussels, and return to poor Andrea
Cavalcanti, so inopportunely interrupted in his rise to
fortune. Notwithstanding his youth, Master Andrea was a very
skilful and intelligent boy. We have seen that on the first
rumor which reached the salon he had gradually approached
the door, and crossing two or three rooms at last
disappeared. But we have forgotten to mention one
circumstance, which nevertheless ought not to be omitted; in
one of the rooms he crossed, the trousseau of the
bride-elect was on exhibition. There were caskets of
diamonds, cashmere shawls, Valenciennes lace, English
veilings, and in fact all the tempting things, the bare
mention of which makes the hearts of young girls bound with
joy, and which is called the "corbeille."* Now, in passing
through this room, Andrea proved himself not only to be
clever and intelligent, but also provident, for he helped
himself to the most valuable of the ornaments before him.

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

Furnished with this plunder, Andrea leaped with a lighter
heart from the window, intending to slip through the hands
of the gendarmes. Tall and well proportioned as an ancient
gladiator, and muscular as a Spartan, he walked for a
quarter of an hour without knowing where to direct his
steps, actuated by the sole idea of getting away from the
spot where if he lingered he knew that he would surely be
taken. Having passed through the Rue Mont Blanc, guided by
the instinct which leads thieves always to take the safest
path, he found himself at the end of the Rue Lafayette.
There he stopped, breathless and panting. He was quite
alone; on one side was the vast wilderness of the
Saint-Lazare, on the other, Paris enshrouded in darkness.
"Am I to be captured?" he cried; "no, not if I can use more
activity than my enemies. My safety is now a mere question
of speed." At this moment he saw a cab at the top of the
Faubourg Poissonniere. The dull driver, smoking his pipe,
was plodding along toward the limits of the Faubourg
Saint-Denis, where no doubt he ordinarily had his station.
"Ho, friend!" said Benedetto.

"What do you want, sir?" asked the driver.

"Is your horse tired?"

"Tired? oh, yes, tired enough -- he has done nothing the
whole of this blessed day! Four wretched fares, and twenty
sous over, making in all seven francs, are all that I have
earned, and I ought to take ten to the owner."

"Will you add these twenty francs to the seven you have?"

"With pleasure, sir; twenty francs are not to be despised.
Tell me what I am to do for this."

"A very easy thing, if your horse isn't tired."

"I tell you he'll go like the wind, -- only tell me which
way to drive."

"Towards the Louvres."

"Ah, I know the way -- you get good sweetened rum over
there."

"Exactly so; I merely wish to overtake one of my friends,
with whom I am going to hunt to-morrow at
Chapelle-en-Serval. He should have waited for me here with a
cabriolet till half-past eleven; it is twelve, and, tired of
waiting, he must have gone on."

"It is likely."

"Well, will you try and overtake him?"

"Nothing I should like better."

"If you do not overtake him before we reach Bourget you
shall have twenty francs; if not before Louvres, thirty."

"And if we do overtake him?"

"Forty," said Andrea, after a moment's hesitation, at the
end of which he remembered that he might safely promise.
"That's all right," said the man; "hop in, and we're off!
Who-o-o-p, la!"

Andrea got into the cab, which passed rapidly through the
Faubourg Saint-Denis, along the Faubourg Saint-Martin,
crossed the barrier, and threaded its way through the
interminable Villette. They never overtook the chimerical
friend, yet Andrea frequently inquired of people on foot
whom he passed and at the inns which were not yet closed,
for a green cabriolet and bay horse; and as there are a
great many cabriolets to be seen on the road to the Low
Countries, and as nine-tenths of them are green, the
inquiries increased at every step. Every one had just seen
it pass; it was only five hundred, two hundred, one hundred
steps in advance; at length they reached it, but it was not
the friend. Once the cab was also passed by a calash rapidly
whirled along by two post-horses. "Ah," said Cavalcanti to
himself, "if I only had that britzska, those two good
post-horses, and above all the passport that carries them
on!" And he sighed deeply. The calash contained Mademoiselle
Danglars and Mademoiselle d'Armilly. "Hurry, hurry!" said
Andrea, "we must overtake him soon." And the poor horse
resumed the desperate gallop it had kept up since leaving
the barrier, and arrived steaming at Louvres.

"Certainly," said Andrea, "I shall not overtake my friend,
but I shall kill your horse, therefore I had better stop.
Here are thirty francs; I will sleep at the Red Horse, and
will secure a place in the first coach. Good-night, friend."
And Andrea, after placing six pieces of five francs each in
the man's hand, leaped lightly on to the pathway. The cabman
joyfully pocketed the sum, and turned back on his road to
Paris. Andrea pretended to go towards the Red Horse inn, but
after leaning an instant against the door, and hearing the
last sound of the cab, which was disappearing from view, he
went on his road, and with a lusty stride soon traversed the
space of two leagues. Then he rested; he must be near
Chapelle-en-Serval, where he pretended to be going. It was
not fatigue that stayed Andrea here; it was that he might
form some resolution, adopt some plan. It would be
impossible to make use of a diligence, equally so to engage
post-horses; to travel either way a passport was necessary.
It was still more impossible to remain in the department of
the Oise, one of the most open and strictly guarded in
France; this was quite out of the question, especially to a
man like Andrea, perfectly conversant with criminal matters.

He sat down by the side of the moat, buried his face in his
hands and reflected. Ten minutes after he raised his head;
his resolution was made. He threw some dust over the
topcoat, which he had found time to unhook from the
ante-chamber and button over his ball costume, and going to
Chapelle-en-Serval he knocked loudly at the door of the only
inn in the place. The host opened. "My friend," said Andrea,
"I was coming from Montefontaine to Senlis, when my horse,
which is a troublesome creature, stumbled and threw me. I
must reach Compiegne to-night, or I shall cause deep anxiety
to my family. Could you let me hire a horse of you?"

An inn-keeper has always a horse to let, whether it be good
or bad. The host called the stable-boy, and ordered him to
saddle "Whitey," then he awoke his son, a child of seven
years, whom he ordered to ride before the gentleman and
bring back the horse. Andrea gave the inn-keeper twenty
francs, and in taking them from his pocket dropped a
visiting card. This belonged to one of his friends at the
Cafe de Paris, so that the innkeeper, picking it up after
Andrea had left, was convinced that he had let his horse to
the Count of Mauleon, 25 Rue Saint-Dominique, that being the
name and address on the card. "Whitey" was not a fast
animal, but he kept up an easy, steady pace; in three hours
and a half Andrea had traversed the nine leagues which
separated him from Compiegne, and four o'clock struck as he
reached the place where the coaches stop. There is an
excellent tavern at Compiegne, well remembered by those who
have ever been there. Andrea, who had often stayed there in
his rides about Paris, recollected the Bell and Bottle inn;
he turned around, saw the sign by the light of a reflected
lamp, and having dismissed the child, giving him all the
small coin he had about him, he began knocking at the door,
very reasonably concluding that having now three or four
hours before him he had best fortify himself against the
fatigues of the morrow by a sound sleep and a good supper. A
waiter opened the door.

"My friend," said Andrea, "I have been dining at
Saint-Jean-au-Bois, and expected to catch the coach which
passes by at midnight, but like a fool I have lost my way,
and have been walking for the last four hours in the forest.
Show me into one of those pretty little rooms which overlook
the court, and bring me a cold fowl and a bottle of
Bordeaux." The waiter had no suspicions; Andrea spoke with
perfect composure, he had a cigar in his mouth, and his
hands in the pocket of his top coat; his clothes were
fashionably made, his chin smooth, his boots irreproachable;
he looked merely as if he had stayed out very late, that was
all. While the waiter was preparing his room, the hostess
arose; Andrea assumed his most charming smile, and asked if
he could have No. 3, which he had occupied on his last stay
at Compiegne. Unfortunately, No. 3 was engaged by a young
man who was travelling with his sister. Andrea appeared in
despair, but consoled himself when the hostess assured him
that No. 7, prepared for him, was situated precisely the
same as No. 3, and while warming his feet and chatting about
the last races at Chantilly, he waited until they announced
his room to be ready.

Andrea had not spoken without cause of the pretty rooms
looking out upon the court of the Bell Tavern, which with
its triple galleries like those of a theatre, with the
jessamine and clematis twining round the light columns,
forms one of the prettiest entrances to an inn that you can
imagine. The fowl was tender, the wine old, the fire clear
and sparkling, and Andrea was surprised to find himself
eating with as good an appetite as though nothing had
happened. Then 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 presence of making studies in painting, test
the hospitality of some peasants, procure himself the dress
of a woodcutter and a hatchet, casting off the lion's skin
to assume that of the woodman; then, with his hands covered
with dirt, his hair darkened by means of a leaden comb, his
complexion embrowned with a preparation for which one of his
old comrades had given him the recipe, he intended, by
following the wooded districts, to reach the nearest
frontier, walking by night and sleeping in the day in the
forests and quarries, and only entering inhabited regions to
buy a loaf from time to time.

Once past the frontier, Andrea proposed making money of his
diamonds; and by uniting the proceeds to ten bank-notes he
always carried about with him in case of accident, he would
then find himself possessor of about 50,000 livres, which he
philosophically considered as no very deplorable condition
after all. Moreover, he reckoned much on the interest of the
Danglars to hush up the rumor of their own misadventures.
These were the reasons which, added to the fatigue, caused
Andrea to sleep so soundly. In order that he might awaken
early he did not close the shutters, but contented himself
with bolting the door and placing on the table an unclasped
and long-pointed knife, whose temper he well knew, and which
was never absent from him. About seven in the morning Andrea
was awakened by a ray of sunlight, which played, warm and
brilliant, upon his face. In all well-organized brains, the
predominating idea -- and there always is one -- is sure to
be the last thought before sleeping, and the first upon
waking in the morning. Andrea had scarcely opened his eyes
when his predominating idea presented itself, and whispered
in his ear that he had slept too long. He jumped out of bed
and ran to the window. A gendarme was crossing the court. A
gendarme is one of the most striking objects in the world,
even to a man void of uneasiness; but for one who has a
timid conscience, and with good cause too, the yellow, blue,
and white uniform is really very alarming.

"Why is that gendarme there?" asked Andrea of himself. Then,
all at once, he replied, with that logic which the reader
has, doubtless, remarked in him, "There is nothing
astonishing in seeing a gendarme at an inn; instead of being
astonished, let me dress myself." And the youth dressed
himself with a facility his valet de chambre had failed to
rob him of during the two months of fashionable life he had
led in Paris. "Now then," said Andrea, while dressing
himself, "I'll wait till he leaves, and then I'll slip
away." And, saying this, Andrea, who had now put on his
boots and cravat, stole gently to the window, and a second
time lifted up the muslin curtain. Not only was the first
gendarme still there, but the young man now perceived a
second yellow, blue, and white uniform at the foot of the
staircase, the only one by which he could descend, while a
third, on horseback, holding a musket in his fist, was
posted as a sentinel at the great street door which alone
afforded the means of egress.

The appearance of the third gendarme settled the matter, for
a crowd of curious loungers was extended before him,
effectually blocking the entrance to the hotel. "They're
after me!" was Andrea's first thought. "The devil!" A pallor
overspread the young man's forehead, and he looked around
him with anxiety. His room, like all those on the same
floor, had but one outlet to the gallery in the sight of
everybody. "I am lost!" was his second thought; and, indeed,
for a man in Andrea's situation, an arrest meant the
assizes, trial, and death, -- death without mercy or delay.
For a moment he convulsively pressed his head within his
hands, and during that brief period he became nearly mad
with terror; but soon a ray of hope glimmered in the
multitude of thoughts which bewildered his mind, and a faint
smile played upon his white lips and pallid cheeks. He
looked around and saw the objects of his search upon the
chimney-piece; they were a pen, ink, and paper. With forced
composure he dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote the
following lines upon a sheet of paper: --

"I have no money to pay my bill, but I am not a dishonest
man; I leave behind me as a pledge this pin, worth ten times
the amount. I shall be excused for leaving at daybreak, for
I was ashamed."

He then drew the pin from his cravat and placed it on the
paper. This done, instead of leaving the door fastened, he
drew back the bolts and even placed the door ajar, as though
he had left the room, forgetting to close it, and slipping
into the chimney like a man accustomed to that kind of
gymnastic exercise, having effaced the marks of his feet
upon the floor, he commenced climbing the only opening which
afforded him the means of escape. At this precise time, the
first gendarme Andrea had noticed walked up-stairs, preceded
by the commissary of police, and supported by the second
gendarme who guarded the staircase and was himself
re-enforced by the one stationed at the door.

Andrea was indebted for this visit to the following
circumstances. At daybreak, the telegraphs were set at work
in all directions, and almost immediately the authorities in
every district had exerted their utmost endeavors to arrest
the murderer of Caderousse. Compiegne, that royal residence
and fortified town, is well furnished with authorities,
gendarmes, and commissaries of police; they therefore began
operations as soon as the telegraphic despatch arrived, and
the Bell and Bottle being the best-known hotel in the town,
they had naturally directed their first inquiries there.

Now, besides the reports of the sentinels guarding the Hotel
de Ville, which is next door to the Bell and Bottle, it had
been stated by others that a number of travellers had
arrived during the night. The sentinel who was relieved at
six o'clock in the morning, remembered perfectly that just
as he was taking his post a few minutes past four a young
man arrived on horseback, with a little boy before him. The
young man, having dismissed the boy and horse, knocked at
the door of the hotel, which was opened, and again closed
after his entrance. This late arrival had attracted much
suspicion, and the young man being no other than Andrea, the
commissary and gendarme, who was a brigadier, directed their
steps towards his room.

They found the door ajar. "Oh, ho," said the brigadier, who
thoroughly understood the trick; "a bad sign to find the
door open! I would rather find it triply bolted." And,
indeed, the little note and pin upon the table confirmed, or
rather corroborated, the sad truth. Andrea had fled. We say
corroborated, because the brigadier was too experienced to
be convinced by a single proof. He glanced around, looked in
the bed, shook the curtains, opened the closets, and finally
stopped at the chimney. Andrea had taken the precaution to
leave no traces of his feet in the ashes, but still it was
an outlet, and in this light was not to be passed over
without serious investigation.

The brigadier sent for some sticks and straw, and having
filled the chimney with them, set a light to it. The fire
crackled, and the smoke ascended like the dull vapor from a
volcano; but still no prisoner fell down, as they expected.
The fact was, that Andrea, at war with society ever since
his youth, was quite as deep as a gendarme, even though he
were advanced to the rank of brigadier, and quite prepared
for the fire, he had climbed out on the roof and was
crouching down against the chimney-pots. At one time he
thought he was saved, for he heard the brigadier exclaim in
a loud voice, to the two gendarmes, "He is not here!" But
venturing to peep, he perceived that the latter, instead of
retiring, as might have been reasonably expected upon this
announcement, were watching with increased attention.

It was now his turn to look about him; the Hotel de Ville, a
massive sixteenth century building, was on his right; any
one could descend from the openings in the tower, and
examine every corner of the roof below, and Andrea expected
momentarily to see the head of a gendarme appear at one of
these openings. If once discovered, he knew he would be
lost, for the roof afforded no chance of escape; he
therefore resolved to descend, not through the same chimney
by which he had come up, but by a similar one conducting to
another room. He looked around for a chimney from which no
smoke issued, and having reached it, he disappeared through
the orifice without being seen by any one. At the same
minute, one of the little windows of the Hotel de Ville was
thrown open, and the head of a gendarme appeared. For an
instant it remained motionless as one of the stone
decorations of the building, then after a long sigh of
disappointment the head disappeared. The brigadier, calm and
dignified as the law he represented, passed through the
crowd, without answering the thousand questions addressed to
him, and re-entered the hotel.

"Well?" asked the two gendarmes.

"Well, my boys," said the brigadier, "the brigand must
really have escaped early this morning; but we will send to
the Villers-Coterets and Noyon roads, and search the forest,
when we shall catch him, no doubt." The honorable
functionary had scarcely expressed himself thus, in that
intonation which is peculiar to brigadiers of the
gendarmerie, when a loud scream, accompanied by the violent
ringing of a bell, resounded through the court of the hotel.
"Ah, what is that?" cried the brigadier.

"Some traveller seems impatient," said the host. "What
number was it that rang?"

"Number 3."

"Run, waiter!" At this moment the screams and ringing were
redoubled. "Ah," said the brigadier, stopping the servant,
"the person who is ringing appears to want something more
than a waiter; we will attend upon him with a gendarme. Who
occupies Number 3?"

"The little fellow who arrived last night in a post-chaise
with his sister, and who asked for an apartment with two
beds." The bell here rang for the third time, with another
shriek of anguish.

"Follow me, Mr. Commissary!" said the brigadier; "tread in
my steps."

"Wait an instant," said the host; "Number 3 has two
staircases, -- inside and outside."

"Good," said the brigadier. "I will take charge of the
inside one. Are the carbines loaded?"

"Yes, brigadier."

"Well, you guard the exterior, and if he attempts to fly,
fire upon him; he must be a great criminal, from what the
telegraph says."

The brigadier, followed by the commissary, disappeared by
the inside staircase, accompanied by the noise which his
assertions respecting Andrea had excited in the crowd. This
is what had happened. Andrea had very cleverly managed to
descend two-thirds of the chimney, but then his foot
slipped, and notwithstanding his endeavors, he came into the
room with more speed and noise than he intended. It would
have signified little had the room been empty, but
unfortunately it was occupied. Two ladies, sleeping in one
bed, were awakened by the noise, and fixing their eyes upon
the spot whence the sound proceeded, they saw a man. One of
these ladies, the fair one, uttered those terrible shrieks
which resounded through the house, while the other, rushing
to the bell-rope, rang with all her strength. Andrea, as we
can see, was surrounded by misfortune.

"For pity's sake," he cried, pale and bewildered, without
seeing whom he was addressing, -- "for pity's sake do not
call assistance! Save me! -- I will not harm you."

"Andrea, the murderer!" cried one of the ladies.

"Eugenie! Mademoiselle Danglars!" exclaimed Andrea,
stupefied.

"Help, help!" cried Mademoiselle d'Armilly, taking the bell
from her companion's hand, and ringing it yet more
violently. "Save me, I am pursued!" said Andrea, clasping
his hands. "For pity, for mercy's sake do not deliver me
up!"

"It is too late, they are coming," said Eugenie.

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

The two ladies, pressing closely to one another, and drawing
the bedclothes tightly around them, remained silent to this
supplicating voice, repugnance and fear taking possession of
their minds.

"Well, be it so," at length said Eugenie; "return by the
same road you came, and we will say nothing about you,
unhappy wretch."

"Here he is, here he is!" cried a voice from the landing;
"here he is! I see him!" The brigadier had put his eye to
the keyhole, and had discovered Andrea in a posture of
entreaty. A violent blow from the butt end of the musket
burst open the lock, two more forced out the bolts, and the
broken door fell in. Andrea ran to the other door, leading
to the gallery, ready to rush out; but he was stopped short,
and he stood with his body a little thrown back, pale, and
with the useless knife in his clinched hand.

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

"Or kill yourself!" said Eugenie (in a tone which a Vestal
in the amphitheatre would have used, when urging the
victorious gladiator to finish his vanquished adversary).
Andrea shuddered, and looked on the young girl with an
expression which proved how little he understood such
ferocious honor. "Kill myself?" he cried, throwing down his
knife; "why should I do so?"

"Why, you said," answered Mademoiselle Danglars, "that you
would be condemned to die like the worst criminals."

"Bah," said Cavalcanti, crossing his arms, "one has
friends."

The brigadier advanced to him, sword in hand. "Come, come,"
said Andrea, "sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; there is
no occasion to make such a fuss, since I give myself up;"
and he held out his hands to be manacled. The girls looked
with horror upon this shameful metamorphosis, the man of the
world shaking off his covering and appearing as a
galley-slave. Andrea turned towards them, and with an
impertinent smile asked, -- "Have you any message for your
father, Mademoiselle Danglars, for in all probability I
shall return to Paris?"

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

And with this raillery Andrea went out, leaving the two
girls a prey to their own feelings of shame, and to the
comments of the crowd. An hour after they stepped into their
calash, both dressed in feminine attire. The gate of the
hotel had been closed to screen them from sight, but they
were forced, when the door was open, to pass through a
throng of curious glances and whispering voices. Eugenie
closed her eyes; but though she could not see, she could
hear, and the sneers of the crowd reached her in the
carriage. "Oh, why is not the world a wilderness?" she
exclaimed, throwing herself into the arms of Mademoiselle
d'Armilly, her eyes sparkling with the same kind of rage
which made Nero wish that the Roman world had but one neck,
that he might sever it at a single blow. The next day they
stopped at the Hotel de Flandre, at Brussels. The same
evening Andrea was incarcerated in the Conciergerie.



Chapter 99
The Law.

We have seen how quietly Mademoiselle Danglars and
Mademoiselle d'Armilly accomplished their transformation and
flight; the fact being that every one was too much occupied
in his or her own affairs to think of theirs. We will leave
the banker contemplating the enormous magnitude of his debt
before the phantom of bankruptcy, and follow the baroness,
who after being momentarily crushed under the weight of the
blow which had struck her, had gone to seek her usual
adviser, Lucien Debray. The baroness had looked forward to
this marriage as a means of ridding her of a guardianship
which, over a girl of Eugenie's character, could not fail to
be rather a troublesome undertaking; for in the tacit
relations which maintain the bond of family union, the
mother, to maintain her ascendancy over her daughter, must
never fail to be a model of wisdom and a type of perfection.

Now, Madame Danglars feared Eugenie's sagacity and the
influence of Mademoiselle d'Armilly; she had frequently
observed the contemptuous expression with which her daughter
looked upon Debray, -- an expression which seemed to imply
that she understood all her mother's amorous and pecuniary
relationships with the intimate secretary; moreover, she saw
that Eugenie detested Debray, -- not only because he was a
source of dissension and scandal under the paternal roof,
but because she had at once classed him in that catalogue of
bipeds whom Plato endeavors to withdraw from the appellation
of men, and whom Diogenes designated as animals upon two
legs without feathers.

Unfortunately, in this world of ours, each person views
things through a certain medium, and so is prevented from
seeing in the same light as others, and Madame Danglars,
therefore, very much regretted that the marriage of Eugenie
had not taken place, not only because the match was good,
and likely to insure the happiness of her child, but because
it would also set her at liberty. She ran therefore to
Debray, who, after having like the rest of Paris witnessed
the contract scene and the scandal attending it, had retired
in haste to his club, where he was chatting with some
friends upon the events which served as a subject of
conversation for three-fourths of that city known as the
capital of the world.

At the precise time when Madame Danglars, dressed in black
and concealed in a long veil, was ascending the stairs
leading to Debray's apartments, -- notwithstanding the
assurances of the concierge that the young man was not at
home, -- Debray was occupied in repelling the insinuations
of a friend, who tried to persuade him that after the
terrible scene which had just taken place he ought, as a
friend of the family, to marry Mademoiselle Danglars and her
two millions. Debray did not defend himself very warmly, for
the idea had sometimes crossed his mind; still, when he
recollected the independent, proud spirit of Eugenie, he
positively rejected it as utterly impossible, though the
same thought again continually recurred and found a
resting-place in his heart. Tea, play, and the conversation,
which had become interesting during the discussion of such
serious affairs, lasted till one o'clock in the morning.

Meanwhile Madame Danglars, veiled and uneasy, awaited the
return of Debray in the little green room, seated between
two baskets of flowers, which she had that morning sent, and
which, it must be confessed, Debray had himself arranged and
watered with so much care that his absence was half excused
in the eyes of the poor woman.

At twenty minutes of twelve, Madame Danglars, tired of
waiting, returned home. Women of a certain grade are like
prosperous grisettes in one respect, they seldom return home
after twelve o'clock. The baroness returned to the hotel
with as much caution as Eugenie used in leaving it; she ran
lightly up-stairs, and with an aching heart entered her
apartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eugenie. She
was fearful of exciting any remark, and believed firmly in
her daughter's innocence and fidelity to the paternal roof.
She listened at Eugenie's door, and hearing no sound tried
to enter, but the bolts were in place. Madame Danglars then
concluded that the young girl had been overcome with the
terrible excitement of the evening, and had gone to bed and
to sleep. She called the maid and questioned her.

"Mademoiselle Eugenie," said the maid, "retired to her
apartment with Mademoiselle d'Armilly; they then took tea
together, after which they desired me to leave, saying that
they needed me no longer." Since then the maid had been
below, and like every one else she thought the young ladies
were in their own room; Madame Danglars, therefore, went to
bed without a shadow of suspicion, and began to muse over
the recent events. In proportion as her memory became
clearer, the occurrences of the evening were revealed in
their true light; what she had taken for confusion was a
tumult; what she had regarded as something distressing, was
in reality a disgrace. And then the baroness remembered that
she had felt no pity for poor Mercedes, who had been
afflicted with as severe a blow through her husband and son.

"Eugenie," she said to herself, "is lost, and so are we. The
affair, as it will be reported, will cover us with shame;
for in a society such as ours satire inflicts a painful and
incurable wound. How fortunate that Eugenie is possessed of
that strange character which has so often made me tremble!"
And her glance was turned towards heaven, where a mysterious
providence disposes all things, and out of a fault, nay,
even a vice, sometimes produces a blessing. And then her
thoughts, cleaving through space like a bird in the air,
rested on Cavalcanti. This Andrea was a wretch, a robber, an
assassin, and yet his manners showed the effects of a sort
of education, if not a complete one; he had been presented
to the world with the appearance of an immense fortune,
supported by an honorable name. How could she extricate
herself from this labyrinth? To whom would she apply to help
her out of this painful situation? Debray, to whom she had
run, with the first instinct of a woman towards the man she
loves, and who yet betrays her, -- Debray could but give her
advice, she must apply to some one more powerful than he.

The baroness then thought of M. de Villefort. It was M. de
Villefort who had remorselessly brought misfortune into her
family, as though they had been strangers. But, no; on
reflection, the procureur was not a merciless man; and it
was not the magistrate, slave to his duties, but the friend,
the loyal friend, who roughly but firmly cut into the very
core of the corruption; it was not the executioner, but the
surgeon, who wished to withdraw the honor of Danglars from
ignominious association with the disgraced young man they
had presented to the world as their son-in-law. And since
Villefort, the friend of Danglars, had acted in this way, no
one could suppose that he had been previously acquainted
with, or had lent himself to, any of Andrea's intrigues.
Villefort's conduct, therefore, upon reflection, appeared to
the baroness as if shaped for their mutual advantage. But
the inflexibility of the procureur should stop there; she
would see him the next day, and if she could not make him
fail in his duties as a magistrate, she would, at least,
obtain all the indulgence he could allow. She would invoke
the past, recall old recollections; she would supplicate him
by the remembrance of guilty, yet happy days. M. de
Villefort would stifle the affair; he had only to turn his
eyes on one side, and allow Andrea to fly, and follow up the
crime under that shadow of guilt called contempt of court.
And after this reasoning she slept easily.

At nine o'clock next morning she arose, and without ringing
for her maid or giving the least sign of her activity, she
dressed herself in the same simple style as on the previous
night; then running down-stairs, she left the hotel. walked
to the Rue de Provence, called a cab, and drove to M. de
Villefort's house. For the last month this wretched house
had presented the gloomy appearance of a lazaretto infected
with the plague. Some of the apartments were closed within
and without; the shutters were only opened to admit a
minute's air, showing the scared face of a footman, and
immediately afterwards the window would be closed, like a
gravestone falling on a sepulchre, and the neighbors would
say to each other in a low voice, "Will there be another
funeral to-day at the procureur's house?" Madame Danglars
involuntarily shuddered at the desolate aspect of the
mansion; descending from the cab, she approached the door
with trembling knees, and rang the bell. Three times did the
bell ring with a dull, heavy sound, seeming to participate,
in the general sadness, before the concierge appeared and
peeped through the door, which he opened just wide enough to
allow his words to be heard. He saw a lady, a fashionable,
elegantly dressed lady, and yet the door remained almost
closed.

"Do you intend opening the door?" said the baroness.

"First, madame, who are you?"

"Who am I? You know me well enough."

"We no longer know any one, madame."

"You must be mad, my friend," said the baroness.

"Where do you come from?"

"Oh, this is too much!"

"Madame, these are my orders; excuse me. Your name?"

"The baroness Danglars; you have seen me twenty times."

"Possibly, madame. And now, what do you want?"

"Oh, how extraordinary! I shall complain to M. de Villefort
of the impertinence of his servants."

"Madame, this is precaution, not impertinence; no one enters
here without an order from M. d'Avrigny, or without speaking
to the procureur."

"Well, I have business with the procureur."

"Is it pressing business?"

"You can imagine so, since I have not even brought my
carriage out yet. But enough of this -- here is my card,
take it to your master."

"Madame will await my return?"

"Yes; go." The concierge closed the door, leaving Madame
Danglars in the street. She had not long to wait; directly
afterwards the door was opened wide enough to admit her, and
when she had passed through, it was again shut. Without
losing sight of her for an instant, the concierge took a
whistle from his pocket as soon as they entered the court,
and blew it. The valet de chambre appeared on the
door-steps. "You will excuse this poor fellow, madame," he
said, as he preceded the baroness, "but his orders are
precise, and M. de Villefort begged me to tell you that he
could not act otherwise."

In the court showing his merchandise, was a tradesman who
had been admitted with the same precautions. The baroness
ascended the steps; she felt herself strongly infected with
the sadness which seemed to magnify her own, and still
guided by the valet de chambre, who never lost sight of her
for an instant, she was introduced to the magistrate's
study. Preoccupied as Madame Danglars had been with the
object of her visit, the treatment she had received from
these underlings appeared to her so insulting, that she
began by complaining of it. But Villefort, raising his head,
bowed down by grief, looked up at her with so sad a smile
that her complaints died upon her lips. "Forgive my
servants," he said, "for a terror I cannot blame them for;
from being suspected they have become suspicious."

Madame Danglars had often heard of the terror to which the
magistrate alluded, but without the evidence of her own
eyesight she could never have believed that the sentiment
had been carried so far. "You too, then, are unhappy?" she
said. "Yes, madame," replied the magistrate.

"Then you pity me!"

"Sincerely, madame."

"And you understand what brings me here?"

"You wish to speak to me about the circumstance which has
just happened?"

"Yes, sir, -- a fearful misfortune."

"You mean a mischance."

"A mischance?" repeated the baroness.

"Alas, madame," said the procureur with his imperturbable
calmness of manner, "I consider those alone misfortunes
which are irreparable."

"And do you suppose this will be forgotten?"

"Everything will be forgotten, madame," said Villefort.
"Your daughter will be married to-morrow, if not to-day --
in a week, if not to-morrow; and I do not think you can
regret the intended husband of your daughter."

Madame Danglars gazed on Villefort, stupefied to find him so
almost insultingly calm. "Am I come to a friend?" she asked
in a tone full of mournful dignity. "You know that you are,
madame," said Villefort, whose pale cheeks became slightly
flushed as he gave her the assurance. And truly this
assurance carried him back to different events from those
now occupying the baroness and him. "Well, then, be more
affectionate, my dear Villefort," said the baroness. "Speak
to me not as a magistrate, but as a friend; and when I am in
bitter anguish of spirit, do not tell me that I ought to be
gay." Villefort bowed. "When I hear misfortunes named,
madame," he said, "I have within the last few mouths
contracted the bad habit of thinking of my own, and then I
cannot help drawing up an egotistical parallel in my mind.
That is the reason that by the side of my misfortunes yours
appear to me mere mischances; that is why my dreadful
position makes yours appear enviable. But this annoys you;
let us change the subject. You were saying, madame" --

"I came to ask you, my friend," said the baroness, "what
will be done with this impostor?"

"Impostor," repeated Villefort; "certainly, madame, you
appear to extenuate some cases, and exaggerate others.
Impostor, indeed! -- M. Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather M.
Benedetto, is nothing more nor less than an assassin!"

"Sir, I do not deny the justice of your correction, but the
more severely you arm yourself against that unfortunate man,
the more deeply will you strike our family. Come, forget him
for a moment, and instead of pursuing him let him go."

"You are too late, madame; the orders are issued."

"Well, should he be arrested -- do they think they will
arrest him?"

"I hope so."

"If they should arrest him (I know that sometimes prisoners
afford means of escape), will you leave him in prison?" --
The procureur shook his head. "At least keep him there till
my daughter be married."

"Impossible, madame; justice has its formalities."

"What, even for me?" said the baroness, half jesting, half
in earnest. "For all, even for myself among the rest,"
replied Villefort.

"Ah," exclaimed the baroness, without expressing the ideas
which the exclamation betrayed. Villefort looked at her with
that piercing glance which reads the secrets of the heart.
"Yes, I know what you mean," he said; "you refer to the
terrible rumors spread abroad in the world, that the deaths
which have kept me in mourning for the last three months,
and from which Valentine has only escaped by a miracle, have
not happened by natural means."

"I was not thinking of that," replied Madame Danglars
quickly. "Yes, you were thinking of it, and with justice.
You could not help thinking of it, and saying to yourself,
`you, who pursue crime so vindictively, answer now, why are
there unpunished crimes in your dwelling?'" The baroness
became pale. "You were saying this, were you not?"

"Well, I own it."

"I will answer you."

Villefort drew his armchair nearer to Madame Danglars; then
resting both hands upon his desk he said in a voice more
hollow than usual: "There are crimes which remain unpunished
because the criminals are unknown, and we might strike the
innocent instead of the guilty; but when the culprits are
discovered" (Villefort here extended his hand toward a large
crucifix placed opposite to his desk) -- "when they are
discovered, I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that
whoever they may be they shall die. Now, after the oath I
have just taken, and which I will keep, madame, dare you ask
for mercy for that wretch!"

"But, sir, are you sure he is as guilty as they say?"

"Listen; this is his description: `Benedetto, condemned, at
the age of sixteen, for five years to the galleys for
forgery.' He promised well, as you see -- first a runaway,
then an assassin."

"And who is this wretch?"

"Who can tell? -- a vagabond, a Corsican."

"Has no one owned him?"

"No one; his parents are unknown."

"But who was the man who brought him from Lucca?"

"Another rascal like himself, perhaps his accomplice." The
baroness clasped her hands. "Villefort," she exclaimed in
her softest and most captivating manner.

"For heaven's sake, madame," said Villefort, with a firmness
of expression not altogether free from harshness -- "for
heaven's sake, do not ask pardon of me for a guilty wretch!
What am I? -- the law. Has the law any eyes to witness your
grief? Has the law ears to be melted by your sweet voice?
Has the law a memory for all those soft recollections you
endeavor to recall? No, madame; the law has commanded, and
when it commands it strikes. You will tell me that I am a
living being, and not a code -- a man, and not a volume.
Look at me, madame -- look around me. Have mankind treated
me as a brother? Have they loved me? Have they spared me?
Has any one shown the mercy towards me that you now ask at
my hands? No, madame, they struck me, always struck me!

"Woman, siren that you are, do you persist in fixing on me
that fascinating eye, which reminds me that I ought to
blush? Well, be it so; let me blush for the faults you know,
and perhaps -- perhaps for even more than those! But having
sinned myself, -- it may be more deeply than others, -- I
never rest till I have torn the disguises from my
fellow-creatures, and found out their weaknesses. I have
always found them; and more, -- I repeat it with joy, with
triumph, -- I have always found some proof of human
perversity or error. Every criminal I condemn seems to me
living evidence that I am not a hideous exception to the
rest. Alas, alas, alas; all the world is wicked; let us
therefore strike at wickedness!"

Villefort pronounced these last words with a feverish rage,
which gave a ferocious eloquence to his words.

"But"' said Madame Danglars, resolving to make a last
effort, "this young man, though a murderer, is an orphan,
abandoned by everybody."

"So much the worse, or rather, so much the better; it has
been so ordained that he may have none to weep his fate."

"But this is trampling on the weak, sir."

"The weakness of a murderer!"

"His dishonor reflects upon us."

"Is not death in my house?"

"Oh, sir," exclaimed the baroness, "you are without pity for
others, well, then, I tell you they will have no mercy on
you!"

"Be it so!" said Villefort, raising his arms to heaven.

"At least, delay the trial till the next assizes; we shall
then have six months before us."

"No, madame," said Villefort; "instructions have been given.
There are yet five days left; five days are more than I
require. Do you not think that I also long for
forgetfulness? While working night and day, I sometimes lose
all recollection of the past, and then I experience the same
sort of happiness I can imagine the dead feel; still, it is
better than suffering."

"But, sir, he has fled; let him escape -- inaction is a
pardonable offence."

"I tell you it is too late; early this morning the telegraph
was employed, and at this very minute" --

"Sir," said the valet de chambre, entering the room, "a
dragoon has brought this despatch from the minister of the
interior." Villefort seized the letter, and hastily broke
the seal. Madame Danglars trembled with fear; Villefort
started with joy. "Arrested!" he exclaimed; "he was taken at
Compiegne, and all is over." Madame Danglars rose from her
seat, pale and cold. "Adieu, sir," she said. "Adieu,
madame," replied the king's attorney, as in an almost joyful
manner he conducted her to the door. Then, turning to his
desk, he said, striking the letter with the back of his
right hand, "Come, I had a forgery, three robberies, and two
cases of arson, I only wanted a murder, and here it is. It
will be a splendid session!"



Chapter 100
The Apparition.

As the procureur had told Madame Danglars, Valentine was not
yet recovered. Bowed down with fatigue, she was indeed
confined to her bed; and it was in her own room, and from
the lips of Madame de Villefort, that she heard all the
strange events we have related, -- we mean the flight of
Eugenie and the arrest of Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather
Benedetto, together with the accusation of murder pronounced
against him. But Valentine was so weak that this recital
scarcely produced the same effect it would have done had she
been in her usual state of health. Indeed, her brain was
only the seat of vague ideas, and confused forms, mingled
with strange fancies, alone presented themselves before her
eyes.

During the daytime Valentine's perceptions remained
tolerably clear, owing to the constant presence of M.
Noirtier, who caused himself to be carried to his
granddaughter's room, and watched her with his paternal
tenderness; Villefort also, on his return from the law
courts, frequently passed an hour or two with his father and
child. At six o'clock Villefort retired to his study, at
eight M. d'Avrigny himself arrived, bringing the night
draught prepared for the young girl, and then M. Noirtier
was carried away. A nurse of the doctor's choice succeeded
them, and never left till about ten or eleven o'clock, when
Valentine was asleep. As she went down-stairs she gave the
keys of Valentine's room to M. de Villefort, so that no one
could reach the sick-room excepting through that of Madame
de Villefort and little Edward.

Every morning Morrel called on Noirtier to receive news of
Valentine, and, extraordinary as it seemed, each day found
him less uneasy. Certainly, though Valentine still labored
under dreadful nervous excitement, she was better; and
moreover, Monte Cristo had told him when, half distracted,
he had rushed to the count's house, that if she were not
dead in two hours she would be saved. Now four days had
elapsed, and Valentine still lived.

The nervous excitement of which we speak pursued Valentine
even in her sleep, or rather in that state of somnolence
which succeeded her waking hours; it was then, in the
silence of night, in the dim light shed from the alabaster
lamp on the chimney-piece, that she saw the shadows pass and
repass which hover over the bed of sickness, and fan the
fever with their trembling wings. First she fancied she saw
her stepmother threatening her, then Morrel stretched his
arms towards her; sometimes mere strangers, like the Count
of Monte Cristo came to visit her; even the very furniture,
in these moments of delirium, seemed to move, and this state
lasted till about three o'clock in the morning, when a deep,
heavy slumber overcame the young girl, from which she did
not awake till daylight. On the evening of the day on which
Valentine had learned of the flight of Eugenie and the
arrest of Benedetto, -- Villefort having retired as well as
Noirtier and d'Avrigny, -- her thoughts wandered in a
confused maze, alternately reviewing her own situation and
the events she had just heard.

Eleven o'clock had struck. The nurse, having placed the
beverage prepared by the doctor within reach of the patient,
and locked the door, was listening with terror to the
comments of the servants in the kitchen, and storing her
memory with all the horrible stories which had for some
months past amused the occupants of the ante-chambers in the
house of the king's attorney. Meanwhile an unexpected scene
was passing in the room which had been so carefully locked.
Ten minutes had elapsed since the nurse had left; Valentine,
who for the last hour had been suffering from the fever
which returned nightly, incapable of controlling her ideas,
was forced to yield to the excitement which exhausted itself
in producing and reproducing a succession and recurrence of
the same fancies and images. The night-lamp threw out
countless rays, each resolving itself into some strange form
to her disordered imagination, when suddenly by its
flickering light Valentine thought she saw the door of her
library, which was in the recess by the chimney-piece, open
slowly, though she in vain listened for the sound of the
hinges on which it turned.

At any other time Valentine would have seized the silken
bell-pull and summoned assistance, but nothing astonished
her in her present situation. Her reason told her that all
the visions she beheld were but the children of her
imagination, and the conviction was strengthened by the fact
that in the morning no traces remained of the nocturnal
phantoms, who disappeared with the coming of daylight. From
behind the door a human figure appeared, but the girl was
too familiar with such apparitions to be alarmed, and
therefore only stared, hoping to recognize Morrel. The
figure advanced towards the bed and appeared to listen with
profound attention. At this moment a ray of light glanced
across the face of the midnight visitor.

"It is not he," she murmured, and waited, in the assurance
that this was but a dream, for the man to disappear or
assume some other form. Still, she felt her pulse, and
finding it throb violently she remembered that the best
method of dispelling such illusions was to drink, for a
draught of the beverage prepared by the doctor to allay her
fever seemed to cause a reaction of the brain, and for a
short time she suffered less. Valentine therefore reached
her hand towards the glass, but as soon as her trembling arm
left the bed the apparition advanced more quickly towards
her, and approached the young girl so closely that she
fancied she heard his breath, and felt the pressure of his
hand.

This time the illusion, or rather the reality, surpassed
anything Valentine had before experienced; she began to
believe herself really alive and awake, and the belief that
her reason was this time not deceived made her shudder. The
pressure she felt was evidently intended to arrest her arm,
and she slowly withdrew it. Then the figure, from whom she
could not detach her eyes, and who appeared more protecting
than menacing, took the glass, and walking towards the
night-light held it up, as if to test its transparency. This
did not seem sufficient; the man, or rather the ghost -- for
he trod so softly that no sound was heard -- then poured out
about a spoonful into the glass, and drank it. Valentine
witnessed this scene with a sentiment of stupefaction. Every
minute she had expected that it would vanish and give place
to another vision; but the man, instead of dissolving like a
shadow, again approached her, and said in an agitated voice,
"Now you may drink."

Valentine shuddered. It was the first time one of these
visions had ever addressed her in a living voice, and she
was about to utter an exclamation. The man placed his finger
on her lips. "The Count of Monte Cristo!" she murmured.

It was easy to see that no doubt now remained in the young
girl's mind as to the reality of the scene; her eyes started
with terror, her hands trembled, and she rapidly drew the
bedclothes closer to her. Still, the presence of Monte
Cristo at such an hour, his mysterious, fanciful, and
extraordinary entrance into her room through the wall, might
well seem impossibilities to her shattered reason. "Do not
call any one -- do not be alarmed," said the Count; "do not
let a shade of suspicion or uneasiness remain in your
breast; the man standing before you, Valentine (for this
time it is no ghost), is nothing more than the tenderest
father and the most respectful friend you could dream of."

Valentine could not reply; the voice which indicated the
real presence of a being in the room, alarmed her so much
that she feared to utter a syllable; still the expression of
her eyes seemed to inquire, "If your intentions are pure,
why are you here?" The count's marvellous sagacity
understood all that was passing in the young girl's mind.

"Listen to me," he said, "or, rather, look upon me; look at
my face, paler even than usual, and my eyes, red with
weariness -- for four days I have not closed them, for I
have been constantly watching you, to protect and preserve
you for Maximilian." The blood mounted rapidly to the cheeks
of Valentine, for the name just announced by the count
dispelled all the fear with which his presence had inspired
her. "Maximilian!" she exclaimed, and so sweet did the sound
appear to her, that she repeated it -- "Maximilian! -- has
he then owned all to you?"

"Everything. He told me your life was his, and I have
promised him that you shall live."

"You have promised him that I shall live?"

"Yes."

"But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and protection. Are you a
doctor?"

"Yes; the best you could have at the present time, believe
me."

"But you say you have watched?" said Valentine uneasily;
"where have you been? -- I have not seen you." The count
extended his hand towards the library. "I was hidden behind
that door," he said, "which leads into the next house, which
I have rented." Valentine turned her eyes away, and, with an
indignant expression of pride and modest fear, exclaimed:
"Sir, I think you have been guilty of an unparalleled
intrusion, and that what you call protection is more like an
insult."

"Valentine," he answered, "during my long watch over you,
all I have observed has been what people visited you, what
nourishment was prepared, and what beverage was served;
then, when the latter appeared dangerous to me, I entered,
as I have now done, and substituted, in the place of the
poison, a healthful draught; which, instead of producing the
death intended, caused life to circulate in your veins."

"Poison -- death!" exclaimed Valentine, half believing
herself under the influence of some feverish hallucination;
"what are you saying, sir?"

"Hush, my child," said Monte Cristo, again placing his
finger upon her lips, "I did say poison and death. But drink
some of this;" and the count took a bottle from his pocket,
containing a red liquid, of which he poured a few drops into
the glass. "Drink this, and then take nothing more
to-night." Valentine stretched out her hand, but scarcely
had she touched the glass when she drew back in fear. Monte
Cristo took the glass, drank half its contents, and then
presented it to Valentine, who smiled and swallowed the
rest. "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "I recognize the flavor of
my nocturnal beverage which refreshed me so much, and seemed
to ease my aching brain. Thank you, sir, thank you!"

"This is how you have lived during the last four nights,
Valentine," said the count. "But, oh, how I passed that
time! Oh, the wretched hours I have endured -- the torture
to which I have submitted when I saw the deadly poison
poured into your glass, and how I trembled lest you should
drink it before I could find time to throw it away!"

"Sir," said Valentine, at the height of her terror, "you say
you endured tortures when you saw the deadly poison poured
into my glass; but if you saw this, you must also have seen
the person who poured it?"

"Yes." Valentine raised herself in bed, and drew over her
chest, which appeared whiter than snow, the embroidered
cambric, still moist with the cold dews of delirium, to
which were now added those of terror. "You saw the person?"
repeated the young girl. "Yes," repeated the count.

"What you tell me is horrible, sir. You wish to make me
believe something too dreadful. What? -- attempt to murder
me in my father's house, in my room, on my bed of sickness?
Oh, leave me, sir; you are tempting me -- you make me doubt
the goodness of providence -- it is impossible, it cannot
be!"

"Are you the first that this hand has stricken? Have you not
seen M. de Saint-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran, Barrois, all
fall? would not M. Noirtier also have fallen a victim, had
not the treatment he has been pursuing for the last three
years neutralized the effects of the poison?"

"Oh, heaven," said Valentine; "is this the reason why
grandpapa has made me share all his beverages during the
last month?"

"And have they all tasted of a slightly bitter flavor, like
that of dried orange-peel?"

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"Then that explains all," said Monte Cristo. "Your
grandfather knows, then, that a poisoner lives here; perhaps
he even suspects the person. He has been fortifying you, his
beloved child, against the fatal effects of the poison,
which has failed because your system was already impregnated
with it. But even this would have availed little against a
more deadly medium of death employed four days ago, which is
generally but too fatal."

"But who, then, is this assassin, this murderer?"

"Let me also ask you a question. Have you never seen any one
enter your room at night?"

"Oh, yes; I have frequently seen shadows pass close to me,
approach, and disappear; but I took them for visions raised
by my feverish imagination, and indeed when you entered I
thought I was under the influence of delirium."

"Then you do not know who it is that attempts your life?"

"No," said Valentine; "who could desire my death?"

"You shall know it now, then," said Monte Cristo, listening.

"How do you mean?" said Valentine, looking anxiously around.

"Because you are not feverish or delirious to-night, but
thoroughly awake; midnight is striking, which is the hour
murderers choose."

"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, wiping off the drops
which ran down her forehead. Midnight struck slowly and
sadly; every hour seemed to strike with leaden weight upon
the heart of the poor girl. "Valentine," said the count,
"summon up all your courage; still the beatings of your
heart; do not let a sound escape you, and feign to be
asleep; then you will see." Valentine seized the count's
hand. "I think I hear a noise," she said; "leave me."

"Good-by, for the present," replied the count, walking upon
tiptoe towards the library door, and smiling with an
expression so sad and paternal that the young girl's heart
was filled with gratitude. Before closing the door he turned
around once more, and said, "Not a movement -- not a word;
let them think you asleep, or perhaps you may be killed
before I have the power of helping you." And with this
fearful injunction the count disappeared through the door,
which noiselessly closed after him.



Chapter 101
Locusta.

Valentine was alone; two other clocks, slower than that of
Saint-Philippe du Roule, struck the hour of midnight from
different directions, and excepting the rumbling of a few
carriages all was silent. Then Valentine's attention was
engrossed by the clock in her room, which marked the
seconds. She began counting them, remarking that they were
much slower than the beatings of her heart; and still she
doubted, -- the inoffensive Valentine could not imagine that
any one should desire her death. Why should they? To what
end? What had she done to excite the malice of an enemy?
There was no fear of her falling asleep. One terrible idea
pressed upon her mind, -- that some one existed in the world
who had attempted to assassinate her, and who was about to
endeavor to do so again. Supposing this person, wearied at
the inefficacy of the poison, should, as Monte Cristo
intimated, have recourse to steel! -- What if the count
should have no time to run to her rescue! -- What if her
last moments were approaching, and she should never again
see Morrel! When this terrible chain of ideas presented
itself, Valentine was nearly persuaded to ring the bell, and
call for help. But through the door she fancied she saw the
luminous eye of the count -- that eye which lived in her
memory, and the recollection overwhelmed her with so much
shame that she asked herself whether any amount of gratitude
could ever repay his adventurous and devoted friendship.

Twenty minutes, twenty tedious minutes, passed thus, then
ten more, and at last the clock struck the half-flour. Just
then the sound of finger-nails slightly grating against the
door of the library informed Valentine that the count was
still watching, and recommended her to do the same; at the
same time, on the opposite side, that is towards Edward's
room, Valentine fancied that she heard the creaking of the
floor; she listened attentively, holding her breath till she
was nearly suffocated; the lock turned, and the door slowly
opened. Valentine had raised herself upon her elbow, and had
scarcely time to throw herself down on the bed and shade her
eyes with her arm; then, trembling, agitated, and her heart
beating with indescribable terror, she awaited the event.

Some one approached the bed and drew back the curtains.
Valentine summoned every effort, and breathed with that
regular respiration which announces tranquil sleep.
"Valentine!" said a low voice. Still silent: Valentine had
promised not to awake. Then everything was still, excepting
that Valentine heard the almost noiseless sound of some
liquid being poured into the glass she had just emptied.
Then she ventured to open her eyelids, and glance over her
extended arm. She saw a woman in a white dressing-gown
pouring a liquor from a phial into her glass. During this
short time Valentine must have held her breath, or moved in
some slight degree, for the woman, disturbed, stopped and
leaned over the bed, in order the better to ascertain
whether Valentine slept -- it was Madame de Villefort.

On recognizing her step-mother, Valentine could not repress
a shudder, which caused a vibration in the bed. Madame de
Villefort instantly stepped back close to the wall, and
there, shaded by the bed-curtains, she silently and
attentively watched the slightest movement of Valentine. The
latter recollected the terrible caution of Monte Cristo; she
fancied that the hand not holding the phial clasped a long
sharp knife. Then collecting all her remaining strength, she
forced herself to close her eyes; but this simple operation
upon the most delicate organs of our frame, generally so
easy to accomplish, became almost impossible at this moment,
so much did curiosity struggle to retain the eyelid open and
learn the truth. Madame de Villefort, however, reassured by
the silence, which was alone disturbed by the regular
breathing of Valentine, again extended her hand, and half
hidden by the curtains succeeded in emptying the contents of
the phial into the glass. Then she retired so gently that
Valentine did not know she had left the room. She only
witnessed the withdrawal of the arm -- the fair round arm of
a woman but twenty-five years old, and who yet spread death
around her.

It is impossible to describe the sensations experienced by
Valentine during the minute and a half Madame de Villefort
remained in the room. The grating against the library-door
aroused the young girl from the stupor in which she was
plunged, and which almost amounted to insensibility. She
raised her head with an effort. The noiseless door again
turned on its hinges, and the Count of Monte Cristo
reappeared. "Well," said he, "do you still doubt?"

"Oh," murmured the young girl.

"Have you seen?"

"Alas!"

"Did you recognize?" Valentine groaned. "Oh, yes;" she said,
"I saw, but I cannot believe!"

"Would you rather die, then, and cause Maximilian's death?"

"Oh," repeated the young girl, almost bewildered, "can I not
leave the house? -- can I not escape?"

"Valentine, the hand which now threatens you will pursue you
everywhere; your servants will be seduced with gold, and
death will be offered to you disguised in every shape. You
will find it in the water you drink from the spring, in the
fruit you pluck from the tree."

"But did you not say that my kind grandfather's precaution
had neutralized the poison?"

"Yes, but not against a strong dose; the poison will be
changed, and the quantity increased." He took the glass and
raised it to his lips. "It is already done," he said;
"brucine is no longer employed, but a simple narcotic! I can
recognize the flavor of the alcohol in which it has been
dissolved. If you had taken what Madame de Villefort has
poured into your glass, Valentine -- Valentine -- you would
have been doomed!"

"But," exclaimed the young girl, "why am I thus pursued?"

"Why? -- are you so kind -- so good -- so unsuspicious of
ill, that you cannot understand, Valentine?"

"No, I have never injured her."

"But you are rich, Valentine; you have 200,000 livres a
year, and you prevent her son from enjoying these 200,000
livres."

"How so? The fortune is not her gift, but is inherited from
my relations."

"Certainly; and that is why M. and Madame de Saint-Meran
have died; that is why M. Noirtier was sentenced the day he
made you his heir; that is why you, in your turn, are to die
-- it is because your father would inherit your property,
and your brother, his only son, succeed to his."

"Edward? Poor child! Are all these crimes committed on his
account?"

"Ah, then you at length understand?"

"Heaven grant that this may not be visited upon him!"

"Valentine, you are an angel!"

"But why is my grandfather allowed to live?"

"It was considered, that you dead, the fortune would
naturally revert to your brother, unless he were
disinherited; and besides, the crime appearing useless, it
would be folly to commit it."

"And is it possible that this frightful combination of
crimes has been invented by a woman?"

"Do you recollect in the arbor of the Hotel des Postes, at
Perugia, seeing a man in a brown cloak, whom your stepmother
was questioning upon aqua tofana? Well, ever since then, the
infernal project has been ripening in her brain."

"Ah, then, indeed, sir," said the sweet girl, bathed in
tears, "I see that I am condemned to die!"

"No, Valentine, for I have foreseen all their plots; no,
your enemy is conquered since we know her, and you will
live, Valentine -- live to be happy yourself, and to confer
happiness upon a noble heart; but to insure this you must
rely on me."

"Command me, sir -- what am I to do?"

"You must blindly take what I give you."

"Alas, were it only for my own sake, I should prefer to
die!"

"You must not confide in any one -- not even in your
father."

"My father is not engaged in this fearful plot, is he, sir?"
asked Valentine, clasping her hands.

"No; and yet your father, a man accustomed to judicial
accusations, ought to have known that all these deaths have
not happened naturally; it is he who should have watched
over you -- he should have occupied my place -- he should
have emptied that glass -- he should have risen against the
assassin. Spectre against spectre!" he murmured in a low
voice, as he concluded his sentence.

"Sir," said Valentine, "I will do all I can to live. for
there are two beings whose existence depends upon mine -- my
grandfather and Maximilian."

"I will watch over them as I have over you."

"Well, sir, do as you will with me;" and then she added, in
a low voice, "oh, heavens, what will befall me?"

"Whatever may happen, Valentine, do not be alarmed; though
you suffer; though you lose sight, hearing, consciousness,
fear nothing; though you should awake and be ignorant where
you are, still do not fear; even though you should find
yourself in a sepulchral vault or coffin. Reassure yourself,
then, and say to yourself: `At this moment, a friend, a
father, who lives for my happiness and that of Maximilian,
watches over me!'"

"Alas, alas, what a fearful extremity!"

"Valentine, would you rather denounce your stepmother?"

"I would rather die a hundred times -- oh, yes, die!"

"No, you will not die; but will you promise me, whatever
happens, that you will not complain, but hope?"

"I will think of Maximilian!"

"You are my own darling child, Valentine! I alone can save
you, and I will." Valentine in the extremity of her terror
joined her hands, -- for she felt that the moment had
arrived to ask for courage, -- and began to pray, and while
uttering little more than incoherent words, she forgot that
her white shoulders had no other covering than her long
hair, and that the pulsations of her heart could he seen
through the lace of her nightdress. Monte Cristo gently laid
his hand on the young girl's arm, drew the velvet coverlet
close to her throat, and said with a paternal smile, -- "My
child, believe in my devotion to you as you believe in the
goodness of providence and the love of Maximilian."

Then he drew from his waistcoat-pocket the little emerald
box, raised the golden lid, and took from it a pastille
about the size of a pea, which he placed in her hand. She
took it, and looked attentively on the count; there was an
expression on the face of her intrepid protector which
commanded her veneration. She evidently interrogated him by
her look. "Yes," said he. Valentine carried the pastille to
her mouth, and swallowed it. "And now, my dear child, adieu
for the present. I will try and gain a little sleep, for you
are saved."

"Go," said Valentine, "whatever happens, I promise you not
to fear."

Monte Cristo for some time kept his eyes fixed on the young
girl, who gradually fell asleep, yielding to the effects of
the narcotic the count had given her. Then he took the
glass, emptied three parts of the contents in the fireplace,
that it might be supposed Valentine had taken it, and
replaced it on the table; then he disappeared, after
throwing a farewell glance on Valentine, who slept with the
confidence and innocence of an angel.



Chapter 102
Valentine.

The night-light continued to burn on the chimney-piece,
exhausting the last drops of oil which floated on the
surface of the water. The globe of the lamp appeared of a
reddish hue, and the flame, brightening before it expired,
threw out the last flickerings which in an inanimate object
have been so often compared with the convulsions of a human
creature in its final agonies. A dull and dismal light was
shed over the bedclothes and curtains surrounding the young
girl. All noise in the streets had ceased, and the silence
was frightful. It was then that the door of Edward's room
opened, and a head we have before noticed appeared in the
glass opposite; it was Madame de Villefort, who came to
witness the effects of the drink she had prepared. She
stopped in the doorway, listened for a moment to the
flickering of the lamp, the only sound in that deserted
room, and then advanced to the table to see if Valentine's
glass were empty. It was still about a quarter full, as we
before stated. Madame de Villefort emptied the contents into
the ashes, which she disturbed that they might the more
readily absorb the liquid; then she carefully rinsed the
glass, and wiping it with her handkerchief replaced it on
the table.

If any one could have looked into the room just then he
would have noticed the hesitation with which Madame de
Villefort approached the bed and looked fixedly on
Valentine. The dim light, the profound silence, and the
gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour, and still more by her
own conscience, all combined to produce a sensation of fear;
the poisoner was terrified at the contemplation of her own
work. At length she rallied, drew aside the curtain, and
leaning over the pillow gazed intently on Valentine. The
young girl no longer breathed, no breath issued through the
half-closed teeth; the white lips no longer quivered -- the
eyes were suffused with a bluish vapor, and the long black
lashes rested on a cheek white as wax. Madame de Villefort
gazed upon the face so expressive even in its stillness;
then she ventured to raise the coverlet and press her hand
upon the young girl's heart. It was cold and motionless. She
only felt the pulsation in her own fingers, and withdrew her
hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging out of the bed;
from shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of
Germain Pillon's "Graces,"* but the fore-arm seemed to be
slightly distorted by convulsion, and the hand, so
delicately formed, was resting with stiff outstretched
fingers on the framework of the bed. The nails, too, were
turning blue.

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

Madame de Villefort had no longer any doubt; all was over --
she had consummated the last terrible work she had to
accomplish. There was no more to do in the room, so the
poisoner retired stealthily, as though fearing to hear the
sound of her own footsteps; but as she withdrew she still
held aside the curtain, absorbed in the irresistible
attraction always exerted by the picture of death, so long
as it is merely mysterious and does not excite disgust. Just
then the lamp again flickered; the noise startled Madame de
Villefort, who shuddered and dropped the curtain.
Immediately afterwards the light expired, and the room was
plunged in frightful obscurity, while the clock at that
minute struck half-past four. Overpowered with agitation,
the poisoner succeeded in groping her way to the door, and
reached her room in an agony of fear.

The darkness lasted two hours longer; then by degrees a cold
light crept through the Venetian blinds, until at length it
revealed the objects in the room. About this time the
nurse's cough was heard on the stairs and the woman entered
the room with a cup in her hand. To the tender eye of a
father or a lover, the first glance would have sufficed to
reveal Valentine's condition; but to this hireling,
Valentine only appeared to sleep. "Good," she exclaimed,
approaching the table, "she has taken part of her draught;
the glass is three-quarters empty."

Then she went to the fireplace and lit the fire, and
although she had just left her bed, she could not resist the
temptation offered by Valentine's sleep, so she threw
herself into an arm-chair to snatch a little more rest. The
clock striking eight awoke her. Astonished at the prolonged
slumber of the patient, and frightened to see that the arm
was still hanging out of the bed, she advanced towards
Valentine, and for the first time noticed the white lips.
She tried to replace the arm, but it moved with a frightful
rigidity which could not deceive a sick-nurse. She screamed
aloud; then running to the door exclaimed, -- "Help, help!"

"What is the matter?" asked M. d'Avrigny, at the foot of the
stairs, it being the hour he usually visited her.

"What is it?" asked Villefort, rushing from his room.
"Doctor, do you hear them call for help?"

"Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine's room."
But before the doctor and the father could reach the room,
the servants who were on the same floor had entered, and
seeing Valentine pale and motionless on her bed, they lifted
up their hands towards heaven and stood transfixed, as
though struck by lightening. "Call Madame de Villefort! --
wake Madame de Villefort!" cried the procureur from the door
of his chamber, which apparently he scarcely dared to leave.
But instead of obeying him, the servants stood watching M.
d'Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and raised her in his arms.
"What? -- this one, too?" he exclaimed. "Oh, where will be
the end?" Villefort rushed into the room. "What are you
saying, doctor?" he exclaimed, raising his hands to heaven.

"I say that Valentine is dead!" replied d'Avrigny, in a
voice terrible in its solemn calm.

M. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed. On
the exclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the
servants all fled with muttered imprecations; they were
heard running down the stairs and through the long passages,
then there was a rush in the court, afterwards all was
still; they had, one and all, deserted the accursed house.
Just then, Madame de Villefort, in the act of slipping on
her dressing-gown, threw aside the drapery and for a moment
stood motionless, as though interrogating the occupants of
the room, while she endeavored to call up some rebellious
tears. On a sudden she stepped, or rather bounded, with
outstretched arms, towards the table. She saw d'Avrigny
curiously examining the glass, which she felt certain of
having emptied during the night. It was now a third full,
just as it was when she threw the contents into the ashes.
The spectre of Valentine rising before the poisoner would
have alarmed her less. It was, indeed, the same color as the
draught she had poured into the glass, and which Valentine
had drank; it was indeed the poison, which could not deceive
M. d'Avrigny, which he now examined so closely; it was
doubtless a miracle from heaven, that, notwithstanding her
precautions, there should be some trace, some proof
remaining to reveal the crime. While Madame de Villefort
remained rooted to the spot like a statue of terror, and
Villefort, with his head hidden in the bedclothes, saw
nothing around him, d'Avrigny approached the window, that he
might the better examine the contents of the glass, and
dipping the tip of his finger in, tasted it. "Ah," he
exclaimed, "it is no longer brucine that is used; let me see
what it is!"

Then he ran to one of the cupboards in Valentine's room,
which had been transformed into a medicine closet, and
taking from its silver case a small bottle of nitric acid,
dropped a little of it into the liquor, which immediately
changed to a blood-red color. "Ah," exclaimed d'Avrigny, in
a voice in which the horror of a judge unveiling the truth
was mingled with the delight of a student making a
discovery. Madame de Villefort was overpowered, her eyes
first flashed and then swam, she staggered towards the door
and disappeared. Directly afterwards the distant sound of a
heavy weight falling on the ground was heard, but no one
paid any attention to it; the nurse was engaged in watching
the chemical analysis, and Villefort was still absorbed in
grief. M. d'Avrigny alone had followed Madame de Villefort
with his eyes, and watched her hurried retreat. He lifted up
the drapery over the entrance to Edward's room, and his eye
reaching as far as Madame de Villefort's apartment, he
beheld her extended lifeless on the floor. "Go to the
assistance of Madame de Villefort," he said to the nurse.
"Madame de Villefort is ill."

"But Mademoiselle de Villefort " -- stammered the nurse.

"Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help," said
d'Avrigny, "since she is dead."

"Dead, -- dead!" groaned forth Villefort, in a paroxysm of
grief, which was the more terrible from the novelty of the
sensation in the iron heart of that man.

"Dead!" repeated a third voice. "Who said Valentine was
dead?"

The two men turned round, and saw Morrel standing at the
door, pale and terror-stricken. This is what had happened.
At the usual time, Morrel had presented himself at the
little door leading to Noirtier's room. Contrary to custom,
the door was open, and having no occasion to ring he
entered. He waited for a moment in the hall and called for a
servant to conduct him to M. Noirtier; but no one answered,
the servants having, as we know, deserted the house. Morrel
had no particular reason for uneasiness; Monte Cristo had
promised him that Valentine should live, and so far he had
always fulfilled his word. Every night the count had given
him news, which was the next morning confirmed by Noirtier.
Still this extraordinary silence appeared strange to him,
and he called a second and third time; still no answer. Then
he determined to go up. Noirtier's room was opened, like all
the rest. The first thing he saw was the old man sitting in
his arm-chair in his usual place, but his eyes expressed
alarm, which was confirmed by the pallor which overspread
his features.

"How are you, sir?" asked Morrel, with a sickness of heart.

"Well," answered the old man, by closing his eyes; but his
appearance manifested increasing uneasiness.

"You are thoughtful, sir," continued Morrel; "you want
something; shall I call one of the servants?"

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

Morrel pulled the bell, but though he nearly broke the cord
no one answered. He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor and
anguish expressed on his countenance momentarily increased.

"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, "why do they not come? Is any one
ill in the house?" The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though
they would start from their sockets. "What is the matter?
You alarm me. Valentine? Valentine?"

"Yes, yes," signed Noirtier. Maximilian tried to speak, but
he could articulate nothing; he staggered, and supported
himself against the wainscot. Then he pointed to the door.

"Yes, yes, yes!" continued the old man. Maximilian rushed up
the little staircase, while Noirtier's eyes seemed to say,
-- "Quicker, quicker!"

In a minute the young man darted through several rooms, till
at length he reached Valentine's. There was no occasion to
push the door, it was wide open. A sob was the only sound he
heard. He saw as though in a mist, a black figure kneeling
and buried in a confused mass of white drapery. A terrible
fear transfixed him. It was then he heard a voice exclaim
"Valentine is dead!" and another voice which, like an echo
repeated, -- "Dead, -- dead!"



Chapter 103
Maximilian.

Villefort rose, half ashamed of being surprised in such a
paroxysm of grief. The terrible office he had held for
twenty-five years had succeeded in making him more or less
than man. His glance, at first wandering, fixed itself upon
Morrel. "Who are you, sir," he asked, "that forget that this
is not the manner to enter a house stricken with death? Go,
sir, go!" But Morrel remained motionless; he could not
detach his eyes from that disordered bed, and the pale
corpse of the young girl who was lying on it. "Go! -- do you
hear?" said Villefort, while d'Avrigny advanced to lead
Morrel out. Maximilian stared for a moment at the corpse,
gazed all around the room, then upon the two men; he opened
his mouth to speak, but finding it impossible to give
utterance to the innumerable ideas that occupied his brain,
he went out, thrusting his hands through his hair in such a
manner that Villefort and d'Avrigny, for a moment diverted
from the engrossing topic, exchanged glances, which seemed
to say, -- "He is mad!"

But in less than five minutes the staircase groaned beneath
an extraordinary weight. Morrel was seen carrying, with
superhuman strength, the arm-chair containing Noirtier
up-stairs. When he reached the landing he placed the
arm-chair on the floor and rapidly rolled it into
Valentine's room. This could only have been accomplished by
means of unnatural strength supplied by powerful excitement.
But the most fearful spectacle was Noirtier being pushed
towards the bed, his face expressing all his meaning, and
his eyes supplying the want of every other faculty. That
pale face and flaming glance appeared to Villefort like a
frightful apparition. Each time he had been brought into
contact with his father, something terrible had happened.
"See what they have done!" cried Morrel, with one hand
leaning on the back of the chair, and the other extended
towards Valentine. "See, my father, see!"

Villefort drew back and looked with astonishment on the
young man, who, almost a stranger to him, called Noirtier
his father. At this moment the whole soul of the old man
seemed centred in his eyes which became bloodshot; the veins
of the throat swelled; his cheeks and temples became purple,
as though he was struck with epilepsy; nothing was wanting
to complete this but the utterance of a cry. And the cry
issued from his pores, if we may thus speak -- a cry
frightful in its silence. D'Avrigny rushed towards the old
man and made him inhale a powerful restorative.

"Sir," cried Morrel, seizing the moist hand of the
paralytic, "they ask me who I am, and what right I have to
be here. Oh, you know it, tell them, tell them!" And the
young man's voice was choked by sobs. As for the old man,
his chest heaved with his panting respiration. One could
have thought that he was undergoing the agonies preceding
death. At length, happier than the young man, who sobbed
without weeping, tears glistened in the eyes of Noirtier.
"Tell them," said Morrel in a hoarse voice, "tell them that
I am her betrothed. Tell them she was my beloved, my noble
girl, my only blessing in the world. Tell them -- oh, tell
them, that corpse belongs to me!"

The young man overwhelmed by the weight of his anguish, fell
heavily on his knees before the bed, which his fingers
grasped with convulsive energy. D'Avrigny, unable to bear
the sight of this touching emotion, turned away; and
Villefort, without seeking any further explanation, and
attracted towards him by the irresistible magnetism which
draws us towards those who have loved the people for whom we
mourn, extended his hand towards the young man. But Morrel
saw nothing; he had grasped the hand of Valentine, and
unable to weep vented his agony in groans as he bit the
sheets. For some time nothing was heard in that chamber but
sobs, exclamations, and prayers. At length Villefort, the
most composed of all, spoke: "Sir," said he to Maximilian,
"you say you loved Valentine, that you were betrothed to
her. I knew nothing of this engagement, of this love, yet I,
her father, forgive you, for I see that your grief is real
and deep; and besides my own sorrow is too great for anger
to find a place in my heart. But you see that the angel whom
you hoped for has left this earth -- she has nothing more to
do with the adoration of men. Take a last farewell, sir, of
her sad remains; take the hand you expected to possess once
more within your own, and then separate yourself from her
forever. Valentine now requires only the ministrations of
the priest."

"You are mistaken, sir," exclaimed Morrel, raising himself
on one knee, his heart pierced by a more acute pang than any
he had yet felt -- "you are mistaken; Valentine, dying as
she has, not only requires a priest, but an avenger. You, M.
de Villefort, send for the priest; I will be the avenger."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Villefort, trembling at the
new idea inspired by the delirium of Morrel.

"I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father
has mourned sufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his
office."

The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and d'Avrigny approached.

"Gentlemen," said Morrel, reading all that passed through
the minds of the witnesses to the scene, "I know what I am
saying, and you know as well as I do what I am about to say
-- Valentine has been assassinated!" Villefort hung his
head, d'Avrigny approached nearer, and Noirtier said "Yes"
with his eyes. "Now, sir," continued Morrel, "in these days
no one can disappear by violent means without some inquiries
being made as to the cause of her disappearance, even were
she not a young, beautiful, and adorable creature like
Valentine. Mr. Procureur," said Morrel with increasing
vehemence, "no mercy is allowed; I denounce the crime; it is
your place to seek the assassin." The young man's implacable
eyes interrogated Villefort, who, on his side, glanced from
Noirtier to d'Avrigny. But instead of finding sympathy in
the eyes of the doctor and his father, he only saw an
expression as inflexible as that of Maximilian. "Yes,"
indicated the old man.

"Assuredly," said d'Avrigny.

"Sir," said Villefort, striving to struggle against this
triple force and his own emotion, -- "sir, you are deceived;
no one commits crimes here. I am stricken by fate. It is
horrible, indeed, but no one assassinates."

The eyes of Noirtier lighted up with rage, and d'Avrigny
prepared to speak. Morrel, however, extended his arm, and
commanded silence. "And I say that murders are committed
here," said Morrel, whose voice, though lower in tone, lost
none of its terrible distinctness: "I tell you that this is
the fourth victim within the last four months. I tell you,
Valentine's life was attempted by poison four days ago,
though she escaped, owing to the precautions of M. Noirtier.
I tell you that the dose has been double, the poison
changed, and that this time it has succeeded. I tell you
that you know these things as well as I do, since this
gentleman has forewarned you, both as a doctor and as a
friend."

"Oh, you rave, sir," exclaimed Villefort, in vain
endeavoring to escape the net in which he was taken.

"I rave?" said Morrel; "well, then, I appeal to M. d'Avrigny
himself. Ask him, sir, if he recollects the words he uttered
in the garden of this house on the night of Madame de
Saint-Meran's death. You thought yourselves alone, and
talked about that tragical death, and the fatality you
mentioned then is the same which has caused the murder of
Valentine." Villefort and d'Avrigny exchanged looks. "Yes,
yes," continued Morrel; "recall the scene, for the words you
thought were only given to silence and solitude fell into my
ears. Certainly, after witnessing the culpable indolence
manifested by M. de Villefort towards his own relations, I
ought to have denounced him to the authorities; then I
should not have been an accomplice to thy death, as I now
am, sweet, beloved Valentine; but the accomplice shall
become the avenger. This fourth murder is apparent to all,
and if thy father abandon thee, Valentine, it is I, and I
swear it, that shall pursue the assassin." And this time, as
though nature had at least taken compassion on the vigorous
frame, nearly bursting with its own strength, the words of
Morrel were stifled in his throat; his breast heaved; the
tears, so long rebellious, gushed from his eyes; and he
threw himself weeping on his knees by the side of the bed.

Then d'Avrigny spoke. "And I, too," he exclaimed in a low
voice, "I unite with M. Morrel in demanding justice for
crime; my blood boils at the idea of having encouraged a
murderer by my cowardly concession."

"Oh, merciful heavens!" murmured Villefort. Morrel raised
his head, and reading the eyes of the old man, which gleamed
with unnatural lustre, -- "Stay," he said, "M. Noirtier
wishes to speak."

"Yes," indicated Noirtier, with an expression the more
terrible, from all his faculties being centred in his
glance.

"Do you know the assassin?" asked Morrel.

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"And will you direct us?" exclaimed the young man. "Listen,
M. d'Avrigny, listen!" Noirtier looked upon Morrel with one
of those melancholy smiles which had so often made Valentine
happy, and thus fixed his attention. Then, having riveted
the eyes of his interlocutor on his own, he glanced towards
the door.

"Do you wish me to leave?" said Morrel, sadly.

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me!"

The old man's eyes remained fixed on the door.

"May I, at least, return?" asked Morrel.

"Yes."

"Must I leave alone?"

"No."

"Whom am I to take with me? The procureur?"

"No."

"The doctor?"

"Yes."

"You wish to remain alone with M. de Villefort?"

"Yes."

"But can he understand you?"

"Yes."

"Oh," said Villefort, inexpressibly delighted to think that
the inquiries were to be made by him alone, -- "oh, be
satisfied, I can understand my father." D'Avrigny took the
young man's arm, and led him out of the room. A more than
deathlike silence then reigned in the house. At the end of a
quarter of an hour a faltering footstep was heard, and
Villefort appeared at the door of the apartment where
d'Avrigny and Morrel had been staying, one absorbed in
meditation, the other in grief. "You can come," he said, and
led them back to Noirtier. Morrel looked attentively on
Villefort. His face was livid, large drops rolled down his
face, and in his fingers he held the fragments of a quill
pen which he had torn to atoms.

"Gentlemen," he said in a hoarse voice, "give me your word
of honor that this horrible secret shall forever remain
buried amongst ourselves!" The two men drew back.

"I entreat you." -- continued Villefort.

"But," said Morrel, "the culprit -- the murderer -- the
assassin."

"Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice will be done," said
Villefort. "My father has revealed the culprit's name; my
father thirsts for revenge as much as you do, yet even he
conjures you as I do to keep this secret. Do you not,
father?"

"Yes," resolutely replied Noirtier. Morrel suffered an
exclamation of horror and surprise to escape him. "Oh, sir,"
said Villefort, arresting Maximilian by the arm, "if my
father, the inflexible man, makes this request, it is
because he knows, be assured, that Valentine will be
terribly revenged. Is it not so, father?" The old man made a
sign in the affirmative. Villefort continued: "He knows me,
and I have pledged my word to him. Rest assured, gentlemen,
that within three days, in a less time than justice would
demand, the revenge I shall have taken for the murder of my
child will be such as to make the boldest heart tremble;"
and as he spoke these words he ground his teeth, and grasped
the old man's senseless hand.

"Will this promise be fulfilled, M. Noirtier?" asked Morrel,
while d'Avrigny looked inquiringly.

"Yes," replied Noirtier with an expression of sinister joy.

"Swear, then," said Villefort, joining the hands of Morrel
and d'Avrigny, "swear that you will spare the honor of my
house, and leave me to avenge my child." D'Avrigny turned
round and uttered a very feeble "Yes," but Morrel,
disengaging his hand, rushed to the bed, and after having
pressed the cold lips of Valentine with his own, hurriedly
left, uttering a long, deep groan of despair and anguish. We
have before stated that all the servants had fled. M. de
Villefort was therefore obliged to request M. d'Avrigny to
superintend all the arrangements consequent upon a death in
a large city, more especially a death under such suspicious
circumstances.

It was something terrible to witness the silent agony, the
mute despair of Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled down
his cheeks. Villefort retired to his study, and d'Avrigny
left to summon the doctor of the mayoralty, whose office it
is to examine bodies after decease, and who is expressly
named "the doctor of the dead." M. Noirtier could not be
persuaded to quit his grandchild. At the end of a quarter of
an hour M. d'Avrigny returned with his associate; they found
the outer gate closed, and not a servant remaining in the
house; Villefort himself was obliged to open to them. But he
stopped on the landing; he had not the courage to again
visit the death chamber. The two doctors, therefore, entered
the room alone. Noirtier was near the bed, pale, motionless,
and silent as the corpse. The district doctor approached
with the indifference of a man accustomed to spend half his
time amongst the dead; he then lifted the sheet which was
placed over the face, and just unclosed the lips.

"Alas," said d'Avrigny, "she is indeed dead, poor child!"

"Yes," answered the doctor laconically, dropping the sheet
he had raised. Noirtier uttered a kind of hoarse, rattling
sound; the old man's eyes sparkled, and the good doctor
understood that he wished to behold his child. He therefore
approached the bed, and while his companion was dipping the
fingers with which he had touched the lips of the corpse in
chloride of lime, he uncovered the calm and pale face, which
looked like that of a sleeping angel. A tear, which appeared
in the old man's eye, expressed his thanks to the doctor.
The doctor of the dead then laid his permit on the corner of
the table, and having fulfilled his duty, was conducted out
by d'Avrigny. Villefort met them at the door of his study;
having in a few words thanked the district doctor, he turned
to d'Avrigny, and said, -- "And now the priest."

"Is there any particular priest you wish to pray with
Valentine?" asked d'Avrigny.

"No." said Villefort; "fetch the nearest."

"The nearest," said the district doctor, "is a good Italian
abbe, who lives next door to you. Shall I call on him as I
pass?"

"D'Avrigny," said Villefort, "be so kind, I beseech you, as
to accompany this gentleman. Here is the key of the door, so
that you can go in and out as you please; you will bring the
priest with you, and will oblige me by introducing him into
my child's room."

"Do you wish to see him?"

"I only wish to be alone. You will excuse me, will you not?
A priest can understand a father's grief." And M. de
Villefort, giving the key to d'Avrigny, again bade farewell
to the strange doctor, and retired to his study, where he
began to work. For some temperaments work is a remedy for
all afflictions. As the doctors entered the street, they saw
a man in a cassock standing on the threshold of the next
door. "This is the abbe of whom I spoke," said the doctor to
d'Avrigny. D'Avrigny accosted the priest. "Sir," he said,
"are you disposed to confer a great obligation on an unhappy
father who has just lost his daughter? I mean M. de
Villefort, the king's attorney."

"Ah," said the priest, in a marked Italian accent; "yes, I
have heard that death is in that house."

"Then I need not tell you what kind of service he requires
of you."

"I was about to offer myself, sir," said the priest; "it is
our mission to forestall our duties."

"It is a young girl."

"I know it, sir; the servants who fled from the house
informed me. I also know that her name is Valentine, and I
have already prayed for her."

"Thank you, sir," said d'Avrigny; "since you have commenced
your sacred office, deign to continue it. Come and watch by
the dead, and all the wretched family will be grateful to
you."

"I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate to say that no
prayers will be more fervent than mine." D'Avrigny took the
priest's hand, and without meeting Villefort, who was
engaged in his study, they reached Valentine's room, which
on the following night was to be occupied by the
undertakers. On entering the room, Noirtier's eyes met those
of the abbe, and no doubt he read some particular expression
in them, for he remained in the room. D'Avrigny recommended
the attention of the priest to the living as well as to the
dead, and the abbe promised to devote his prayers to
Valentine and his attentions to Noirtier. In order,
doubtless, that he might not be disturbed while fulfilling
his sacred mission, the priest rose as soon as d'Avrigny
departed, and not only bolted the door through which the
doctor had just left, but also that leading to Madame de
Villefort's room.



Chapter 104
Danglars Signature.

The next morning dawned dull and cloudy. During the night
the undertakers had executed their melancholy office, and
wrapped the corpse in the winding-sheet, which, whatever may
be said about the equality of death, is at least a last
proof of the luxury so pleasing in life. This winding-sheet
was nothing more than a beautiful piece of cambric, which
the young girl had bought a fortnight before. During the
evening two men, engaged for the purpose, had carried
Noirtier from Valentine's room into his own, and contrary to
all expectation there was no difficulty in withdrawing him
from his child. The Abbe Busoni had watched till daylight,
and then left without calling any one. D'Avrigny returned
about eight o'clock in the morning; he met Villefort on his
way to Noirtier's room, and accompanied him to see how the
old man had slept. They found him in the large arm-chair,
which served him for a bed, enjoying a calm, nay, almost a
smiling sleep. They both stood in amazement at the door.

"See," said d'Avrigny to Villefort, "nature knows how to
alleviate the deepest sorrow. No one can say that M.
Noirtier did not love his child, and yet he sleeps."

"Yes, you are right," replied Villefort, surprised; "he
sleeps, indeed! And this is the more strange, since the
least contradiction keeps him awake all night."

"Grief has stunned him," replied d'Avrigny; and they both
returned thoughtfully to the procureur's study.

"See, I have not slept," said Villefort, showing his
undisturbed bed; "grief does not stun me. I have not been in
bed for two nights; but then look at my desk; see what I
have written during these two days and nights. I have filled
those papers, and have made out the accusation against the
assassin Benedetto. Oh, work, work, -- my passion, my joy,
my delight, -- it is for thee to alleviate my sorrows!" and
he convulsively grasped the hand of d'Avrigny.

"Do you require my services now?" asked d'Avrigny.

"No," said Villefort; "only return again at eleven o'clock;
at twelve the -- the -- oh, heavens, my poor, poor child!"
and the procureur again becoming a man, lifted up his eyes
and groaned.

"Shall you be present in the reception room?"

"No; I have a cousin who has undertaken this sad office. I
shall work, doctor -- when I work I forget everything." And,
indeed, no sooner had the doctor left the room, than he was
again absorbed in study. On the doorsteps d'Avrigny met the
cousin whom Villefort had mentioned, a personage as
insignificant in our story as in the world he occupied --
one of those beings designed from their birth to make
themselves useful to others. He was punctual, dressed in
black, with crape around his hat, and presented himself at
his cousin's with a face made up for the occasion, and which
he could alter as might be required. At twelve o'clock the
mourning-coaches rolled into the paved court, and the Rue du
Faubourg Saint-Honore was filled with a crowd of idlers,
equally pleased to witness the festivities or the mourning
of the rich, and who rush with the same avidity to a funeral
procession as to the marriage of a duchess.

Gradually the reception-room filled, and some of our old
friends made their appearance -- we mean Debray,
Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp, accompanied by all the
leading men of the day at the bar, in literature, or the
army, for M. de Villefort moved in the first Parisian
circles, less owing to his social position than to his
personal merit. The cousin standing at the door ushered in
the guests, and it was rather a relief to the indifferent to
see a person as unmoved as themselves, and who did not exact
a mournful face or force tears, as would have been the case
with a father, a brother, or a lover. Those who were
acquainted soon formed into little groups. One of them was
made of Debray, Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp.

"Poor girl," said Debray, like the rest, paying an
involuntary tribute to the sad event, -- "poor girl, so
young, so rich, so beautiful! Could you have imagined this
scene, Chateau-Renaud, when we saw her, at the most three
weeks ago, about to sign that contract?"

"Indeed, no," said Chateau-Renaud -- "Did you know her?"

"I spoke to her once or twice at Madame de Morcerf's, among
the rest; she appeared to me charming, though rather
melancholy. Where is her stepmother? Do you know?"

"She is spending the day with the wife of the worthy
gentleman who is receiving us."

"Who is he?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"The gentleman who receives us? Is he a deputy?"

"Oh, no. I am condemned to witness those gentlemen every
day," said Beauchamp; "but he is perfectly unknown to me."

"Have you mentioned this death in your paper?"

"It has been mentioned, but the article is not mine; indeed,
I doubt if it will please M. Villefort, for it says that if
four successive deaths had happened anywhere else than in
the house of the king's attorney, he would have interested
himself somewhat more about it."

"Still," said Chateau-Renaud, "Dr. d'Avrigny, who attends my
mother, declares he is in despair about it. But whom are you
seeking, Debray?"

"I am seeking the Count of Monte Cristo" said the young man.

"I met him on the boulevard, on my way here," said
Beauchamp. "I think he is about to leave Paris; he was going
to his banker."

"His banker? Danglars is his banker, is he not?" asked
Chateau-Renaud of Debray.

"I believe so," replied the secretary with slight
uneasiness. "But Monte Cristo is not the only one I miss
here; I do not see Morrel."

"Morrel? Do they know him?" asked Chateau-Renaud. "I think
he has only been introduced to Madame de Villefort."

"Still, he ought to have been here," said Debray; "I wonder
what will be talked about to-night; this funeral is the news
of the day. But hush, here comes our minister of justice; he
will feel obliged to make some little speech to the cousin,"
and the three young men drew near to listen. Beauchamp told
the truth when he said that on his way to the funeral he had
met Monte Cristo, who was directing his steps towards the
Rue de la Chausse d'Antin, to M. Danglars'.

The banker saw the carriage of the count enter the court
yard, and advanced to meet him with a sad, though affable
smile. "Well," said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo,
"I suppose you have come to sympathize with me, for indeed
misfortune has taken possession of my house. When I
perceived you, I was just asking myself whether I had not
wished harm towards those poor Morcerfs, which would have
justified the proverb of `He who wishes misfortunes to
happen to others experiences them himself.' Well, on my word
of honor, I answered, `No!' I wished no ill to Morcerf; he
was a little proud, perhaps, for a man who like myself has
risen from nothing; but we all have our faults. Do you know,
count, that persons of our time of life -- not that you
belong to the class, you are still a young man, -- but as I
was saying, persons of our time of life have been very
unfortunate this year. For example, look at the puritanical
procureur, who has just lost his daughter, and in fact
nearly all his family, in so singular a manner; Morcerf
dishonored and dead; and then myself covered with ridicule
through the villany of Benedetto; besides" --

"Besides what?" asked the Count.

"Alas, do you not know?"

"What new calamity?"

"My daughter" --

"Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Eugenie has left us!"

"Good heavens, what are you telling me?"

"The truth, my dear count. Oh, how happy you must be in not
having either wife or children!"

"Do you think so?"

"Indeed I do."

"And so Mademoiselle Danglars" --

"She could not endure the insult offered to us by that
wretch, so she asked permission to travel."

"And is she gone?"

"The other night she left."

"With Madame Danglars?"

"No, with a relation. But still, we have quite lost our dear
Eugenie; for I doubt whether her pride will ever allow her
to return to France."

"Still, baron," said Monte Cristo, "family griefs, or indeed
any other affliction which would crush a man whose child was
his only treasure, are endurable to a millionaire.
Philosophers may well say, and practical men will always
support the opinion, that money mitigates many trials; and
if you admit the efficacy of this sovereign balm, you ought
to be very easily consoled -- you, the king of finance, the
focus of immeasurable power."

Danglars looked at him askance, as though to ascertain
whether he spoke seriously. "Yes," he answered, "if a
fortune brings consolation, I ought to be consoled; I am
rich."

"So rich, dear sir, that your fortune resembles the
pyramids; if you wished to demolish them you could not, and
if it were possible, you would not dare!" Danglars smiled at
the good-natured pleasantry of the count. "That reminds me,"
he said, "that when you entered I was on the point of
signing five little bonds; I have already signed two: will
you allow me to do the same to the others?"

"Pray do so."

There was a moment's silence, during which the noise of the
banker's pen was alone heard, while Monte Cristo examined
the gilt mouldings on the ceiling. "Are they Spanish,
Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?" said Monte Cristo. "No," said
Danglars, smiling, "they are bonds on the bank of France,
payable to bearer. Stay, count," he added, "you, who may 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 Croesus you are!"

"This is how I transact business," said Danglars.

"It is really wonderful," said the count; "above all, if, as
I suppose, it is payable at sight."

"It is, indeed, said Danglars.

"It is a fine thing to have such credit; really, it is only
in France these things are done. Five millions on five
little scraps of paper! -- it must be seen to be believed."

"You do not doubt it?"

"No!"

"You say so with an accent -- stay, you shall be convinced;
take my clerk to the bank, and you will see him leave it
with an order on the Treasury for the same sum."

"No," said Monte Cristo folding the five notes, "most
decidedly not; the thing is so curious, I will make the
experiment myself. I am credited on you for six millions. I
have drawn nine hundred thousand francs, you therefore still
owe me five millions and a hundred thousand francs. I will
take the five scraps of paper that I now hold as bonds, with
your signature alone, and here is a receipt in full for the
six millions between us. I had prepared it beforehand, for I
am much in want of money to-day." And Monte Cristo placed
the bonds in his pocket with one hand, while with the other
he held out the receipt to Danglars. If a thunderbolt had
fallen at the banker's feet, he could not have experienced
greater terror.

"What," he stammered, "do you mean to keep that money?
Excuse me, excuse me, but I owe this money to the charity
fund, -- a deposit which I promised to pay this morning."

"Oh, well, then," said Monte Cristo, "I am not particular
about these five notes, pay me in a different form; I
wished, from curiosity, to take these, that I might be able
to say that without any advice or preparation the house of
Danglars had paid me five millions without a minute's delay;
it would have been remarkable. But here are your bonds; pay
me differently;" and he held the bonds towards Danglars, who
seized them like a vulture extending its claws to withhold
the food that is being wrested from its grasp. Suddenly he
rallied, made a violent effort to restrain himself, and then
a smile gradually widened the features of his disturbed
countenance.

"Certainly," he said, "your receipt is money."

"Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome, the house of Thomson
& French would make no more difficulty about paying the
money on my receipt than you have just done."

"Pardon me, count, pardon me."

"Then I may keep this money?"

"Yes," said Danglars, while the perspiration started from
the roots of his hair. "Yes, keep it -- keep it."

Monte Cristo replaced the notes in his pocket with that
indescribable expression which seemed to say, "Come,
reflect; if you repent there is till time."

"No," said Danglars, "no, decidedly no; keep my signatures.
But you know none are so formal as bankers in transacting
business; I intended this money for the charity fund, and I
seemed to be robbing them if I did not pay them with these
precise bonds. How absurd -- as if one crown were not as
good as another. Excuse me;" and he began to laugh loudly,
but nervously.

"Certainly, I excuse you," said Monte Cristo graciously,
"and pocket them." And he placed the bonds in his
pocket-book.

"But," said Danglars, "there is still a sum of one hundred
thousand francs?"

"Oh, a mere nothing," said Monte Cristo. "The balance would
come to about that sum; but keep it, and we shall be quits."

"Count." said Danglars, "are you speaking seriously?"

"I never joke with bankers," said Monte Cristo in a freezing
manner, which repelled impertinence; and he turned to the
door, just as the valet de chambre announced, -- "M. de
Boville, receiver-general of the charities."

"Ma foi," said Monte Cristo; "I think I arrived just in time
to obtain your signatures, or they would have been disputed
with me."

Danglars again became pale, and hastened to conduct the
count out. Monte Cristo exchanged a ceremonious bow with M.
de Boville, who was standing in the waiting-room, and who
was introduced into Danglars' room as soon as the count had
left. The count's sad face was illumined by a faint smile,
as he noticed the portfolio which the receiver-general held
in his hand. At the door he found his carriage, and was
immediately driven to the bank. Meanwhile Danglars,
repressing all emotion, advanced to meet the
receiver-general. We need not say that a smile of
condescension was stamped upon his lips. "Good-morning,
creditor," said he; "for I wager anything it is the creditor
who visits me."

"You are right, baron," answered M. de Boville; "the
charities present themselves to you through me: the widows
and orphans depute me to receive alms to the amount of five
millions from you."

"And yet they say orphans are to be pitied," said Danglars,
wishing to prolong the jest. "Poor things!"

"Here I am in their name," said M. de Boville; "but did you
receive my letter yesterday?"

"Yes."

"I have brought my receipt."

"My dear M. de Boville, your widows and orphans must oblige
me by waiting twenty-four hours, since M. de Monte Cristo
whom you just saw leaving here -- you did see him, I think?"

"Yes; well?"

"Well, M. de Monte Cristo has just carried off their five
millions."

"How so?"

"The count has an unlimited credit upon me; a credit opened
by Thomson & French, of Rome; he came to demand five
millions at once, which I paid him with checks on the bank.
My funds are deposited there, and you can understand that if
I draw out ten millions on the same day it will appear
rather strange to the governor. Two days will be a different
thing," said Danglars, smiling.

"Come," said Boville, with a tone of entire incredulity,
"five millions to that gentleman who just left, and who
bowed to me as though he knew me?"

"Perhaps he knows you, though you do not know him; M. de
Monte Cristo knows everybody."

"Five millions!"

"Here is his receipt. Believe your own eyes." M. de Boville
took the paper Danglars presented him, and read: --

"Received of Baron Danglars the sum of five million one
hundred thousand francs, to be repaid on demand by the house
of Thomson & French of Rome."

"It is really true," said M. de Boville.

"Do you know the house of Thomson & French?"

"Yes, I once had business to transact with it to the amount
of 200,000 francs; but since then I have not heard it
mentioned."

"It is one of the best houses in Europe," said Danglars,
carelessly throwing down the receipt on his desk.

"And he had five millions in your hands alone! Why, this
Count of Monte Cristo must be a nabob?"

"Indeed I do not know what he is; he has three unlimited
credits -- one on me, one on Rothschild, one on Lafitte;
and, you see," he added carelessly, "he has given me the
preference, by leaving a balance of 100,000 francs." M. de
Boville manifested signs of extraordinary admiration. "I
must visit him," he said, "and obtain some pious grant from
him."

"Oh, you may make sure of him; his charities alone amount to
20,000 francs a month."

"It is magnificent! I will set before him the example of
Madame de Morcerf and her son."

"What example?"

"They gave all their fortune to the hospitals."

"What fortune?"

"Their own -- M. de Morcerf's, who is deceased."

"For what reason?"

"Because they would not spend money so guiltily acquired."

"And what are they to live upon?"

"The mother retires into the country, and the son enters the
army."

"Well, I must confess, these are scruples."

"I registered their deed of gift yesterday."

"And how much did they possess?"

"Oh, not much -- from twelve to thirteen hundred thousand
francs. But to return to our millions."

"Certainly," said Danglars, in the most natural tone in the
world. "Are you then pressed for this money?"

"Yes; for the examination of our cash takes place
to-morrow."

"To-morrow? Why did you not tell me so before? Why, it is as
good as a century! At what hour does the examination take
place?"

"At two o'clock."

"Send at twelve," said Danglars, smiling. M. de Boville said
nothing, but nodded his head, and took up the portfolio.
"Now I think of it, you can do better," said Danglars.

"How do you mean?"

"The receipt of M. de Monte Cristo is as good as money; take
it to Rothschild's or Lafitte's, and they will take it off
your hands at once."

"What, though payable at Rome?"

"Certainly; it will only cost you a discount of 5,000 or
6,000 francs." The receiver started back. "Ma foi," he said,
"I prefer waiting till to-morrow. What a proposition!"

"I thought, perhaps," said Danglars with supreme
impertinence, "that you had a deficiency to make up?"

"Indeed," said the receiver.

"And if that were the case it would be worth while to make
some sacrifice."

"Thank you, no, sir "

"Then it will be to-morrow."

"Yes; but without fail."

"Ah, you are laughing at me; send to-morrow at twelve, and
the bank shall be notified."

"I will come myself."

"Better still, since it will afford me the pleasure of
seeing you." They shook hands. "By the way," said M. de
Boville, "are you not going to the funeral of poor
Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on my road here?"

"No," said the banker; "I have appeared rather ridiculous
since that affair of Benedetto, so I remain in the
background."

"Bah, you are wrong. How were you to blame in that affair?"

"Listen -- when one bears an irreproachable name, as I do,
one is rather sensitive."

"Everybody pities you, sir; and, above all, Mademoiselle
Danglars!"

"Poor Eugenie!" said Danglars; "do you know she is going to
embrace a religious life?"

"No."

"Alas, it is unhappily but too true. The day after the
event, she decided on leaving Paris with a nun of her
acquaintance; they are gone to seek a very strict convent in
Italy or Spain."

"Oh, it is terrible!" and M. de Boville retired with this
exclamation, after expressing acute sympathy with the
father. But he had scarcely left before Danglars, with an
energy of action those can alone understand who have seen
Robert Macaire represented by Frederic,* exclaimed, --
"Fool!" Then enclosing Monte Cristo's receipt in a little
pocket-book, he added: -- "Yes, come at twelve o'clock; I
shall then be far away." Then he double-locked his door,
emptied all his drawers, collected about fifty thousand
francs in bank-notes, burned several papers, left others
exposed to view, and then commenced writing a letter which
he addressed:

"To Madame la Baronne Danglars."

* Frederic Lemaitre -- French actor (1800-1876). Robert
Macaire is the hero of two favorite melodramas -- "Chien de
Montargis" and "Chien d'Aubry" -- and the name is applied to
bold criminals as a term of derision.

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



Chapter 105
The Cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise.

M. de Boville had indeed met the funeral procession which
was taking Valentine to her last home on earth. The weather
was dull and stormy, a cold wind shook the few remaining
yellow leaves from the boughs of the trees, and scattered
them among the crowd which filled the boulevards. M. de
Villefort, a true Parisian, considered the cemetery of
Pere-la-Chaise alone worthy of receiving the mortal remains
of a Parisian family; there alone the corpses belonging to
him would be surrounded by worthy associates. He had
therefore purchased a vault, which was quickly occupied by
members of his family. On the front of the monument was
inscribed: "The families of Saint-Meran and Villefort," for
such had been the last wish expressed by poor Renee,
Valentine's mother. The pompous procession therefore wended
its way towards Pere-la-Chaise from the Faubourg
Saint-Honore. Having crossed Paris, it passed through the
Faubourg du Temple, then leaving the exterior boulevards, it
reached the cemetery. More than fifty private carriages
followed the twenty mourning-coaches, and behind them more
than five hundred persons joined in the procession on foot.

These last consisted of all the young people whom
Valentine's death had struck like a thunderbolt, and who,
notwithstanding the raw chilliness of the season, could not
refrain from paying a last tribute to the memory of the
beautiful, chaste, and adorable girl, thus cut off in the
flower of her youth. As they left Paris, an equipage with
four horses, at full speed, was seen to draw up suddenly; it
contained Monte Cristo. The count left the carriage and
mingled in the crowd who followed on foot. Chateau-Renaud
perceived him and immediately alighting from his coupe,
joined him.

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

"We have already asked that question," said Chateau-Renaud,
"for none of us has seen him." The count was silent, but
continued to gaze around him. At length they arrived at the
cemetery. The piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced through
clusters of bushes and trees, and was soon relieved from all
anxiety, for seeing a shadow glide between the yew-trees,
Monte Cristo recognized him whom he sought. One funeral is
generally very much like another in this magnificent
metropolis. Black figures are seen scattered over the long
white avenues; the silence of earth and heaven is alone
broken by the noise made by the crackling branches of hedges
planted around the monuments; then follows the melancholy
chant of the priests, mingled now and then with a sob of
anguish, escaping from some woman concealed behind a mass of
flowers.

The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind
the tomb of Abelard and Heloise, placed itself close to the
heads of the horses belonging to the hearse, and following
the undertaker's men, arrived with them at the spot
appointed for the burial. Each person's attention was
occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which no
one else observed. Twice the count left the ranks to see
whether the object of his interest had any concealed weapon
beneath his clothes. When the procession stopped, this
shadow was recognized as Morrel, who, with his coat buttoned
up to his throat, his face livid, and convulsively crushing
his hat between his fingers, leaned against a tree, situated
on an elevation commanding the mausoleum, so that none of
the funeral details could escape his observation. Everything
was conducted in the usual manner. A few men, the least
impressed of all by the scene, pronounced a discourse, some
deploring this premature death, others expatiating on the
grief of the father, and one very ingenious person quoting
the fact that Valentine had solicited pardon of her father
for criminals on whom the arm of justice was ready to fall
-- until at length they exhausted their stores of metaphor
and mournful speeches.

Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw
Morrel, whose calmness had a frightful effect on those who
knew what was passing in his heart. "See," said Beauchamp,
pointing out Morrel to Debray. "What is he doing up there?"
And they called Chateau-Renaud's attention to him.

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

"He is cold," said Debray.

"Not at all," said Chateau-Renaud, slowly; "I think he is
violently agitated. He is very susceptible."

"Bah," said Debray; "he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de
Villefort; you said so yourself."

"True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at
Madame de Morcerf's. Do you recollect that ball, count,
where you produced such an effect?"

"No, I do not," replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing
of what or to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied
in watching Morrel, who was holding his breath with emotion.
"The discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen," said the
count. And he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he
went. The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris.
Chateau-Renaud looked for a moment for Morrel; but while
they were watching the departure of the count, Morrel had
quitted his post, and Chateau-Renaud, failing in his search,
joined Debray and Beauchamp.

Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and
awaited the arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the
tomb now abandoned by spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a
glance around, but before it reached the spot occupied by
Monte Cristo the latter had advanced yet nearer, still
unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with
outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude
ready to pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion. Morrel
bent his head till it touched the stone, then clutching the
grating with both hands, he murmured, -- "Oh, Valentine!"
The count's heart was pierced by the utterance of these two
words; he stepped forward, and touching the young man's
shoulder, said, -- "I was looking for you, my friend." Monte
Cristo expected a burst of passion, but he was deceived, for
Morrel turning round, said calmly, --

"You see I was praying." The scrutinizing glance of the
count searched the young man from head to foot. He then
seemed more easy.

"Shall I drive you back to Paris?" he asked.

"No, thank you."

"Do you wish anything?"

"Leave me to pray." The count withdrew without opposition,
but it was only to place himself in a situation where he
could watch every movement of Morrel, who at length arose,
brushed the dust from his knees, and turned towards Paris,
without once looking back. He walked slowly down the Rue de
la Roquette. The count, dismissing his carriage, followed
him about a hundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the
canal and entered the Rue Meslay by the boulevards. Five
minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel's entrance,
it was again opened for the count. Julie was at the entrance
of the garden, where she was attentively watching Penelon,
who, entering with zeal into his profession of gardener, was
very busy grafting some Bengal roses. "Ah, count," she
exclaimed, with the delight manifested by every member of
the family whenever he visited the Rue Meslay.

"Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?" asked
the count.

"Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel."

"Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian's room
this instant," replied Monte Cristo, "I have something of
the greatest importance to tell him."

"Go, then," she said with a charming smile, which
accompanied him until he had disappeared. Monte Cristo soon
ran up the staircase conducting from the ground-floor to
Maximilian's room; when he reached the landing he listened
attentively, but all was still. Like many old houses
occupied by a single family, the room door was panelled with
glass; but it was locked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was
impossible to see what was passing in the room, because a
red curtain was drawn before the glass. The count's anxiety
was manifested by a bright color which seldom appeared on
the face of that imperturbable man.

"What shall I do!" he uttered, and reflected for a moment;
"shall I ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a
visitor, will but accelerate the resolution of one in
Maximilian's situation, and then the bell would be followed
by a louder noise." Monte Cristo trembled from head to foot
and as if his determination had been taken with the rapidity
of lightning, he struck one of the panes of glass with his
elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms, then withdrawing the
curtain he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his desk,
bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window.

"I beg a thousand pardons," said the count, "there is
nothing the matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your
panes of glass with my elbow. Since it is opened, I will
take advantage of it to enter your room; do not disturb
yourself -- do not disturb yourself!" And passing his hand
through the broken glass, the count opened the door. Morrel,
evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte Cristo less with
the intention of receiving him than to exclude his entry.
"Ma foi," said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow, "it's all
your servant's fault; your stairs are so polished, it is
like walking on glass."

"Are you hurt, sir?" coldly asked Morrel.

"I believe not. But what are you about there? You were
writing."

"I?"

"Your fingers are stained with ink."

"Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I
am."

Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged
to let him pass, but he followed him. "You were writing?"
said Monte Cristo with a searching look.

"I have already had the honor of telling you I was," said
Morrel.

The count looked around him. "Your pistols are beside your
desk," said Monte Cristo, pointing with his finger to the
pistols on the table.

"I am on the point of starting on a journey," replied Morrel
disdainfully.

"My friend," exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite
sweetness.

"Sir?"

"My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty
resolution, I entreat you."

"I make a hasty resolution?" said Morrel, shrugging his
shoulders; "is there anything extraordinary in a journey?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "let us both lay aside the
mask we have assumed. You no more deceive me with that false
calmness than I impose upon you with my frivolous
solicitude. You can understand, can you not, that to have
acted as I have done, to have broken that glass, to have
intruded on the solitude of a friend -- you can understand
that, to have done all this, I must have been actuated by
real uneasiness, or rather by a terrible conviction. Morrel,
you are going to destroy yourself!"

"Indeed, count," said Morrel, shuddering; "what has put this
into your head?"

"I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself,"
continued the count, "and here is proof of what I say;" and,
approaching the desk, he removed the sheet of paper which
Morrel had placed over the letter he had begun, and took the
latter in his hands.

Morrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo
perceiving his intention, seized his wrist with his iron
grasp. "You wish to destroy yourself," said the count; "you
have written it."

"Well," said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for
one of violence -- "well, and if I do intend to turn this
pistol against myself, who shall prevent me -- who will dare
prevent me? All my hopes are blighted, my heart is broken,
my life a burden, everything around me is sad and mournful;
earth has become distasteful to me, and human voices
distract me. It is a mercy to let me die, for if I live I
shall lose my reason and become mad. When, sir, I tell you
all this with tears of heartfelt anguish, can you reply that
I am wrong, can you prevent my putting an end to my
miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have the
courage to do so?"

"Yes, Morrel," said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which
contrasted strangely with the young man's excitement; "yes,
I would do so."

"You?" exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach
-- "you, who have deceived me with false hopes, who have
cheered and soothed me with vain promises, when I might, if
not have saved her, at least have seen her die in my arms!
You, who pretend to understand everything, even the hidden
sources of knowledge, -- and who enact the part of a
guardian angel upon earth, and could not even find an
antidote to a poison administered to a young girl! Ah, sir,
indeed you would inspire me with pity, were you not hateful
in my eyes."

"Morrel" --

"Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so,
be satisfied! When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I
answered you -- my heart was softened; when you arrived
here, I allowed you to enter. But since you abuse my
confidence, since you have devised a new torture after I
thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count of Monte
Cristo my pretended benefactor -- then, Count of Monte
Cristo, the universal guardian, be satisfied, you shall
witness the death of your friend;" and Morrel, with a
maniacal laugh, again rushed towards the pistols.

"And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide."

"Prevent me, then!" replied Morrel, with another struggle,
which, like the first, failed in releasing him from the
count's iron grasp.

"I will prevent you."

"And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this
tyrannical right over free and rational beings?"

"Who am I?" repeated Monte Cristo. "Listen; I am the only
man in the world having the right to say to you, `Morrel,
your father's son shall not die to-day;'" and Monte Cristo,
with an expression of majesty and sublimity, advanced with
arms folded toward the young man, who, involuntarily
overcome by the commanding manner of this man, recoiled a
step.

"Why do you mention my father?" stammered he; "why do you
mingle a recollection of him with the affairs of today?"

"Because I am he who saved your father's life when he wished
to destroy himself, as you do to-day -- because I am the man
who sent the purse to your young sister, and the Pharaon to
old Morrel -- because I am the Edmond Dantes who nursed you,
a child, on my knees." Morrel made another step back,
staggering, breathless, crushed; then all his strength give
way, and he fell prostrate at the feet of Monte Cristo. Then
his admirable nature underwent a complete and sudden
revulsion; he arose, rushed out of the room and to the
stairs, exclaiming energetically, "Julie, Julie -- Emmanuel,
Emmanuel!"

Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave, but Maximilian would
have died rather than relax his hold of the handle of the
door, which he closed upon the count. Julie, Emmanuel, and
some of the servants, ran up in alarm on hearing the cries
of Maximilian. Morrel seized their hands, and opening the
door exclaimed in a voice choked with sobs, "On your knees
-- on your knees -- he is our benefactor -- the saviour of
our father! He is" --

He would have added "Edmond Dantes," but the count seized
his arm and prevented him. Julie threw herself into the arms
of the count; Emmanuel embraced him as a guardian angel;
Morrel again fell on his knees, and struck the ground with
his forehead. Then the iron-hearted man felt his heart swell
in his breast; a flame seemed to rush from his throat to his
eyes, he bent his head and wept. For a while nothing was
heard in the room but a succession of sobs, while the
incense from their grateful hearts mounted to heaven. Julie
had scarcely recovered from her deep emotion when she rushed
out of the room, descended to the next floor, ran into the
drawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal globe
which covered the purse given by the unknown of the Allees
de Meillan. Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice said to
the count, "Oh, count, how could you, hearing us so often
speak of our unknown benefactor, seeing us pay such homage
of gratitude and adoration to his memory, -- how could you
continue so long without discovering yourself to us? Oh, it
was cruel to us, and -- dare I say it? -- to you also."

"Listen, my friends," said the count -- "I may call you so
since we have really been friends for the last eleven years
-- the discovery of this secret has been occasioned by a
great event which you must never know. I wish to bury it
during my whole life in my own bosom, but your brother
Maximilian wrested it from me by a violence he repents of
now, I am sure." Then turning around, and seeing that
Morrel, still on his knees, had thrown himself into an
arm-chair, be added in a low voice, pressing Emmanuel's hand
significantly, "Watch over him."

"Why so?" asked the young man, surprised.

"I cannot explain myself; but watch over him." Emmanuel
looked around the room and caught sight of the pistols; his
eyes rested on the weapons, and he pointed to them. Monte
Cristo bent his head. Emmanuel went towards the pistols.
"Leave them," said Monte Cristo. Then walking towards
Morrel, he took his hand; the tumultuous agitation of the
young man was succeeded by a profound stupor. Julie
returned, holding the silken purse in her hands, while tears
of joy rolled down her cheeks, like dewdrops on the rose.

"Here is the relic," she said; "do not think it will be less
dear to us now we are acquainted with our benefactor!"

"My child," said Monte Cristo, coloring, "allow me to take
back that purse? Since you now know my face, I wish to be
remembered alone through the affection I hope you will grant
me.

"Oh," said Julie, pressing the purse to her heart, "no, no,
I beseech you do not take it, for some unhappy day you will
leave us, will you not?"

"You have guessed rightly, madame," replied Monte Cristo,
smiling; "in a week I shall have left this country, where so
many persons who merit the vengeance of heaven lived
happily, while my father perished of hunger and grief."
While announcing his departure, the count fixed his eyes on
Morrel, and remarked that the words, "I shall have left this
country," had failed to rouse him from his lethargy. He then
saw that he must make another struggle against the grief of
his friend, and taking the hands of Emmanuel and Julie,
which he pressed within his own, he said with the mild
authority of a father, "My kind friends, leave me alone with
Maximilian." Julie saw the means offered of carrying off her
precious relic, which Monte Cristo had forgotten. She drew
her husband to the door. "Let us leave them," she said. The
count was alone with Morrel, who remained motionless as a
statue.

"Come," said Monte-Cristo, touching his shoulder with his
finger, "are you a man again, Maximilian?"

"Yes; for I begin to suffer again."

The count frowned, apparently in gloomy hesitation.

"Maximilian, Maximilian," he said, "the ideas you yield to
are unworthy of a Christian."

"Oh, do not fear, my friend," said Morrel, raising his head,
and smiling with a sweet expression on the count; "I shall
no longer attempt my life."

"Then we are to have no more pistols -- no more despair?"

"No; I have found a better remedy for my grief than either a
bullet or a knife."

"Poor fellow, what is it?"

"My grief will kill me of itself."

"My friend," said Monte Cristo, with an expression of
melancholy equal to his own, "listen to me. One day, in a
moment of despair like yours, since it led to a similar
resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one day your
father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If
any one had said to your father, at the moment he raised the
pistol to his head -- if any one had told me, when in my
prison I pushed back the food I had not tasted for three
days -- if anyone had said to either of us then, `Live --
the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless
life!' -- no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have
heard him with the smile of doubt, or the anguish of
incredulity, -- and yet how many times has your father
blessed life while embracing you -- how often have I myself"
--

"Ah," exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, "you had
only lost your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune,
but I have lost Valentine."

"Look at me," said Monte Cristo, with that expression which
sometimes made him so eloquent and persuasive -- "look at
me. There are no tears in my eyes, nor is there fever in my
veins, yet I see you suffer -- you, Maximilian, whom I love
as my own son. Well, does not this tell you that in grief,
as in life, there is always something to look forward to
beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel,
it is in the conviction that one day you will thank me for
having preserved your life."

"Oh, heavens," said the young man, "oh, heavens -- what are
you saying, count? Take care. But perhaps you have never
loved!"

"Child!" replied the count.

"I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever
since I attained manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine
without loving, for none of the feelings I before then
experienced merit the 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 are
sacred, Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that
this is the 5th of September; it is ten years to-day since I
saved your father's life, who wished to die." Morrel seized
the count's hand and kissed it; the count allowed him to pay
the homage he felt due to him. "In a month you will find on
the table, at which we shall be then sitting, good pistols
and a delicious draught; but, on the other hand, you must
promise me not to attempt your life before that time."

"Oh, I also swear it!" Monte Cristo drew the young man
towards him, and pressed him for some time to his heart.
"And now," he said, "after to-day, you will come and live
with me; you can occupy Haidee's apartment, and my daughter
will at least be replaced by my son."

"Haidee?" said Morrel, "what has become of her?"

"She departed last night."

"To leave you?"

"To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the
Champs Elysees, and lead me out of this house without any
one seeing my departure." Maximilian hung his head, and
obeyed with childlike reverence.



Chapter 106
Dividing the Proceeds.

The apartment on the second floor of the house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Pres, where Albert de Morcerf had selected
a home for his mother, was let to a very mysterious person.
This was a man whose face the concierge himself had never
seen, for in the winter his chin was buried in one of the
large red handkerchiefs worn by gentlemen's coachmen on a
cold night, and in the summer he made a point of always
blowing his nose just as he approached the door. Contrary to
custom, this gentleman had not been watched, for as the
report ran that he was a person of high rank, and one who
would allow no impertinent interference, his incognito was
strictly respected.

His visits were tolerably regular, though occasionally he
appeared a little before or after his time, but generally,
both in summer and winter, he took possession of his
apartment about four o'clock, though he never spent the
night there. At half-past three in the winter the fire was
lighted by the discreet servant, who had the superintendence
of the little apartment, and in the summer ices were placed
on the table at the same hour. At four o'clock, as we have
already stated, the mysterious personage arrived. Twenty
minutes afterwards a carriage stopped at the house, a lady
alighted in a black or dark blue dress, and always thickly
veiled; she passed like a shadow through the lodge, and ran
up-stairs without a sound escaping under the touch of her
light foot. No one ever asked her where she was going. Her
face, therefore, like that of the gentleman, was perfectly
unknown to the two concierges, who were perhaps unequalled
throughout the capital for discretion. We need not say she
stopped at the second floor. Then she tapped in a peculiar
manner at a door, which after being opened to admit her was
again fastened, and curiosity penetrated no farther. They
used the same precautions in leaving as in entering the
house. The lady always left first, and as soon as she had
stepped into her carriage, it drove away, sometimes towards
the right hand, sometimes to the left; then about twenty
minutes afterwards the gentleman would also leave, buried in
his cravat or concealed by his handkerchief.

The day after Monte Cristo had called upon Danglars, the
mysterious lodger entered at ten o'clock in the morning
instead of four in the afternoon. Almost directly
afterwards, without the usual interval of time, a cab
arrived, and the veiled lady ran hastily up-stairs. The door
opened, but before it could be closed, the lady exclaimed:
"Oh, Lucien -- oh, my friend!" The concierge therefore heard
for the first time that the lodger's name was Lucien; still,
as he was the very perfection of a door-keeper, he made up
his mind not to tell his wife. "Well, what is the matter, my
dear?" asked the gentleman whose name the lady's agitation
revealed; "tell me what is the matter."

"Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you?"

"Of course, you know you can do so. But what can be the
matter? Your note of this morning has completely bewildered
me. This precipitation -- this unusual appointment. Come,
ease me of my anxiety, or else frighten me at once."

"Lucien, a great event has happened!" said the lady,
glancing inquiringly at Lucien, -- "M. Danglars left last
night!"

"Left? -- M. Danglars left? Where has he gone?"

"I do not know."

"What do you mean? Has he gone intending not to return?"

"Undoubtedly; -- at ten o'clock at night his horses took him
to the barrier of Charenton; there a post-chaise was waiting
for him -- he entered it with his valet de chambre, saying
that he was going to Fontainebleau."

"Then what did you mean" --

"Stay -- he left a letter for me."

"A letter?"

"Yes; read it." And the baroness took from her pocket a
letter which she gave to Debray. Debray paused a moment
before reading, as if trying to guess its contents, or
perhaps while making up his mind how to act, whatever it
might contain. No doubt his ideas were arranged in a few
minutes, for he began reading the letter which caused so
much uneasiness in the heart of the baroness, and which ran
as follows: --

"Madame and most faithful wife."

Debray mechanically stopped and looked at the baroness,
whose face became covered with blushes. "Read," she said.

Debray continued: --

"When you receive this, you will no longer have a husband.
Oh, you need not be alarmed, you will only have lost him as
you have lost your daughter; I mean that I shall be
travelling on one of the thirty or forty roads leading out
of France. I owe you some explanations for my conduct, and
as you are a woman that can perfectly understand me, I will
give them. Listen, then. I received this morning five
millions which I paid away; almost directly afterwards
another demand for the same sum was presented to me; I put
this creditor off till to-morrow and I intend leaving
to-day, to escape that to-morrow, which would be rather too
unpleasant for me to endure. You understand this, do you
not, my most precious wife? I say you understand this,
because you are as conversant with my affairs as I am;
indeed, I think you understand them better, since I am
ignorant of what has become of a considerable portion of my
fortune, once very tolerable, while I am sure, madame, that
you know perfectly well. For women have infallible
instincts; they can even explain the marvellous by an
algebraic calculation they have invented; but I, who only
understand my own figures, know nothing more than that one
day these figures deceived me. Have you admired the rapidity
of my fall? Have you been slightly dazzled at the sudden
fusion of my ingots? I confess I have seen nothing but the
fire; let us hope you have found some gold among the ashes.
With this consoling idea, I leave you, madame, and most
prudent wife, without any conscientious reproach for
abandoning you; you have friends left, and the ashes I have
already mentioned, and above all the liberty I hasten to
restore to you. And here, madame, I must add another word of
explanation. So long as I hoped you were working for the
good of our house and for the fortune of our daughter, I
philosophically closed my eyes; but as you have transformed
that house into a vast ruin I will not be the foundation of
another man's fortune. You were rich when I married you, but
little respected. Excuse me for speaking so very candidly,
but as this is intended only for ourselves, I do not see why
I should weigh my words. I have augmented our fortune, and
it has continued to increase during the last fifteen years,
till extraordinary and unexpected catastrophes have suddenly
overturned it, -- without any fault of mine, I can honestly
declare. You, madame, have only sought to increase your own,
and I am convinced that you have succeeded. I leave you,
therefore, as I took you, -- rich, but little respected.
Adieu! I also intend from this time to work on my own
account. Accept my acknowledgments for the example you have
set me, and which I intend following.

"Your very devoted husband,

"Baron Danglars."

The baroness had watched Debray while he read this long and
painful letter, and saw him, notwithstanding his
self-control, change color once or twice. When he had ended
the perusal, he folded the letter and resumed his pensive
attitude. "Well?" asked Madame Danglars, with an anxiety
easy to be understood.

"Well, madame?" unhesitatingly repeated Debray.

"With what ideas does that letter inspire you?"

"Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it inspires me with the
idea that M. Danglars has left suspiciously."

"Certainly; but is this all you have to say to me?"

"I do not understand you," said Debray with freezing
coldness.

"He is gone! Gone, never to return!"

"Oh, madame, do not think that!"

"I tell you he will never return. I know his character; he
is inflexible in any resolutions formed for his own
interests. If he could have made any use of me, he would
have taken me with him; he leaves me in Paris, as our
separation will conduce to his benefit; -- therefore he has
gone, and I am free forever," added Madame Danglars, in the
same supplicating tone. Debray, instead of answering,
allowed her to remain in an attitude of nervous inquiry.
"Well?" she said at length, "do you not answer me?"

"I have but one question to ask you, -- what do you intend
to do?"

"I was going to ask you," replied the baroness with a
beating heart.

"Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of me?"

"Yes; I do wish to ask your advice," said Madame Danglars
with anxious expectation.

"Then if you wish to take my advice," said the young man
coldly, "I would recommend you to travel."

"To travel!" she murmured.

"Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are rich, and perfectly
free. In my opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely
necessary after the double catastrophe of Mademoiselle
Danglars' broken contract and M. Danglars' disappearance.
The world will think you abandoned and poor, for the wife of
a bankrupt would never be forgiven, were she to keep up an
appearance of opulence. You have only to remain in Paris for
about a fortnight, telling the world you are abandoned, and
relating the details of this desertion to your best friends,
who will soon spread the report. Then you can quit your
house, leaving your jewels and giving up your jointure, and
every one's mouth will be filled with praises of your
disinterestedness. They will know you are deserted, and
think you also poor, for I alone know your real financial
position, and am quite ready to give up my accounts as an
honest partner." The dread with which the pale and
motionless baroness listened to this, was equalled by the
calm indifference with which Debray had spoken. "Deserted?"
she repeated; "ah, yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are
right, sir, and no one can doubt my position." These were
the only words that this proud and violently enamoured woman
could utter in response to Debray.

"But then you are rich, -- very rich, indeed," continued
Debray, taking out some papers from his pocket-book, which
he spread upon the table. Madame Danglars did not see them;
she was engaged in stilling the beatings of her heart, and
restraining the tears which were ready to gush forth. At
length a sense of dignity prevailed, and if she did not
entirely master her agitation, she at least succeeded in
preventing the fall of a single tear. "Madame," said Debray,
"it is nearly six months since we have been associated. You
furnished a principal of 100,000 francs. Our partnership
began in the month of April. In May we commenced operations,
and in the course of the month gained 450,000 francs. In
June the profit amounted to 900,000. In July we added
1,700,000 francs, -- it was, you know, the month of the
Spanish bonds. In August we lost 300,000 francs at the
beginning of the month, but on the 13th we made up for it,
and we now find that our accounts, reckoning from the first
day of partnership up to yesterday, when I closed them,
showed a capital of 2,400,000 francs, that is, 1,200,000 for
each of us. Now, madame," said Debray, delivering up his
accounts in the methodical manner of a stockbroker, "there
are still 80,000 francs, the interest of this money, in my
hands."

"But," said the baroness, "I thought you never put the money
out to interest."

"Excuse me, madame," said Debray coldly, "I had your
permission to do so, and I have made use of it. There are,
then, 40,000 francs for your share, besides the 100,000 you
furnished me to begin with, making in all 1,340,000 francs
for your portion. Now, madame, I took the precaution of
drawing out your money the day before yesterday; it is not
long ago, you see, and I was in continual expectation of
being called on to deliver up my accounts. There is your
money, -- half in bank-notes, the other half in checks
payable to bearer. I say there, for as I did not consider my
house safe enough, or lawyers sufficiently discreet, and as
landed property carries evidence with it, and moreover since
you have no right to possess anything independent of your
husband, I have kept this sum, now your whole fortune, in a
chest concealed under that closet, and for greater security
I myself concealed it there.

"Now, madame," continued Debray, first opening the closet,
then the chest; -- "now, madame, here are 800 notes of 1,000
francs each, resembling, as you see, a large book bound in
iron; to this I add a certificate in the funds of 25,000
francs; then, for the odd cash, making I think about 110,000
francs, here is a check upon my banker, who, not being M.
Danglars, will pay you the amount, you may rest assured."
Madame Danglars mechanically took the check, the bond, and
the heap of bank-notes. This enormous fortune made no great
appearance on the table. Madame Danglars, with tearless
eyes, but with her breast heaving with concealed emotion,
placed the bank-notes in her bag, put the certificate and
check into her pocket-book, and then, standing pale and
mute, awaited one kind word of consolation. But she waited
in vain.

"Now, madame," said Debray, "you have a splendid fortune, an
income of about 60,000 livres a year, which is enormous for
a woman who cannot keep an establishment here for a year, at
least. You will be able to indulge all your fancies;
besides, should you find your income insufficient, you can,
for the sake of the past, madame, make use of mine; and I am
ready to offer you all I possess, on loan."

"Thank you, sir -- thank you," replied the baroness; "you
forget that what you have just paid me is much more than a
poor woman requires, who intends for some time, at least, to
retire from the world."

Debray was, for a moment, surprised, but immediately
recovering himself, he bowed with an air which seemed to
say, "As you please, madame."

Madame Danglars had until then, perhaps, hoped for
something; but when she saw the careless bow of Debray, and
the glance by which it was accompanied, together with his
significant silence, she raised her head, and without
passion or violence or even hesitation, ran down-stairs,
disdaining to address a last farewell to one who could thus
part from her. "Bah," said Debray, when she had left, "these
are fine projects! She will remain at home, read novels, and
speculate at cards, since she can no longer do so on the
Bourse." Then taking up his account book, he cancelled with
the greatest care all the entries of the amounts he had just
paid away. "I have 1,060,000 francs remaining," he said.
"What a pity Mademoiselle de Villefort is dead! She suited
me in every respect, and I would have married her." And he
calmly waited until the twenty minutes had elapsed after
Madame Danglars' departure before he left the house. During
this time he occupied himself in making figures, with his
watch by his side.

Asmodeus -- that diabolical personage, who would have been
created by every fertile imagination if Le Sage had not
acquired the priority in his great masterpiece -- would have
enjoyed a singular spectacle, if he had lifted up the roof
of the little house in the Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres, while
Debray was casting up his figures. Above the room in which
Debray had been dividing two millions and a half with Madame
Danglars was another, inhabited by persons who have played
too prominent a part in the incidents we have related for
their appearance not to create some interest. Mercedes and
Albert were in that room. Mercedes was much changed within
the last few days; not that even in her days of fortune she
had ever dressed with the magnificent display which makes us
no longer able to recognize a woman when she appears in a
plain and simple attire; nor indeed, had she fallen into
that state of depression where it is impossible to conceal
the garb of misery; no, the change in Mercedes was that her
eye no longer sparkled, her lips no longer smiled, and there
was now a hesitation in uttering the words which formerly
sprang so fluently from her ready wit.

It was not poverty which had broken her spirit; it was not a
want of courage which rendered her poverty burdensome.
Mercedes, although deposed from the exalted position she had
occupied, lost in the sphere she had now chosen, like a
person passing from a room splendidly lighted into utter
darkness, appeared like a queen, fallen from her palace to a
hovel, and who, reduced to strict necessity, could neither
become reconciled to the earthen vessels she was herself
forced to place upon the table, nor to the humble pallet
which had become her bed. The beautiful Catalane and noble
countess had lost both her proud glance and charming smile,
because she saw nothing but misery around her; the walls
were hung with one of the gray papers which economical
landlords choose as not likely to show the dirt; the floor
was uncarpeted; the furniture attracted the attention to the
poor attempt at luxury; indeed, everything offended eyes
accustomed to refinement and elegance.

Madame de Morcerf had lived there since leaving her house;
the continual silence of the spot oppressed her; still,
seeing that Albert continually watched her countenance to
judge the state of her feelings, she constrained herself to
assume a monotonous smile of the lips alone, which,
contrasted with the sweet and beaming expression that
usually shone from her eyes, seemed like "moonlight on a
statue," -- yielding light without warmth. Albert, too, was
ill at ease; the remains of luxury prevented him from
sinking into his actual position. If he wished to go out
without gloves, his hands appeared too white; if he wished
to walk through the town, his boots seemed too highly
polished. Yet these two noble and intelligent creatures,
united by the indissoluble ties of maternal and filial love,
had succeeded in tacitly understanding one another, and
economizing their stores, and Albert had been able to tell
his mother without extorting a change of countenance, --
"Mother, we have no more money."

Mercedes had never known misery; she had often, in her
youth, spoken of poverty, but between want and necessity,
those synonymous words, there is a wide difference. Amongst
the Catalans, Mercedes wished for a thousand things, but
still she never really wanted any. So long as the nets were
good, they caught fish; and so long as they sold their fish,
they were able to buy twine for new nets. And then, shut out
from friendship, having but one affection, which could not
be mixed up with her ordinary pursuits, she thought of
herself -- of no one but herself. Upon the little she earned
she lived as well as she could; now there were two to be
supported, and nothing to live upon.

Winter approached. Mercedes had no fire in that cold and
naked room -- she, who was accustomed to stoves which heated
the house from the hall to the boudoir; she had not even one
little flower -- she whose apartment had been a conservatory
of costly exotics. But she had her son. Hitherto the
excitement of fulfilling a duty had sustained them.
Excitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes renders us
unconscious to the things of earth. But the excitement had
calmed down, and they felt themselves obliged to descend
from dreams to reality; after having exhausted the ideal,
they found they must talk of the actual.

"Mother," exclaimed Albert, just as Madame Danglars was
descending the stairs, "let us reckon our riches, if you
please; I want capital to build my plans upon."

"Capital -- nothing!" replied Mercedes with a mournful
smile.

"No, mother, -- capital 3,000 francs. And I have an idea of
our leading a delightful life upon this 3,000 francs."

"Child!" sighed Mercedes.

"Alas, dear mother," said the young man, "I have unhappily
spent too much of your money not to know the value of it.
These 3,000 francs are enormous, and I intend building upon
this foundation a miraculous certainty for the future."

"You say this, my dear boy; but do you think we ought to
accept these 3,000 francs?" said Mercedes, coloring.

"I think so," answered Albert in a firm tone. "We will
accept them the more readily, since we have them not here;
you know they are buried in the garden of the little house
in the Allees de Meillan, at Marseilles. With 200 francs we
can reach Marseilles."

"With 200 francs? -- are you sure, Albert?"

"Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries respecting the
diligences and steamboats, and my calculations are made. You
will take your place in the coupe to Chalons. You see,
mother, I treat you handsomely for thirty-five francs."
Albert then took a pen, and wrote: --

                                                      Frs.
Coupe, thirty-five francs ............................ 35
From Chalons to Lyons you will go on by the steamboat
-- six francs ......................................... 6
From Lyons to Avignon (still by steamboat),
sixteen francs ....................................... 16
From Avignon to Marseilles, seven franc................ 7
Expenses on the road, about fifty francs ............. 50
Total................................................ 114 frs.

"Let us put down 120," added Albert, smiling. "You see I am
generous, am I not, mother?"

"But you, my poor child?"

"I? do you not see that I reserve eighty francs for myself?
A young man does not require luxuries; besides, I know what
travelling is."

"With a post-chaise and valet de chambre?"

"Any way, mother."

"Well, be it so. But these 200 francs?"

"Here they are, and 200 more besides. See, I have sold my
watch for 100 francs, and the guard and seals for 300. How
fortunate that the ornaments were worth more than the watch.
Still the same story of superfluities! Now I think we are
rich, since instead of the 114 francs we require for the
journey we find ourselves in possession of 250."

"But we owe something in this house?"

"Thirty francs; but I pay that out of my 150 francs, -- that
is understood, -- and as I require only eighty francs for my
journey, you see I am overwhelmed with luxury. But that is
not all. What do you say to this, mother?"

And Albert took out of a little pocket-book with golden
clasps, a remnant of his old fancies, or perhaps a tender
souvenir from one of the mysterious and veiled ladies who
used to knock at his little door, -- Albert took out of this
pocket-book a note of 1,000 francs.

"What is this?" asked Mercedes.

"A thousand francs."

"But whence have you obtained them?"

"Listen to me, mother, and do not yield too much to
agitation." And Albert, rising, kissed his mother on both
cheeks, then stood looking at her. "You cannot imagine,
mother, how beautiful I think you!" said the young man,
impressed with a profound feeling of filial love. "You are,
indeed, the most beautiful and most noble woman I ever saw!"

"Dear child!" said Mercedes, endeavoring in vain to restrain
a tear which glistened in the corner of her eye. "Indeed,
you only wanted misfortune to change my love for you to
admiration. I am not unhappy while I possess my son!"

"Ah, just so," said Albert; "here begins the trial. Do you
know the decision we have come to, mother?"

"Have we come to any?"

"Yes; it is decided that you are to live at Marseilles, and
that I am to leave for Africa, where I will earn for myself
the right to use the name I now bear, instead of the one I
have thrown aside." Mercedes sighed. "Well, mother, I
yesterday engaged myself as substitute in the Spahis,"*
added the young man, lowering his eyes with a certain
feeling of shame, for even he was unconscious of the
sublimity of his self-abasement. "I thought my body was my
own, and that I might sell it. I yesterday took the place of
another. I sold myself for more than I thought I was worth,"
he added, attempting to smile; "I fetched 2,000 francs."

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

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

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

Mercedes raised her eyes to heaven with an expression it
would be impossible to describe, and tears, which had
hitherto been restrained, now yielded to her emotion, and
ran down her cheeks.

"The price of his blood!" she murmured.

"Yes, if I am killed," said Albert, laughing. "But I assure
you, mother, I have a strong intention of defending my
person, and I never felt half so strong an inclination to
live as I do now."

"Merciful heavens!"

"Besides, mother, why should you make up your mind that I am
to be killed? Has Lamoriciere, that Ney of the South, been
killed? Has Changarnier been killed? Has Bedeau been killed?
Has Morrel, whom we know, been killed? Think of your joy,
mother, when you see me return with an embroidered uniform!
I declare, I expect to look magnificent in it, and chose
that regiment only from vanity." Mercedes sighed while
endeavoring to smile; the devoted mother felt that she ought
not to allow the whole weight of the sacrifice to fall upon
her son. "Well, now you understand, mother!" continued
Albert; "here are more than 4,000 francs settled on you;
upon these you can live at least two years."

"Do you think so?" said Mercedes. These words were uttered
in so mournful a tone that their real meaning did not escape
Albert; he felt his heart beat, and taking his mother's hand
within his own he said, tenderly, --

"Yes, you will live!"

"I shall live! -- then you will not leave me, Albert?"

"Mother, I must go," said Albert in a firm, calm voice; "you
love me too well to wish me to remain useless and idle with
you; besides, I have signed."

"You will obey your own wish and the will of heaven!"

"Not my own wish, mother, but reason -- necessity. Are we
not two despairing creatures? What is life to you? --
Nothing. What is life to me? -- Very little without you,
mother; for believe me, but for you I should have ceased to
live on the day I doubted my father and renounced his name.
Well, I will live, if you promise me still to hope; and if
you grant me the care of your future prospects, you will
redouble my strength. Then I will go to the governor of
Algeria; he has a royal heart, and is essentially a soldier;
I will tell him my gloomy story. I will beg him to turn his
eyes now and then towards me, and if he keep his word and
interest himself for me, in six months I shall be an
officer, or dead. If I am an officer, your fortune is
certain, for I shall have money enough for both, and,
moreover, a name we shall both be proud of, since it will be
our own. If I am killed -- well then mother, you can also
die, and there will be an end of our misfortunes."

"It is well," replied Mercedes, with her eloquent glance;
"you are right, my love; let us prove to those who are
watching our actions that we are worthy of compassion."

"But let us not yield to gloomy apprehensions," said the
young man; "I assure you we are, or rather we shall be, very
happy. You are a woman at once full of spirit and
resignation; I have become simple in my tastes, and am
without passion, I hope. Once in service, I shall be rich --
once in M. Dantes' house, you will be at rest. Let us
strive, I beseech you, -- let us strive to be cheerful."

"Yes, let us strive, for you ought to live, and to be happy,
Albert."

"And so our division is made, mother," said the young man,
affecting ease of mind. "We can now part; come, I shall
engage your passage."

"And you, my dear boy?"

"I shall stay here for a few days longer; we must accustom
ourselves to parting. I want recommendations and some
information relative to Africa. I will join you again at
Marseilles."

"Well, be it so -- let us part," said Mercedes, folding
around her shoulders the only shawl she had taken away, and
which accidentally happened to be a valuable black cashmere.
Albert gathered up his papers hastily, rang the bell to pay
the thirty francs he owed to the landlord, and offering his
arm to his mother, they descended the stairs. Some one was
walking down before them, and this person, hearing the
rustling of a silk dress, turned around. "Debray!" muttered
Albert.

"You, Morcerf?" replied the secretary, resting on the
stairs. Curiosity had vanquished the desire of preserving
his incognito, and he was recognized. It was, indeed,
strange in this unknown spot to find the young man whose
misfortunes had made so much noise in Paris.

"Morcerf!" repeated Debray. Then noticing in the dim light
the still youthful and veiled figure of Madame de Morcerf:
-- "Pardon me," he added with a smile, "I leave you,
Albert." Albert understood his thoughts. "Mother," he said,
turning towards Mercedes, "this is M. Debray, secretary of
the minister for the interior, once a friend of mine."

"How once?" stammered Debray; "what do you mean?"

"I say so, M. Debray, because I have no friends now, and I
ought not to have any. I thank you for having recognized me,
sir." Debray stepped forward, and cordially pressed the hand
of his interlocutor. "Believe me, dear Albert," he said,
with all the emotion he was capable of feeling, -- "believe
me, I feel deeply for your misfortunes, and if in any way I
can serve you, I am yours."

"Thank you, sir," said Albert, smiling. "In the midst of our
misfortunes, we are still rich enough not to require
assistance from any one. We are leaving Paris, and when our
journey is paid, we shall have 5,000 francs left." The blood
mounted to the temples of Debray, who held a million in his
pocket-book, and unimaginative as he was he could not help
reflecting that the same house had contained two women, one
of whom, justly dishonored, had left it poor with 1,500,000
francs under her cloak, while the other, unjustly stricken,
but sublime in her misfortune, was yet rich with a few
deniers. This parallel disturbed his usual politeness, the
philosophy he witnessed appalled him, he muttered a few
words of general civility and ran down-stairs.

That day the minister's clerks and the subordinates had a
great deal to put up with from his ill-humor. But that same
night, he found himself the possessor of a fine house,
situated on the Boulevard de la Madeleine, and an income of
50,000 livres. The next day, just as Debray was signing the
deed, that is about five o'clock in the afternoon, Madame de
Morcerf, after having affectionately embraced her son,
entered the coupe of the diligence, which closed upon her. A
man was hidden in Lafitte's banking-house, behind one of the
little arched windows which are placed above each desk; he
saw Mercedes enter the diligence, and he also saw Albert
withdraw. Then he passed his hand across his forehead, which
was clouded with doubt. "Alas," he exclaimed, "how can I
restore the happiness I have taken away from these poor
innocent creatures? God help me!"



Chapter 107
The Lions' Den.

One division of La Force, in which the most dangerous and
desperate prisoners are confined, is called the court of
Saint-Bernard. The prisoners, in their expressive language,
have named it the "Lions' Den," probably because the
captives possess teeth which frequently gnaw the bars, and
sometimes the keepers also. It is a prison within a prison;
the walls are double the thickness of the rest. The gratings
are every day carefully examined by jailers, whose herculean
proportions and cold pitiless expression prove them to have
been chosen to reign over their subjects for their superior
activity and intelligence. The court-yard of this quarter is
enclosed by enormous walls, over which the sun glances
obliquely, when it deigns to penetrate into this gulf of
moral and physical deformity. On this paved yard are to be
seen, -- pacing to and fro from morning till night, pale,
careworn, and haggard, like so many shadows, -- the men whom
justice holds beneath the steel she is sharpening. There,
crouched against the side of the wall which attracts and
retains the most heat, they may be seen sometimes talking to
one another, but more frequently alone, watching the door,
which sometimes opens to call forth one from the gloomy
assemblage, or to throw in another outcast from society.

The court of Saint-Bernard has its own particular apartment
for the reception of guests; it is a long rectangle, divided
by two upright gratings placed at a distance of three feet
from one another to prevent a visitor from shaking hands
with or passing anything to the prisoners. It is a wretched,
damp, nay, even horrible spot, more especially when we
consider the agonizing conferences which have taken place
between those iron bars. And yet, frightful though this spot
may be, it is looked upon as a kind of paradise by the men
whose days are numbered; it is so rare for them to leave the
Lions' Den for any other place than the barrier
Saint-Jacques or the galleys!

In the court which we have attempted to describe, and from
which a damp vapor was rising, a young man with his hands in
his pockets, who had excited much curiosity among the
inhabitants of the "Den," might be seen walking. The cut of
his clothes would have made him pass for an elegant man, if
those clothes had not been torn to shreds; still they did
not show signs of wear, and the fine cloth, beneath the
careful hands of the prisoner, soon recovered its gloss in
the parts which were still perfect, for the wearer tried his
best to make it assume the appearance of a new coat. He
bestowed the same attention upon the cambric front of a
shirt, which had considerably changed in color since his
entrance into the prison, and he polished his varnished
boots with the corner of a handkerchief embroidered with
initials surmounted by a coronet. Some of the inmates of the
"Lions' Den" were watching the operations of the prisoner's
toilet with considerable interest. "See, the prince is
pluming himself," said one of the thieves. "He's a fine
looking fellow," said another; "if he had only a comb and
hair-grease, he'd take the shine off the gentlemen in white
kids."

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

"He looks like a big-bug," said another; "dresses in fine
style. And, then, to be here so young! Oh, what larks!"
Meanwhile the object of this hideous admiration approached
the wicket, against which one of the keepers was leaning.
"Come, sir," he said, "lend me twenty francs; you will soon
be paid; you run no risks with me. Remember, I have
relations who possess more millions than you have deniers.
Come, I beseech you, lend me twenty francs, so that I may
buy a dressing-gown; it is intolerable always to be in a
coat and boots! And what a coat, sir, for a prince of the
Cavalcanti!" The keeper turned his back, and shrugged his
shoulders; he did not even laugh at what would have caused
any one else to do so; he had heard so many utter the same
things, -- indeed, he heard nothing else.

"Come," said Andrea, "you are a man void of compassion; I'll
have you turned out." This made the keeper turn around, and
he burst into a loud laugh. The prisoners then approached
and formed a circle. "I tell you that with that wretched
sum," continued Andrea, "I could obtain a coat, and a room
in which to receive the illustrious visitor I am daily
expecting."

"Of course -- of course," said the prisoners; -- "any one
can see he's a gentleman!"

"Well, then, lend him the twenty francs," said the keeper,
leaning on the other shoulder; "surely you will not refuse a
comrade!"

"I am no comrade of these people," said the young man,
proudly, "you have no right to insult me thus."

The thieves looked at one another with low murmurs, and a
storm gathered over the head of the aristocratic prisoner,
raised less by his own words than by the manner of the
keeper. The latter, sure of quelling the tempest when the
waves became too violent, allowed them to rise to a certain
pitch that he might be revenged on the importunate Andrea,
and besides it would afford him some recreation during the
long day. The thieves had already approached Andrea, some
screaming, "La savate -- La savate!"* a cruel operation,
which consists in cuffing a comrade who may have fallen into
disgrace, not with an old shoe, but with an iron-heeled one.
Others proposed the "anguille," another kind of recreation,
in which a handkerchief is filled with sand, pebbles, and
two-sous pieces, when they have them, which the wretches
beat like a flail over the head and shoulders of the unhappy
sufferer. "Let us horsewhip the fine gentleman!" said
others.

* Savate: an old shoe.

But Andrea, turning towards them, winked his eyes, rolled
his tongue around his cheeks, and smacked his lips in a
manner equivalent to a hundred words among the bandits when
forced to be silent. It was a Masonic sign Caderousse had
taught him. He was immediately recognized as one of them;
the handkerchief was thrown down, and the iron-heeled shoe
replaced on the foot of the wretch to whom it belonged. Some
voices were heard to say that the gentleman was right; that
he intended to be civil, in his way, and that they would set
the example of liberty of conscience, -- and the mob
retired. The keeper was so stupefied at this scene that he
took Andrea by the hands and began examining his person,
attributing the sudden submission of the inmates of the
Lions' Den to something more substantial than mere
fascination. Andrea made no resistance, although he
protested against it. Suddenly a voice was heard at the
wicket. "Benedetto!" exclaimed an inspector. The keeper
relaxed his hold. "I am called," said Andrea. "To the
visitors' room!" said the same voice.

"You see some one pays me a visit. Ah, my dear sir, you will
see whether a Cavalcanti is to be treated like a common
person!" And Andrea, gliding through the court like a black
shadow, rushed out through the wicket, leaving his comrades,
and even the keeper, lost in wonder. Certainly a call to the
visitors' room had scarcely astonished Andrea less than
themselves, for the wily youth, instead of making use of his
privilege of waiting to be claimed on his entry into La
Force, had maintained a rigid silence. "Everything," he
said, "proves me to be under the protection of some powerful
person, -- this sudden fortune, the facility with which I
have overcome all obstacles, an unexpected family and an
illustrious name awarded to me, gold showered down upon me,
and the most splendid alliances about to be entered into. An
unhappy lapse of fortune and the absence of my protector
have cast me down, certainly, but not forever. The hand
which has retreated for a while will be again stretched
forth to save me at the very moment when I shall think
myself sinking into the abyss. Why should I risk an
imprudent step? It might alienate my protector. He has two
means of extricating me from this dilemma, -- the one by a
mysterious escape, managed through bribery; the other by
buying off my judges with gold. I will say and do nothing
until I am convinced that he has quite abandoned me, and
then" --

Andrea had formed a plan which was tolerably clever. The
unfortunate youth was intrepid in the attack, and rude in
the defence. He had borne with the public prison, and with
privations of all sorts; still, by degrees nature, or rather
custom, had prevailed, and he suffered from being naked,
dirty, and hungry. It was at this moment of discomfort that
the inspector's voice called him to the visiting-room.
Andrea felt his heart leap with joy. It was too soon for a
visit from the examining magistrate, and too late for one
from the director of the prison, or the doctor; it must,
then, be the visitor he hoped for. Behind the grating of the
room into which Andrea had been led, he saw, while his eyes
dilated with surprise, the dark and intelligent face of M.
Bertuccio, who was also gazing with sad astonishment upon
the iron bars, the bolted doors, and the shadow which moved
behind the other grating.

"Ah," said Andrea, deeply affected.

"Good morning, Benedetto," said Bertuccio, with his deep,
hollow voice.

"You -- you?" said the young man, looking fearfully around
him.

"Do you not recognize me, unhappy child?"

"Silence, -- be silent!" said Andrea, who knew the delicate
sense of hearing possessed by the walls; "for heaven's sake,
do not speak so loud!"

"You wish to speak with me alone, do you not?" said
Bertuccio.

"Oh, yes."

"That is well." And Bertuccio, feeling in his pocket, signed
to a keeper whom he saw through the window of the wicket.

"Read?" he said.

"What is that?" asked Andrea.

"An order to conduct you to a room, and to leave you there
to talk to me."

"Oh," cried Andrea, leaping with joy. Then he mentally
added, -- "Still my unknown protector! I am not forgotten.
They wish for secrecy, since we are to converse in a private
room. I understand, Bertuccio has been sent by my
protector."

The keeper spoke for a moment with an official, then opened
the iron gates and conducted Andrea to a room on the first
floor. The room was whitewashed, as is the custom in
prisons, but it looked quite brilliant to a prisoner, though
a stove, a bed, a chair, and a table formed the whole of its
sumptuous furniture. Bertuccio sat down upon the chair,
Andrea threw himself upon the bed; the keeper retired.

"Now," said the steward, "what have you to tell me?"

"And you?" said Andrea.

"You speak first."

"Oh, no. You must have much to tell me, since you have come
to seek me."

"Well, be it so. You have continued your course of villany;
you have robbed -- you have assassinated."

"Well, I should say! If you had me taken to a private room
only to tell me this, you might have saved yourself the
trouble. I know all these things. But there are some with
which, on the contrary, I am not acquainted. Let us talk of
those, if you please. Who sent you?"

"Come, come, you are going on quickly, M. Benedetto!"

"Yes, and to the point. Let us dispense with useless words.
Who sends you?"

"No one."

"How did you know I was in prison?"

"I recognized you, some time since, as the insolent dandy
who so gracefully mounted his horse in the Champs Elysees."

"Oh, the Champs Elysees? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say at
the game of pincette. The Champs Elysees? Come, let us talk
a little about my father."

"Who, then, am I?"

"You, sir? -- you are my adopted father. But it was not you,
I presume, who placed at my disposal 100,000 francs, which I
spent in four or five months; it was not you who
manufactured an Italian gentleman for my father; it was not
you who introduced me into the world, and had me invited to
a certain dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating at
this moment, in company with the most distinguished people
in Paris -- amongst the rest with a certain procureur, whose
acquaintance I did very wrong not to cultivate, for he would
have been very useful to me just now; -- it was not you, in
fact, who bailed me for one or two millions, when the fatal
discovery of my little secret took place. Come, speak, my
worthy Corsican, speak!"

"What do you wish me to say?"

"I will help you. You were speaking of the Champs Elysees
just now, worthy foster-father."

"Well?"

"Well, in the Champs Elysees there resides a very rich
gentleman."

"At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not?"

"I believe I did."

"The Count of Monte Cristo?"

"'Tis you who have named him, as M. Racine says. Well, am I
to rush into his arms, and strain him to my heart, crying,
`My father, my father!' like Monsieur Pixerecourt."*

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

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

"Bah," said Andrea, a little overcome, by the solemnity of
Bertuccio's manner, "why not?"

"Because the person who bears it is too highly favored by
heaven to be the father of such a wretch as you."

"Oh, these are fine words."

"And there will be fine doings, if you do not take care."

"Menaces -- I do not fear them. I will say" --

"Do you think you are engaged with a pygmy like yourself?"
said Bertuccio, in so calm a tone, and with so steadfast a
look, that Andrea was moved to the very soul. "Do you think
you have to do with galley-slaves, or novices in the world?
Benedetto, you are fallen into terrible hands; they are
ready to open for you -- make use of them. Do not play with
the thunderbolt they have laid aside for a moment, but which
they can take up again instantly, if you attempt to
intercept their movements."

"My father -- I will know who my father is," said the
obstinate youth; "I will perish if I must, but I will know
it. What does scandal signify to me? What possessions, what
reputation, what `pull,' as Beauchamp says, -- have I? You
great people always lose something by scandal,
notwithstanding your millions. Come, who is my father?"

"I came to tell you."

"Ah," cried Benedetto, his eyes sparkling with joy. Just
then the door opened, and the jailer, addressing himself to
Bertuccio, said, -- "Excuse me, sir, but the examining
magistrate is waiting for the prisoner."

"And so closes our interview," said Andrea to the worthy
steward; "I wish the troublesome fellow were at the devil!"

"I will return to-morrow," said Bertuccio.

"Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service. Ah, sir, do leave a
few crowns for me at the gate that I may have some things I
am in need of!"

"It shall be done," replied Bertuccio. Andrea extended his
hand; Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, and merely
jingled a few pieces of money. "That's what I mean," said
Andrea, endeavoring to smile, quite overcome by the strange
tranquillity of Bertuccio. "Can I be deceived?" he murmured,
as he stepped into the oblong and grated vehicle which they
call "the salad basket." "Never mind, we shall see!
To-morrow, then!" he added, turning towards Bertuccio.

"To-morrow!" replied the steward.



Chapter 108
The Judge.

We remember that the Abbe Busoni remained alone with
Noirtier in the chamber of death, and that the old man and
the priest were the sole guardians of the young girl's body.
Perhaps it was the Christian exhortations of the abbe,
perhaps his kind charity, perhaps his persuasive words,
which had restored the courage of Noirtier, for ever since
he had conversed with the priest his violent despair had
yielded to a calm resignation which surprised all who knew
his excessive affection for Valentine. M. de Villefort had
not seen his father since the morning of the death. The
whole establishment had been changed; another valet was
engaged for himself, a new servant for Noirtier, two women
had entered Madame de Villefort's service, -- in fact,
everywhere, to the concierge and coachmen, new faces were
presented to the different masters of the house, thus
widening the division which had always existed between the
members of the same family.

The assizes, also, were about to begin, and Villefort, shut
up in his room, exerted himself with feverish anxiety in
drawing up the case against the murderer of Caderousse. This
affair, like all those in which the Count of Monte Cristo
had interfered, caused a great sensation in Paris. The
proofs were certainly not convincing, since they rested upon
a few words written by an escaped galley-slave on his
death-bed, and who might have been actuated by hatred or
revenge in accusing his companion. But the mind of the
procureur was made up; he felt assured that Benedetto was
guilty, and he hoped by his skill in conducting this
aggravated case to flatter his self-love, which was about
the only vulnerable point left in his frozen heart.

The case was therefore prepared owing to the incessant labor
of Villefort, who wished it to be the first on the list in
the coming assizes. He had been obliged to seclude himself
more than ever, to evade the enormous number of applications
presented to him for the purpose of obtaining tickets of
admission to the court on the day of trial. And then so
short a time had elapsed since the death of poor Valentine,
and the gloom which overshadowed the house was so recent,
that no one wondered to see the father so absorbed in his
professional duties, which were the only means he had of
dissipating his grief.

Once only had Villefort seen his father; it was the day
after that upon which Bertuccio had paid his second visit to
Benedetto, when the latter was to learn his father's name.
The magistrate, harassed and fatigued, had descended to the
garden of his house, and in a gloomy mood, similar to that
in which Tarquin lopped off the tallest poppies, he began
knocking off with his cane the long and dying branches of
the rose-trees, which, placed along the avenue, seemed like
the spectres of the brilliant flowers which had bloomed in
the past season. More than once he had reached that part of
the garden where the famous boarded gate stood overlooking
the deserted enclosure, always returning by the same path,
to begin his walk again, at the same pace and with the same
gesture, when he accidentally turned his eyes towards the
house, whence he heard the noisy play of his son, who had
returned from school to spend the Sunday and Monday with his
mother. While doing so, he observed M. Noirtier at one of
the open windows, where the old man had been placed that he
might enjoy the last rays of the sun which yet yielded some
heat, and was now shining upon the dying flowers and red
leaves of the creeper which twined around the balcony.

The eye of the old man was riveted upon a spot which
Villefort could scarcely distinguish. His glance was so full
of hate, of ferocity, and savage impatience, that Villefort
turned out of the path he had been pursuing, to see upon
what person this dark look was directed. Then he saw beneath
a thick clump of linden-trees, which were nearly divested of
foliage, Madame de Villefort sitting with a book in her
hand, the perusal of which she frequently interrupted to
smile upon her son, or to throw back his elastic ball, which
he obstinately threw from the drawing-room into the garden.
Villefort became pale; he understood the old man's meaning.
Noirtier continued to look at the same object, but suddenly
his glance was transferred from the wife to the husband, and
Villefort himself had to submit to the searching
investigation of eyes, which, while changing their direction
and even their language, had lost none of their menacing
expression. Madame de Villefort, unconscious of the passions
that exhausted their fire over her head, at that moment held
her son's ball, and was making signs to him to reclaim it
with a kiss. Edward begged for a long while, the maternal
kiss probably not offering sufficient recompense for the
trouble he must take to obtain it; however at length he
decided, leaped out of the window into a cluster of
heliotropes and daisies, and ran to his mother, his forehead
streaming with perspiration. Madame de Villefort wiped his
forehead, pressed her lips upon it, and sent him back with
the ball in one hand and some bonbons in the other.

Villefort, drawn by an irresistible attraction, like that of
the bird to the serpent, walked towards the house. As he
approached it, Noirtier's gaze followed him, and his eyes
appeared of such a fiery brightness that Villefort felt them
pierce to the depths of his heart. In that earnest look
might be read a deep reproach, as well as a terrible menace.
Then Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as though to remind
his son of a forgotten oath. "It is well, sir," replied
Villefort from below, -- "it is well; have patience but one
day longer; what I have said I will do." Noirtier seemed to
be calmed by these words, and turned his eyes with
indifference to the other side. Villefort violently
unbuttoned his great-coat, which seemed to strangle him, and
passing his livid hand across his forehead, entered his
study.

The night was cold and still; the family had all retired to
rest but Villefort, who alone remained up, and worked till
five o'clock in the morning, reviewing the last
interrogatories made the night before by the examining
magistrates, compiling the depositions of the witnesses, and
putting the finishing stroke to the deed of accusation,
which was one of the most energetic and best conceived of
any he had yet delivered.

The next day, Monday, was the first sitting of the assizes.
The morning dawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort saw the
dim gray light shine upon the lines he had traced in red
ink. The magistrate had slept for a short time while the
lamp sent forth its final struggles; its flickerings awoke
him, and he found his fingers as damp and purple as though
they had been dipped in blood. He opened the window; a
bright yellow streak crossed the sky, and seemed to divide
in half the poplars, which stood out in black relief on the
horizon. In the clover-fields beyond the chestnut-trees, a
lark was mounting up to heaven, while pouring out her clear
morning song. The damps of the dew bathed the head of
Villefort, and refreshed his memory. "To-day," he said with
an effort, -- "to-day the man who holds the blade of justice
must strike wherever there is guilt." Involuntarily his eyes
wandered towards the window of Noirtier's room, where he had
seen him the preceding night. The curtain was drawn, and yet
the image of his father was so vivid to his mind that he
addressed the closed window as though it had been open, and
as if through the opening he had beheld the menacing old
man. "Yes," he murmured, -- "yes, be satisfied."

His head dropped upon his chest, and in this position he
paced his study; then he threw himself, dressed as he was,
upon a sofa, less to sleep than to rest his limbs, cramped
with cold and study. By degrees every one awoke. Villefort,
from his study, heard the successive noises which accompany
the life of a house, -- the opening and shutting of doors,
the ringing of Madame de Villefort's bell, to summon the
waiting-maid, mingled with the first shouts of the child,
who rose full of the enjoyment of his age. Villefort also
rang; his new valet brought him the papers, and with them a
cup of chocolate.

"What are you bringing me?" said he.

"A cup of chocolate."

"I did not ask for it. Who has paid me this attention?"

"My mistress, sir. She said you would have to speak a great
deal in the murder case, and that you should take something
to keep up your strength;" and the valet placed the cup on
the table nearest to the sofa, which was, like all the rest,
covered with papers. The valet then left the room. Villefort
looked for an instant with a gloomy expression, then,
suddenly, taking it up with a nervous motion, he swallowed
its contents at one draught. It might have been thought that
he hoped the beverage would be mortal, and that he sought
for death to deliver him from a duty which he would rather
die than fulfil. He then rose, and paced his room with a
smile it would have been terrible to witness. The chocolate
was inoffensive, for M. de Villefort felt no effects. The
breakfast-hour arrived, but M. de Villefort was not at
table. The valet re-entered.

"Madame de Villefort wishes to remind you, sir," he said,
"that eleven o'clock has just struck, and that the trial
commences at twelve."

"Well," said Villefort, "what then?"

"Madame de Villefort is dressed; she is quite ready, and
wishes to know if she is to accompany you, sir?"

"Where to?"

"To the Palais."

"What to do?"

"My mistress wishes much to be present at the trial."

"Ah," said Villefort, with a startling accent; "does she
wish that?" -- The man drew back and said, "If you wish to
go alone, sir, I will go and tell my mistress." Villefort
remained silent for a moment, and dented his pale cheeks
with his nails. "Tell your mistress," he at length answered,
"that I wish to speak to her, and I beg she will wait for me
in her own room."

"Yes, sir."

"Then come to dress and shave me."

"Directly, sir." The valet re-appeared almost instantly,
and, having shaved his master, assisted him to dress
entirely in black. When he had finished, he said, --

"My mistress said she should expect you, sir, as soon as you
had finished dressing."

"I am going to her." And Villefort, with his papers under
his arm and hat in hand, directed his steps toward the
apartment of his wife. At the door he paused for a moment to
wipe his damp, pale brow. He then entered the room. Madame
de Villefort was sitting on an ottoman and impatiently
turning over the leaves of some newspapers and pamphlets
which young Edward, by way of amusing himself, was tearing
to pieces before his mother could finish reading them. She
was dressed to go out, her bonnet was placed beside her on a
chair, and her gloves were on her hands.

"Ah, here you are, monsieur," she said in her naturally calm
voice; "but how pale you are! Have you been working all
night? Why did you not come down to breakfast? Well, will
you take me, or shall I take Edward?" Madame de Villefort
had multiplied her questions in order to gain one answer,
but to all her inquiries M. de Villefort remained mute and
cold as a statue. "Edward," said Villefort, fixing an
imperious glance on the child, "go and play in the
drawing-room, my dear; I wish to speak to your mamma."
Madame de Villefort shuddered at the sight of that cold
countenance, that resolute tone, and the awfully strange
preliminaries. Edward raised his head, looked at his mother,
and then, finding that she did not confirm the order, began
cutting off the heads of his leaden soldiers.

"Edward," cried M. de Villefort, so harshly that the child
started up from the floor, "do you hear me? -- Go!" The
child, unaccustomed to such treatment, arose, pale and
trembling; it would be difficult to say whether his emotion
were caused by fear or passion. His father went up to him,
took him in his arms, and kissed his forehead. "Go," he
said: "go, my child." Edward ran out. M. de Villefort went
to the door, which he closed behind the child, and bolted.
"Dear me!" said the young woman, endeavoring to read her
husband's inmost thoughts, while a smile passed over her
countenance which froze the impassibility of Villefort;
"what is the matter?"

"Madame, where do you keep the poison you generally use?"
said the magistrate, without any introduction, placing
himself between his wife and the door.

Madame de Villefort must have experienced something of the
sensation of a bird which, looking up, sees the murderous
trap closing over its head. A hoarse, broken tone, which was
neither a cry nor a sigh, escaped from her, while she became
deadly pale. "Monsieur," she said, "I -- I do not understand
you." And, in her first paroxysm of terror, she had raised
herself from the sofa, in the next, stronger very likely
than the other, she fell down again on the cushions. "I
asked you," continued Villefort, in a perfectly calm tone,
"where you conceal the poison by the aid of which you have
killed my father-in-law, M. de Saint-Meran, my
mother-in-law, Madame de Saint-Meran, Barrois, and my
daughter Valentine."

"Ah, sir," exclaimed Madame de Villefort, clasping her
hands, "what do you say?"

"It is not for you to interrogate, but to answer."

"Is it to the judge or to the husband?" stammered Madame de
Villefort. "To the judge -- to the judge, madame!" It was
terrible to behold the frightful pallor of that woman, the
anguish of her look, the trembling of her whole frame. "Ah,
sir," she muttered, "ah, sir," and this was all.

"You do not answer, madame!" exclaimed the terrible
interrogator. Then he added, with a smile yet more terrible
than his anger, "It is true, then; you do not deny it!" She
moved forward. "And you cannot deny it!" added Villefort,
extending his hand toward her, as though to seize her in the
name of justice. "You have accomplished these different
crimes with impudent address, but which could only deceive
those whose affections for you blinded them. Since the death
of Madame de Saint-Meran, I have known that a poisoner lived
in my house. M. d'Avrigny warned me of it. After the death
of Barrois my suspicions were directed towards an angel, --
those suspicions which, even when there is no crime, are
always alive in my heart; but after the death of Valentine,
there has been no doubt in my mind, madame, and not only in
mine, but in those of others; thus your crime, known by two
persons, suspected by many, will soon become public, and, as
I told you just now, you no longer speak to the husband, but
to the judge."

The young woman hid her face in her hands. "Oh, sir," she
stammered, "I beseech you, do not believe appearances."

"Are you, then, a coward?" cried Villefort, in a
contemptuous voice. "But I have always observed that
poisoners were cowards. Can you be a coward, -- you who have
had the courage to witness the death of two old men and a
young girl murdered by you?"

"Sir! sir!"

"Can you be a coward?" continued Villefort, with increasing
excitement, "you, who could count, one by one, the minutes
of four death agonies? You, who have arranged your infernal
plans, and removed the beverages with a talent and precision
almost miraculous? Have you, then, who have calculated
everything with such nicety, have you forgotten to calculate
one thing -- I mean where the revelation of your crimes will
lead you to? Oh, it is impossible -- you must have saved
some surer, more subtle and deadly poison than any other,
that you might escape the punishment that you deserve. You
have done this -- I hope so, at least." Madame de Villefort
stretched out her hands, and fell on her knees.

"I understand," he said, "you confess; but a confession made
to the judges, a confession made at the last moment,
extorted when the crime cannot be denied, diminishes not the
punishment inflicted on the guilty!"

"The punishment?" exclaimed Madame de Villefort, "the
punishment, monsieur? Twice you have pronounced that word!"

"Certainly. Did you hope to escape it because you were four
times guilty? Did you think the punishment would be withheld
because you are the wife of him who pronounces it? -- No,
madame, no; the scaffold awaits the poisoner, whoever she
may be, unless, as I just said, the poisoner has taken the
precaution of keeping for herself a few drops of her
deadliest potion." Madame de Villefort uttered a wild cry,
and a hideous and uncontrollable terror spread over her
distorted features. "Oh, do not fear the scaffold, madame,"
said the magistrate; "I will not dishonor you, since that
would be dishonor to myself; no, if you have heard me
distinctly, you will understand that you are not to die on
the scaffold."

"No, I do not understand; what do you mean?" stammered the
unhappy woman, completely overwhelmed. "I mean that the wife
of the first magistrate in the capital shall not, by her
infamy, soil an unblemished name; that she shall not, with
one blow, dishonor her husband and her child."

"No, no -- oh, no!"

"Well, madame, it will be a laudable action on your part,
and I will thank you for it!"

"You will thank me -- for what?"

"For what you have just said."

"What did I say? Oh, my brain whirls; I no longer understand
anything. Oh, my God, my God!" And she rose, with her hair
dishevelled, and her lips foaming.

"Have you answered the question I put to you on entering the
room? -- where do you keep the poison you generally use,
madame?" Madame de Villefort raised her arms to heaven, and
convulsively struck one hand against the other. "No, no,"
she vociferated, "no, you cannot wish that!"

"What I do not wish, madame, is that you should perish on
the scaffold. Do you understand?" asked Villefort.

"Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur!"

"What I require is, that justice be done. I am on the earth
to punish, madame," he added, with a flaming glance; "any
other woman, were it the queen herself, I would send to the
executioner; but to you I shall be merciful. To you I will
say, `Have you not, madame, put aside some of the surest,
deadliest, most speedy poison?'"

"Oh, pardon me, sir; let me live!"

"She is cowardly," said Villefort.

"Reflect that I am your wife!"

"You are a poisoner."

"In the name of heaven!"

"No!"

"In the name of the love you once bore me!"

"No, no!"

"In the name of our child! Ah, for the sake of our child,
let me live!"

"No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I allow you to live,
you will perhaps kill him, as you have the others!"

"I? -- I kill my boy?" cried the distracted mother, rushing
toward Villefort; "I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!" and a
frightful, demoniac laugh finished the sentence, which was
lost in a hoarse rattle. Madame de Villefort fell at her
husband's feet. He approached her. "Think of it, madame," he
said; "if, on my return, justice his not been satisfied, I
will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with my
own hands!" She listened, panting, overwhelmed, crushed; her
eye alone lived, and glared horribly. "Do you understand
me?" he said. "I am going down there to pronounce the
sentence of death against a murderer. If I find you alive on
my return, you shall sleep to-night in the conciergerie."
Madame de Villefort sighed; her nerves gave way, and she
sunk on the carpet. The king's attorney seemed to experience
a sensation of pity; he looked upon her less severely, and,
bowing to her, said slowly, "Farewell, madame, farewell!"
That farewell struck Madame de Villefort like the
executioner's knife. She fainted. The procureur went out,
after having double-locked the door.



Chapter 109
The Assizes.

The Benedetto affair, as it was called at the Palais, and by
people in general, had produced a tremendous sensation.
Frequenting the Cafe de Paris, the Boulevard de Gand, and
the Bois de Boulogne, during his brief career of splendor,
the false Cavalcanti had formed a host of acquaintances. The
papers had related his various adventures, both as the man
of fashion and the galley-slave; and as every one who had
been personally acquainted with Prince Andrea Cavalcanti
experienced a lively curiosity in his fate, they all
determined to spare no trouble in endeavoring to witness the
trial of M. Benedetto for the murder of his comrade in
chains. In the eyes of many, Benedetto appeared, if not a
victim to, at least an instance of, the fallibility of the
law. M. Cavalcanti, his father, had been seen in Paris, and
it was expected that he would re-appear to claim the
illustrious outcast. Many, also, who were not aware of the
circumstances attending his withdrawal from Paris, were
struck with the worthy appearance, the gentlemanly bearing,
and the knowledge of the world displayed by the old
patrician, who certainly played the nobleman very well, so
long as he said nothing, and made no arithmetical
calculations. As for the accused himself, many remembered
him as being so amiable, so handsome, and so liberal, that
they chose to think him the victim of some conspiracy, since
in this world large fortunes frequently excite the
malevolence and jealousy of some unknown enemy. Every one,
therefore, ran to the court; some to witness the sight,
others to comment upon it. From seven o'clock in the morning
a crowd was stationed at the iron gates, and an hour before
the trial commenced the hall was full of the privileged.
Before the entrance of the magistrates, and indeed
frequently afterwards, a court of justice, on days when some
especial trial is to take place, resembles a drawing-room
where many persons recognize each other and converse if they
can do so without losing their seats; or, if they are
separated by too great a number of lawyers, communicate by
signs.

It was one of the magnificent autumn days which make amends
for a short summer; the clouds which M. de Villefort had
perceived at sunrise had all disappeared as if by magic, and
one of the softest and most brilliant days of September
shone forth in all its splendor.

Beauchamp, one of the kings of the press, and therefore
claiming the right of a throne everywhere, was eying
everybody through his monocle. He perceived Chateau-Renaud
and Debray, who had just gained the good graces of a
sergeant-at-arms, and who had persuaded the latter to let
them stand before, instead of behind him, as they ought to
have done. The worthy sergeant had recognized the minister's
secretary and the millionnaire, and, by way of paying extra
attention to his noble neighbors, promised to keep their
places while they paid a visit to Beauchamp.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "we shall see our friend!"

"Yes, indeed!" replied Debray. "That worthy prince. Deuce
take those Italian princes!"

"A man, too, who could boast of Dante for a genealogist, and
could reckon back to the `Divine Comedy.'"

"A nobility of the rope!" said Chateau-Renaud
phlegmatically.

"He will be condemned, will he not?" asked Debray of
Beauchamp.

"My dear fellow, I think we should ask you that question;
you know such news much better than we do. Did you see the
president at the minister's last night?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"Something which will surprise you."

"Oh, make haste and tell me, then; it is a long time since
that has happened."

"Well, he told me that Benedetto, who is considered a
serpent of subtlety and a giant of cunning, is really but a
very commonplace, silly rascal, and altogether unworthy of
the experiments that will be made on his phrenological
organs after his death."

"Bah," said Beauchamp, "he played the prince very well."

"Yes, for you who detest those unhappy princes, Beauchamp,
and are always delighted to find fault with them; but not
for me, who discover a gentleman by instinct, and who scent
out an aristocratic family like a very bloodhound of
heraldry."

"Then you never believed in the principality?"

"Yes. -- in the principality, but not in the prince."

"Not so bad," said Beauchamp; "still, I assure you, he
passed very well with many people; I saw him at the
ministers' houses."

"Ah, yes," said Chateau-Renaud. "The idea of thinking
ministers understand anything about princes!"

"There is something in what you have just said," said
Beauchamp, laughing.

"But," said Debray to Beauchamp, "if I spoke to the
president, you must have been with the procureur."

"It was an impossibility; for the last week M. de Villefort
has secluded himself. It is natural enough; this strange
chain of domestic afflictions, followed by the no less
strange death of his daughter" --

"Strange? What do you mean, Beauchamp?"

"Oh, yes; do you pretend that all this has been unobserved
at the minister's?" said Beauchamp, placing his eye-glass in
his eye, where he tried to make it remain.

"My dear sir," said Chateau-Renaud, "allow me to tell you
that you do not understand that manoeuvre with the eye-glass
half so well as Debray. Give him a lesson, Debray."

"Stay," said Beauchamp, "surely I am not deceived."

"What is it?"

"It is she!"

"Whom do you mean?"

"They said she had left."

"Mademoiselle Eugenie?" said Chateau-Renaud; "has she
returned?"

"No, but her mother."

"Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible!" said
Chateau-Renaud; "only ten days after the flight of her
daughter, and three days from the bankruptcy of her
husband?"

Debray colored slightly, and followed with his eyes the
direction of Beauchamp's glance. "Come," he said, "it is
only a veiled lady, some foreign princess, perhaps the
mother of Cavalcanti. But you were just speaking on a very
interesting topic, Beauchamp."

"I?"

"Yes; you were telling us about the extraordinary death of
Valentine."

"Ah, yes, so I was. But how is it that Madame de Villefort
is not here?"

"Poor, dear woman," said Debray, "she is no doubt occupied
in distilling balm for the hospitals, or in making cosmetics
for herself or friends. Do you know she spends two or three
thousand crowns a year in this amusement? But I wonder she
is not here. I should have been pleased to see her, for I
like her very much."

"And I hate her," said Chateau-Renaud.

"Why?"

"I do not know. Why do we love? Why do we hate? I detest
her, from antipathy."

"Or, rather, by instinct."

"Perhaps so. But to return to what you were saying,
Beauchamp."

"Well, do you know why they die so multitudinously at M. de
Villefort's?"

"`Multitudinously' [drv] is good," said Chateau-Renaud.

"My good fellow, you'll find the word in Saint-Simon."

"But the thing itself is at M. de Villefort's; but let's get
back to the subject."

"Talking of that," said Debray, "Madame was making inquiries
about that house, which for the last three months has been
hung with black."

"Who is Madame?" asked Chateau-Renaud.

"The minister's wife, pardieu!"

"Oh, your pardon! I never visit ministers; I leave that to
the princes."

"Really, You were only before sparkling, but now you are
brilliant; take compassion on us, or, like Jupiter, you will
wither us up."

"I will not speak again," said Chateau-Renaud; "pray have
compassion upon me, and do not take up every word I say."

"Come, let us endeavor to get to the end of our story,
Beauchamp; I told you that yesterday Madame made inquiries
of me upon the subject; enlighten me, and I will then
communicate my information to her."

"Well, gentlemen, the reason people die so multitudinously
(I like the word) at M. de Villefort's is that there is an
assassin in the house!" The two young men shuddered, for the
same idea had more than once occurred to them. "And who is
the assassin;" they asked together.

"Young Edward!" A burst of laughter from the auditors did
not in the least disconcert the speaker, who continued, --
"Yes, gentlemen; Edward, the infant phenomenon, who is quite
an adept in the art of killing."

"You are jesting."

"Not at all. I yesterday engaged a servant, who had just
left M. de Villefort -- I intend sending him away to-morrow,
for he eats so enormously, to make up for the fast imposed
upon him by his terror in that house. Well, now listen."

"We are listening."

"It appears the dear child has obtained possession of a
bottle containing some drug, which he every now and then
uses against those who have displeased him. First, M. and
Madame de Saint-Meran incurred his displeasure, so he poured
out three drops of his elixir -- three drops were
sufficient; then followed Barrois, the old servant of M.
Noirtier, who sometimes rebuffed this little wretch -- he
therefore received the same quantity of the elixir; the same
happened to Valentine, of whom he was jealous; he gave her
the same dose as the others, and all was over for her as
well as the rest."

"Why, what nonsense are you telling us?" said
Chateau-Renaud.

"Yes, it is an extraordinary story," said Beauchamp; "is it
not?"

"It is absurd," said Debray.

"Ah," said Beauchamp, "you doubt me? Well, you can ask my
servant, or rather him who will no longer be my servant
to-morrow, it was the talk of the house."

"And this elixir, where is it? what is it?"

"The child conceals it."

"But where did he find it?"

"In his mother's laboratory."

"Does his mother then, keep poisons in her laboratory?"

"How can I tell? You are questioning me like a king's
attorney. I only repeat what I have been told, and like my
informant I can do no more. The poor devil would eat
nothing, from fear."

"It is incredible!"

"No, my dear fellow, it is not at all incredible. You saw
the child pass through the Rue Richelieu last year, who
amused himself with killing his brothers and sisters by
sticking pins in their ears while they slept. The generation
who follow us are very precocious."

"Come, Beauchamp," said Chateau-Renaud, "I will bet anything
you do not believe a word of all you have been telling us."

"I do not see the Count of Monte Cristo here."

"He is worn out," said Debray; "besides, he could not well
appear in public, since he has been the dupe of the
Cavalcanti, who, it appears, presented themselves to him
with false letters of credit, and cheated him out of 100,000
francs upon the hypothesis of this principality."

"By the way, M. de Chateau-Renaud," asked Beauchamp, "how is
Morrel?"

"Ma foi, I have called three times without once seeing him.
Still, his sister did not seem uneasy, and told me that
though she had not seen him for two or three days, she was
sure he was well."

"Ah, now I think of it, the Count of Monte Cristo cannot
appear in the hall," said Beauchamp.

"Why not?"

"Because he is an actor in the drama."

"Has he assassinated any one, then?"

"No, on the contrary, they wished to assassinate him. You
know that it was in leaving his house that M. de Caderousse
was murdered by his friend Benedetto. You know that the
famous waistcoat was found in his house, containing the
letter which stopped the signature of the marriage-contract.
Do you see the waistcoat? There it is, all blood-stained, on
the desk, as a testimony of the crime."

"Ah, very good."

"Hush, gentlemen, here is the court; let us go back to our
places." A noise was heard in the hall; the sergeant called
his two patrons with an energetic "hem!" and the door-keeper
appearing, called out with that shrill voice peculiar to his
order, ever since the days of Beaumarchais, "The court,
gentlemen!"



Chapter 110
The Indictment.

The judges took their places in the midst of the most
profound silence; the jury took their seats; M. de
Villefort, the object of unusual attention, and we had
almost said of general admiration, sat in the arm-chair and
cast a tranquil glance around him. Every one looked with
astonishment on that grave and severe face, whose calm
expression personal griefs had been unable to disturb, and
the aspect of a man who was a stranger to all human emotions
excited something very like terror.

"Gendarmes," said the president, "lead in the accused."

At these words the public attention became more intense, and
all eyes were turned towards the door through which
Benedetto was to enter. The door soon opened and the accused
appeared. The same impression was experienced by all
present, and no one was deceived by the expression of his
countenance. His features bore no sign of that deep emotion
which stops the beating of the heart and blanches the cheek.
His hands, gracefully placed, one upon his hat, the other in
the opening of his white waistcoat, were not at all
tremulous; his eye was calm and even brilliant. Scarcely had
he entered the hall when he glanced at the whole body of
magistrates and assistants; his eye rested longer on the
president, and still more so on the king's attorney. By the
side of Andrea was stationed the lawyer who was to conduct
his defence, and who had been appointed by the court, for
Andrea disdained to pay any attention to those details, to
which he appeared to attach no importance. The lawyer was a
young man with light hair whose face expressed a hundred
times more emotion than that which characterized the
prisoner.

The president called for the indictment, revised as we know,
by the clever and implacable pen of Villefort. During the
reading of this, which was long, the public attention was
continually drawn towards Andrea, who bore the inspection
with Spartan unconcern. Villefort had never been so concise
and eloquent. The crime was depicted in the most vivid
colors; the former life of the prisoner, his transformation,
a review of his life from the earliest period, were set
forth with all the talent that a knowledge of human life
could furnish to a mind like that of the procureur.
Benedetto was thus forever condemned in public opinion
before the sentence of the law could be pronounced. Andrea
paid no attention to the successive charges which were
brought against him. M. de Villefort, who examined him
attentively, and who no doubt practiced upon him all the
psychological studies he was accustomed to use, in vain
endeavored to make him lower his eyes, notwithstanding the
depth and profundity of his gaze. At length the reading of
the indictment was ended.

"Accused," said the president, "your name and surname?"
Andrea arose. "Excuse me, Mr. President," he said, in a
clear voice, "but I see you are going to adopt a course of
questions through which I cannot follow you. I have an idea,
which I will explain by and by, of making an exception to
the usual form of accusation. Allow me, then, if you please,
to answer in different order, or I will not do so at all."
The astonished president looked at the jury, who in turn
looked at Villefort. The whole assembly manifested great
surprise, but Andrea appeared quite unmoved. "Your age?"
said the president; "will you answer that question?"

"I will answer that question, as well as the rest, Mr.
President, but in its turn."

"Your age?" repeated the president.

"I am twenty-one years old, or rather I shall be in a few
days, as I was born the night of the 27th of September,
1817." M. de Villefort, who was busy taking down some notes,
raised his head at the mention of this date. "Where were you
born?" continued the president.

"At Auteuil, near Paris." M. de Villefort a second time
raised his head, looked at Benedetto as if he had been
gazing at the head of Medusa, and became livid. As for
Benedetto, he gracefully wiped his lips with a fine cambric
pocket-handkerchief. "Your profession?"

"First I was a forger," answered Andrea, as calmly as
possible; "then I became a thief, and lately have become an
assassin." A murmur, or rather storm, of indignation burst
from all parts of the assembly. The judges themselves
appeared to be stupefied, and the jury manifested tokens of
disgust for cynicism so unexpected in a man of fashion. M.
de Villefort pressed his hand upon his brow, which, at first
pale, had become red and burning; then he suddenly arose and
looked around as though he had lost his senses -- he wanted
air.

"Are you looking for anything, Mr. Procureur?" asked
Benedetto, with his most ingratiating smile. M. de Villefort
answered nothing, but sat, or rather threw himself down
again upon his chair. "And now, prisoner, will you consent
to tell your name?" said the president. "The brutal
affectation with which you have enumerated and classified
your crimes calls for a severe reprimand on the part of the
court, both in the name of morality, and for the respect due
to humanity. You appear to consider this a point of honor,
and it may be for this reason, that you have delayed
acknowledging your name. You wished it to be preceded by all
these titles."

"It is quite wonderful, Mr. President, how entirely you have
read my thoughts," said Benedetto, in his softest voice and
most polite manner. "This is, indeed, the reason why I
begged you to alter the order of the questions." The public
astonishment had reached its height. There was no longer any
deceit or bravado in the manner of the accused. The audience
felt that a startling revelation was to follow this ominous
prelude.

"Well," said the president; "your name?"

"I cannot tell you my name, since I do not know it; but I
know my father's, and can tell it to you."

A painful giddiness overwhelmed Villefort; great drops of
acrid sweat fell from his face upon the papers which he held
in his convulsed hand.

"Repeat your father's name," said the president. Not a
whisper, not a breath, was heard in that vast assembly;
every one waited anxiously.

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

"King's attorney?" said the president, stupefied, and
without noticing the agitation which spread over the face of
M. de Villefort; "king's attorney?"

"Yes; and if you wish to know his name, I will tell it, --
he is named Villefort." The explosion, which had been so
long restrained from a feeling of respect to the court of
justice, now burst forth like thunder from the breasts of
all present; the court itself did not seek to restrain the
feelings of the audience. The exclamations, the insults
addressed to Benedetto, who remained perfectly unconcerned,
the energetic gestures, the movement of the gendarmes, the
sneers of the scum of the crowd always sure to rise to the
surface in case of any disturbance -- all this lasted five
minutes, before the door-keepers and magistrates were able
to restore silence. In the midst of this tumult the voice of
the president was heard to exclaim, -- "Are you playing with
justice, accused, and do you dare set your fellow-citizens
an example of disorder which even in these times his never
been equalled?"

Several persons hurried up to M. de Villefort, who sat half
bowed over in his chair, offering him consolation,
encouragement, and protestations of zeal and sympathy. Order
was re-established in the hall, except that a few people
still moved about and whispered to one another. A lady, it
was said, had just fainted; they had supplied her with a
smelling-bottle, and she had recovered. During the scene of
tumult, Andrea had turned his smiling face towards the
assembly; then, leaning with one hand on the oaken rail of
the dock, in the most graceful attitude possible, he said:
"Gentlemen, I assure you I had no idea of insulting the
court, or of making a useless disturbance in the presence of
this honorable assembly. They ask my age; I tell it. They
ask where I was born; I answer. They ask my name, I cannot
give it, since my parents abandoned me. But though I cannot
give my own name, not possessing one, I can tell them my
father's. Now I repeat, my father is named M. de Villefort,
and I am ready to prove it."

There was an energy, a conviction, and a sincerity in the
manner of the young man, which silenced the tumult. All eyes
were turned for a moment towards the procureur, who sat as
motionless as though a thunderbolt had changed him into a
corpse. "Gentlemen," said Andrea, commanding silence by his
voice and manner; "I owe you the proofs and explanations of
what I have said."

"But," said the irritated president, "you called yourself
Benedetto, declared yourself an orphan, and claimed Corsica
as your country."

"I said anything I pleased, in order that the solemn
declaration I have just made should not be withheld, which
otherwise would certainly have been the case. I now repeat
that I was born at Auteuil on the night of the 27th of
September, 1817, and that I am the son of the procureur, M.
de Villefort. Do you wish for any further details? I will
give them. I was born in No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine, in a
room hung with red damask; my father took me in his arms,
telling my mother I was dead, wrapped me in a napkin marked
with an H and an N, and carried me into a garden, where he
buried me alive."

A shudder ran through the assembly when they saw that the
confidence of the prisoner increased in proportion to the
terror of M. de Villefort. "But how have you become
acquainted with all these details?" asked the president.

"I will tell you, Mr. President. A man who had sworn
vengeance against my father, and had long watched his
opportunity to kill him, had introduced himself that night
into the garden in which my father buried me. He was
concealed in a thicket; he saw my father bury something in
the ground, and stabbed him; then thinking the deposit might
contain some treasure he turned up the ground, and found me
still living. The man carried me to the foundling asylum,
where I was registered under the number 37. Three months
afterwards, a woman travelled from Rogliano to Paris to
fetch me, and having claimed me as her son, carried me away.
Thus, you see, though born in Paris, I was brought up in
Corsica."

There was a moment's silence, during which one could have
fancied the hall empty, so profound was the stillness.
"Proceed," said the president.

"Certainly, I might have lived happily amongst those good
people, who adored me, but my perverse disposition prevailed
over the virtues which my adopted mother endeavored to
instil into my heart. I increased in wickedness till I
committed crime. One day when I cursed providence for making
me so wicked, and ordaining me to such a fate, my adopted
father said to me, `Do not blaspheme, unhappy child, the
crime is that of your father, not yours, -- of your father,
who consigned you to hell if you died, and to misery if a
miracle preserved you alive.' After that I ceased to
blaspheme, but I cursed my father. That is why I have
uttered the words for which you blame me; that is why I have
filled this whole assembly with horror. If I have committed
an additional crime, punish me, but if you will allow that
ever since the day of my birth my fate has been sad, bitter,
and lamentable, then pity me."

"But your mother?" asked the president.

"My mother thought me dead; she is not guilty. I did not
even wish to know her name, nor do I know it." Just then a
piercing cry, ending in a sob, burst from the centre of the
crowd, who encircled the lady who had before fainted, and
who now fell into a violent fit of hysterics. She was
carried out of the hall, the thick veil which concealed her
face dropped off, and Madame Danglars was recognized.
Notwithstanding his shattered nerves, the ringing sensation
in his ears, and the madness which turned his brain,
Villefort rose as he perceived her. "The proofs, the
proofs!" said the president; "remember this tissue of
horrors must be supported by the clearest proofs "

"The proofs?" said Benedetto, laughing; "do you want
proofs?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, look at M. de Villefort, and then ask me for
proofs."

Every one turned towards the procureur, who, unable to bear
the universal gaze now riveted on him alone, advanced
staggering into the midst of the tribunal, with his hair
dishevelled and his face indented with the mark of his
nails. The whole assembly uttered a long murmur of
astonishment. "Father," said Benedetto, "I am asked for
proofs, do you wish me to give them?"

"No, no, it is useless," stammered M. de Villefort in a
hoarse voice; "no, it is useless!"

"How useless?" cried the president, "what do you mean?"

"I mean that I feel it impossible to struggle against this
deadly weight which crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I am in
the hands of an avenging God! We need no proofs; everything
relating to this young man is true." A dull, gloomy silence,
like that which precedes some awful phenomenon of nature,
pervaded the assembly, who shuddered in dismay. "What, M. de
Villefort," cried the president, "do you yield to an
hallucination? What, are you no longer in possession of your
senses? This strange, unexpected, terrible accusation has
disordered your reason. Come, recover."

The procureur dropped his head; his teeth chattered like
those of a man under a violent attack of fever, and yet he
was deadly pale.

"I am in possession of all my senses, sir," he said; "my
body alone suffers, as you may suppose. I acknowledge myself
guilty of all the young man has brought against me, and from
this hour hold myself under the authority of the procureur
who will succeed me."

And as he spoke these words with a hoarse, choking voice, he
staggered towards the door, which was mechanically opened by
a door-keeper. The whole assembly were dumb with
astonishment at the revelation and confession which had
produced a catastrophe so different from that which had been
expected during the last fortnight by the Parisian world.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "let them now say that drama is
unnatural!"

"Ma foi!" said Chateau-Renaud, "I would rather end my career
like M. de Morcerf; a pistol-shot seems quite delightful
compared with this catastrophe."

"And moreover, it kills," said Beauchamp.

"And to think that I had an idea of marrying his daughter,"
said Debray. "She did well to die, poor girl!"

"The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen," said the president;
"fresh inquiries will be made, and the case will be tried
next session by another magistrate." As for Andrea, who was
calm and more interesting than ever, he left the hall,
escorted by gendarmes, who involuntarily paid him some
attention. "Well, what do you think of this, my fine
fellow?" asked Debray of the sergeant-at-arms, slipping a
louis into his hand. "There will be extenuating
circumstances," he replied.



Chapter 111
Expiation.

Notwithstanding the density of the crowd, M. de Villefort
saw it open before him. There is something so awe-inspiring
in great afflictions that even in the worst times the first
emotion of a crowd has generally been to sympathize with the
sufferer in a great catastrophe. Many people have been
assassinated in a tumult, but even criminals have rarely
been insulted during trial. Thus Villefort passed through
the mass of spectators and officers of the Palais, and
withdrew. Though he had acknowledged his guilt, he was
protected by his grief. There are some situations which men
understand by instinct, but which reason is powerless to
explain; in such cases the greatest poet is he who gives
utterance to the most natural and vehement outburst of
sorrow. Those who hear the bitter cry are as much impressed
as if they listened to an entire poem, and when the sufferer
is sincere they are right in regarding his outburst as
sublime.

It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in
which Villefort left the Palais. Every pulse beat with
feverish excitement, every nerve was strained, every vein
swollen, and every part of his body seemed to suffer
distinctly from the rest, thus multiplying his agony a
thousand-fold. He made his way along the corridors through
force of habit; he threw aside his magisterial robe, not out
of deference to etiquette, but because it was an unbearable
burden, a veritable garb of Nessus, insatiate in torture.
Having staggered as far as the Rue Dauphine, he perceived
his carriage, awoke his sleeping coachman by opening the
door himself, threw himself on the cushions, and pointed
towards the Faubourg Saint-Honore; the carriage drove on.
The weight of his fallen fortunes seemed suddenly to crush
him; he could not foresee the consequences; he could not
contemplate the future with the indifference of the hardened
criminal who merely faces a contingency already familiar.
God was still in his heart. "God," he murmured, not knowing
what he said, -- "God -- God!" Behind the event that had
overwhelmed him he saw the hand of God. The carriage rolled
rapidly onward. Villefort, while turning restlessly on the
cushions, felt something press against him. He put out his
hand to remove the object; it was a fan which Madame de
Villefort had left in the carriage; this fan awakened a
recollection which darted through his mind like lightning.
He thought of his wife.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, as though a redhot iron were piercing
his heart. During the last hour his own crime had alone been
presented to his mind; now another object, not less
terrible, suddenly presented itself. His wife! He had just
acted the inexorable judge with her, he had condemned her to
death, and she, crushed by remorse, struck with terror,
covered with the shame inspired by the eloquence of his
irreproachable virtue, -- she, a poor, weak woman, without
help or the power of defending herself against his absolute
and supreme will, -- she might at that very moment, perhaps,
be preparing to die! An hour had elapsed since her
condemnation; at that moment, doubtless, she was recalling
all her crimes to her memory; she was asking pardon for her
sins; perhaps she was even writing a letter imploring
forgiveness from her virtuous husband -- a forgiveness she
was purchasing with her death! Villefort again groaned with
anguish and despair. "Ah," he exclaimed, "that woman became
criminal only from associating with me! I carried the
infection of crime with me, and she has caught it as she
would the typhus fever, the cholera, the plague! And yet I
have punished her -- I have dared to tell her -- I have --
`Repent and die!' But no, she must not die; she shall live,
and with me. We will flee from Paris and go as far as the
earth reaches. I told her of the scaffold; oh, heavens, I
forgot that it awaits me also! How could I pronounce that
word? Yes, we will fly; I will confess all to her, -- I will
tell her daily that I also have committed a crime! -- Oh,
what an alliance -- the tiger and the serpent; worthy wife
of such as I am! She must live that my infamy may diminish
hers." And Villefort dashed open the window in front of the
carriage.

"Faster, faster!" he cried, in a tone which electrified the
coachman. The horses, impelled by fear, flew towards the
house.

"Yes, yes," repeated Villefort, as he approached his home --
"yes, that woman must live; she must repent, and educate my
son, the sole survivor, with the exception of the
indestructible old man, of the wreck of my house. She loves
him; it was for his sake she has committed these crimes. We
ought never to despair of softening the heart of a mother
who loves her child. She will repent, and no one will know
that she has been guilty. The events which have taken place
in my house, though they now occupy the public mind, will be
forgotten in time, or if, indeed, a few enemies should
persist in remembering them, why then I will add them to my
list of crimes. What will it signify if one, two, or three
more are added? My wife and child shall escape from this
gulf, carrying treasures with them; she will live and may
yet be happy, since her child, in whom all her love is
centred, will be with her. I shall have performed a good
action, and my heart will be lighter." And the procureur
breathed more freely than he had done for some time.

The carriage stopped at the door of the house. Villefort
leaped out of the carriage, and saw that his servants were
surprised at his early return; he could read no other
expression on their features. Neither of them spoke to him;
they merely stood aside to let him pass by, as usual,
nothing more. As he passed by M. Noirtier's room, he
perceived two figures through the half-open door; but he
experienced no curiosity to know who was visiting his
father: anxiety carried him on further.

"Come," he said, as he ascended the stairs leading to his
wife's room, "nothing is changed here." He then closed the
door of the landing. "No one must disturb us," he said; "I
must speak freely to her, accuse myself, and say" -- he
approached the door, touched the crystal handle, which
yielded to his hand. "Not locked," he cried; "that is well."
And he entered the little room in which Edward slept; for
though the child went to school during the day, his mother
could not allow him to be separated from her at night. With
a single glance Villefort's eye ran through the room. "Not
here," he said; "doubtless she is in her bedroom." He rushed
towards the door, found it bolted, and stopped, shuddering.
"Heloise!" he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a
piece of furniture being removed. "Heloise!" he repeated.

"Who is there?" answered the voice of her he sought. He
thought that voice more feeble than usual.

"Open the door!" cried Villefort. "Open; it is I." But
notwithstanding this request, notwithstanding the tone of
anguish in which it was uttered, the door remained closed.
Villefort burst it open with a violent blow. At the entrance
of the room which led to her boudoir, Madame de Villefort
was standing erect, pale, her features contracted, and her
eyes glaring horribly. "Heloise, Heloise!" he said, "what is
the matter? Speak!" The young woman extended her stiff white
hands towards him. "It is done, monsieur," she said with a
rattling noise which seemed to tear her throat. "What more
do you want?" and she fell full length on the floor.
Villefort ran to her and seized her hand, which convulsively
clasped a crystal bottle with a golden stopper. Madame de
Villefort was dead. Villefort, maddened with horror, stepped
back to the threshhold of the door, fixing his eyes on the
corpse: "My son!" he exclaimed suddenly, "where is my son?
-- Edward, Edward!" and he rushed out of the room, still
crying, "Edward, Edward!" The name was pronounced in such a
tone of anguish that the servants ran up.

"Where is my son?" asked Villefort; "let him be removed from
the house, that he may not see" --

"Master Edward is not down-stairs, sir," replied the valet.

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

"No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago;
he went into her room, and has not been down-stairs since."
A cold perspiration burst out on Villefort's brow; his legs
trembled, and his thoughts flew about madly in his brain
like the wheels of a disordered watch. "In Madame de
Villefort's room?" he murmured and slowly returned, with one
hand wiping his forehead, and with the other supporting
himself against the wall. To enter the room he must again
see the body of his unfortunate wife. To call Edward he must
reawaken the echo of that room which now appeared like a
sepulchre; to speak seemed like violating the silence of the
tomb. His tongue was paralyzed in his mouth.

"Edward!" he stammered -- "Edward!" The child did not
answer. Where, then, could he be, if he had entered his
mother's room and not since returned? He stepped forward.
The corpse of Madame de Villefort was stretched across the
doorway leading to the room in which Edward must be; those
glaring eyes seemed to watch over the threshold, and the
lips bore the stamp of a terrible and mysterious irony.
Through the open door was visible a portion of the boudoir,
containing an upright piano and a blue satin couch.
Villefort stepped forward two or three paces, and beheld his
child lying -- no doubt asleep -- on the sofa. The unhappy
man uttered an exclamation of joy; a ray of light seemed to
penetrate the abyss of despair and darkness. He had only to
step over the corpse, enter the boudoir, take the child in
his arms, and flee far, far away.

Villefort was no longer the civilized man; he was a tiger
hurt unto death, gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no
longer feared realities, but phantoms. He leaped over the
corpse as if it had been a burning brazier. He took the
child in his arms, embraced him, shook him, called him, but
the child made no response. He pressed his burning lips to
the cheeks, but they were icy cold and pale; he felt the
stiffened limbs; he pressed his hand upon the heart, but it
no longer beat, -- the child was dead. A folded paper fell
from Edward's breast. Villefort, thunderstruck, fell upon
his knees; the child dropped from his arms, and rolled on
the floor by the side of its mother. He picked up the paper,
and, recognizing his wife's writing, ran his eyes rapidly
over its contents; it ran as follows: --

"You know that I was a good mother, since it was for my
son's sake I became criminal. A good mother cannot depart
without her son."

Villefort could not believe his eyes, -- he could not
believe his reason; he dragged himself towards the child's
body, and examined it as a lioness contemplates its dead
cub. Then a piercing cry escaped from his breast, and he
cried, "Still the hand of God." The presence of the two
victims alarmed him; he could not bear solitude shared only
by two corpses. Until then he had been sustained by rage, by
his strength of mind, by despair, by the supreme agony which
led the Titans to scale the heavens, and Ajax to defy the
gods. He now arose, his head bowed beneath the weight of
grief, and, shaking his damp, dishevelled hair, he who had
never felt compassion for any one determined to seek his
father, that he might have some one to whom he could relate
his misfortunes, -- some one by whose side he might weep. He
descended the little staircase with which we are acquainted,
and entered Noirtier's room. The old man appeared to be
listening attentively and as affectionately as his
infirmities would allow to the Abbe Busoni, who looked cold
and calm, as usual. Villefort, perceiving the abbe, passed
his hand across his brow. He recollected the call he had
made upon him after the dinner at Auteuil, and then the
visit the abbe had himself paid to his house on the day of
Valentine's death. "You here, sir!" he exclaimed; "do you,
then, never appear but to act as an escort to death?"

Busoni turned around, and, perceiving the excitement
depicted on the magistrate's face, the savage lustre of his
eyes, he understood that the revelation had been made at the
assizes; but beyond this he was ignorant. "I came to pray
over the body of your daughter."

"And now why are you here?"

"I come to tell you that you have sufficiently repaid your
debt, and that from this moment I will pray to God to
forgive you, as I do."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Villefort, stepping back
fearfully, "surely that is not the voice of the Abbe
Busoni!"

"No!" The abbe threw off his wig, shook his head, and his
hair, no longer confined, fell in black masses around his
manly face.

"It is the face of the Count of Monte Cristo!" exclaimed the
procureur, with a haggard expression.

"You are not exactly right, M. Procureur; you must go
farther back."

"That voice, that voice! -- where did I first hear it?"

"You heard it for the first time at Marseilles, twenty-three
years ago, the day of your marriage with Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran. Refer to your papers."

"You are not Busoni? -- you are not Monte Cristo? Oh,
heavens -- you are, then, some secret, implacable, and
mortal enemy! I must have wronged you in some way at
Marseilles. Oh, woe to me!"

"Yes; you are now on the right path," said the count,
crossing his arms over his broad chest; "search -- search!"

"But what have I done to you?" exclaimed Villefort, whose
mind was balancing between reason and insanity, in that
cloud which is neither a dream nor reality; "what have I
done to you? Tell me, then! Speak!"

"You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed
my father; you deprived me of liberty, of love, and
happiness."

"Who are you, then? Who are you?"

"I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of
the Chateau d'If. God gave that spectre the form of the
Count of Monte Cristo when he at length issued from his
tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds, and led him to
you!"

"Ah, I recognize you -- I recognize you!" exclaimed the
king's attorney; "you are" --

"I am Edmond Dantes!"

"You are Edmond Dantes," cried Villefort, seizing the count
by the wrist; "then come here!" And up the stairs he dragged
Monte Cristo; who, ignorant of what had happened, followed
him in astonishment, foreseeing some new catastrophe.
"There, Edmond Dantes!" he said, pointing to the bodies of
his wife and child, "see, are you well avenged?" Monte
Cristo became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he
had passed beyond the bounds of vengeance, and that he could
no longer say, "God is for and with me." With an expression
of indescribable anguish he threw himself upon the body of
the child, reopened its eyes, felt its pulse, and then
rushed with him into Valentine's room, of which he
double-locked the door. "My child," cried Villefort, "he
carries away the body of my child! Oh, curses, woe, death to
you!" and he tried to follow Monte Cristo; but as though in
a dream he was transfixed to the spot, -- his eyes glared as
though they were starting through the sockets; he griped the
flesh on his chest until his nails were stained with blood;
the veins of his temples swelled and boiled as though they
would burst their narrow boundary, and deluge his brain with
living fire. This lasted several minutes, until the
frightful overturn of reason was accomplished; then uttering
a loud cry followed by a burst of laughter, he rushed down
the stairs.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine's room
opened, and Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye
and heavy heart, all the noble features of that face,
usually so calm and serene, were overcast by grief. In his
arms he held the child, whom no skill had been able to
recall to life. Bending on one knee, he placed it reverently
by the side of its mother, with its head upon her breast.
Then, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant on the
stairs, he asked, "Where is M. de Villefort?"

The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden.
Monte Cristo ran down the steps, and advancing towards the
spot designated beheld Villefort, encircled by his servants,
with a spade in his hand, and digging the earth with fury.
"It is not here!" he cried. "It is not here!" And then he
moved farther on, and began again to dig.

Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with
an expression almost humble, "Sir, you have indeed lost a
son; but" --

Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor
heard. "Oh, I will find it," he cried; "you may pretend he
is not here, but I will find him, though I dig forever!"
Monte Cristo drew back in horror. "Oh," he said, "he is
mad!" And as though he feared that the walls of the accursed
house would crumble around him, he rushed into the street,
for the first time doubting whether he had the right to do
as he had done. "Oh, enough of this, -- enough of this," he
cried; "let me save the last." On entering his house, he met
Morrel, who wandered about like a ghost awaiting the
heavenly mandate for return to the tomb. "Prepare yourself,
Maximilian," he said with a smile; "we leave Paris
to-morrow."

"Have you nothing more to do there?" asked Morrel.

"No," replied Monte Cristo; "God grant I may not have done
too much already."

The next day they indeed left, accompanied only by
Baptistin. Haidee had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained
with Noirtier.



Chapter 112
The Departure.

The recent event formed the theme of conversation throughout
all Paris. Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural
astonishment in their little apartment in the Rue Meslay
upon the three successive, sudden, and most unexpected
catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and Villefort.
Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to their
conversation, or rather was present at it, plunged in his
accustomed state of apathy. "Indeed," said Julie, "might we
not almost fancy, Emmanuel, that those people, so rich, so
happy but yesterday, had forgotten in their prosperity that
an evil genius -- like the wicked fairies in Perrault's
stories who present themselves unbidden at a wedding or
baptism -- hovered over them, and appeared all at once to
revenge himself for their fatal neglect?"

"What a dire misfortune!" said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf
and Danglars.

"What dreadful sufferings!" said Julie, remembering
Valentine, but whom, with a delicacy natural to women, she
did not name before her brother.

"If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow," said
Emmanuel, "it must be that he in his great goodness has
perceived nothing in the past lives of these people to merit
mitigation of their awful punishment."

"Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?" said
Julie. "When my father, with a pistol in his hand, was once
on the point of committing suicide, had any one then said,
`This man deserves his misery,' would not that person have
been deceived?"

"Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was
commissioned to arrest the fatal hand of death about to
descend on him."

Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of
the bell was heard, the well-known signal given by the
porter that a visitor had arrived. Nearly at the same
instant the door was opened and the Count of Monte Cristo
appeared on the threshold. The young people uttered a cry of
joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall again
immediately. "Maximilian," said the count, without appearing
to notice the different impressions which his presence
produced on the little circle, "I come to seek you."

"To seek me?" repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream.

"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "has it not been agreed that I
should take you with me, and did I not tell you yesterday to
prepare for departure?"

"I am ready," said Maximilian; "I came expressly to wish
them farewell."

"Whither are you going, count?" asked Julie.

"In the first instance to Marseilles, madame."

"To Marseilles!" exclaimed the young couple.

"Yes, and I take your brother with me."

"Oh, count." said Julie, "will you restore him to us cured
of his melancholy?" -- Morrel turned away to conceal the
confusion of his countenance.

"You perceive, then, that he is not happy?" said the count.
"Yes," replied the young woman; "and fear much that he finds
our home but a dull one."

"I will undertake to divert him," replied the count.

"I am ready to accompany you, sir," said Maximilian. "Adieu,
my kind friends! Emmanuel -- Julie -- farewell!"

"How farewell?" exclaimed Julie; "do you leave us thus, so
suddenly, without any preparations for your journey, without
even a passport?"

"Needless delays but increase the grief of parting," said
Monte Cristo, "and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself
with everything requisite; at least, I advised him to do
so."

"I have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed," said
Morrel in his tranquil but mournful manner.

"Good," said Monte Cristo, smiling; "in these prompt
arrangements we recognize the order of a well-disciplined
soldier."

"And you leave us," said Julie, "at a moment's warning? you
do not give us a day -- no, not even an hour before your
departure?"

"My carriage is at the door, madame, and I must be in Rome
in five days."

"But does Maximilian go to Rome?" exclaimed Emmanuel.

"I am going wherever it may please the count to take me,"
said Morrel, with a smile full of grief; "I am under his
orders for the next month."

"Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!"
said Julie.

"Maximilian goes with me," said the count, in his kindest
and most persuasive manner; "therefore do not make yourself
uneasy on your brother's account."

"Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!"
Morrel repeated.

"His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart,"
said Julie. "Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly
concealing something from us."

"Pshaw!" said Monte Cristo, "you will see him return to you
gay, smiling, and joyful."

Maximilian cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the
count.

"We must leave you," said Monte Cristo.

"Before you quit us, count," said Julie, "will you permit us
to express to you all that the other day" --

"Madame," interrupted the count, taking her two hands in
his, "all that you could say in words would never express
what I read in your eyes; the thoughts of your heart are
fully understood by mine. Like benefactors in romances, I
should have left you without seeing you again, but that
would have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I am a
weak and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful
glances of my fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I
carry my egotism so far as to say, `Do not forget me, my
kind friends, for probably you will never see me again.'"

"Never see you again?" exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large
tears rolled down Julie's cheeks, "never behold you again?
It is not a man, then, but some angel that leaves us, and
this angel is on the point of returning to heaven after
having appeared on earth to do good."

"Say not so," quickly returned Monte Cristo -- "say not so,
my friends; angels never err, celestial beings remain where
they wish to be. Fate is not more powerful than they; it is
they who, on the contrary, overcome fate. No, Emmanuel, I am
but a man, and your admiration is as unmerited as your words
are sacrilegious." And pressing his lips on the hand of
Julie, who rushed into his arms, he extended his other hand
to Emmanuel; then tearing himself from this abode of peace
and happiness, he made a sign to Maximilian, who followed
him passively, with the indifference which had been
perceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had so
stunned him. "Restore my brother to peace and happiness,"
whispered Julie to Monte Cristo. And the count pressed her
hand in reply, as he had done eleven years before on the
staircase leading to Morrel's study.

"You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?" asked he,
smiling.

"Oh, yes," was the ready answer.

"Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in heaven."
As we have before said, the postchaise was waiting; four
powerful horses were already pawing the ground with
impatience, while Ali, apparently just arrived from a long
walk, was standing at the foot of the steps, his face bathed
in perspiration. "Well," asked the count in Arabic, "have
you been to see the old man?" Ali made a sign in the
affirmative.

"And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you
to do?"

The slave respectfully signalized that he had. "And what did
he say, or rather do?" Ali placed himself in the light, so
that his master might see him distinctly, and then imitating
in his intelligent manner the countenance of the old man, he
closed his eyes, as Noirtier was in the custom of doing when
saying "Yes."

"Good; he accepts," said Monte Cristo. "Now let us go."

These words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was
on its way, and the feet of the horses struck a shower of
sparks from the pavement. Maximilian settled himself in his
corner without uttering a word. Half an hour had passed when
the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had just pulled the
silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali's finger. The
Nubian immediately descended and opened the carriage door.
It was a lovely starlight night -- they had just reached the
top of the hill Villejuif, from whence Paris appears like a
sombre sea tossing its millions of phosphoric waves into
light -- waves indeed more noisy, more passionate, more
changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those of the
tempestuous ocean, -- waves which never rest as those of the
sea sometimes do, -- waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever
ingulfing what falls within their grasp. The count stood
alone, and at a sign from his hand, the carriage went on for
a short distance. With folded arms, he gazed for some time
upon the great city. When he had fixed his piercing look on
this modern Babylon, which equally engages the contemplation
of the religious enthusiast, the materialist, and the
scoffer, -- "Great city," murmured he, inclining his head,
and joining his hands as if in prayer, "less than six months
have elapsed since first I entered thy gates. I believe that
the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and that he also
enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my
presence within thy walls I have confided alone to him who
only has had the power to read my heart. God only knows that
I retire from thee without pride or hatred, but not without
many regrets; he only knows that the power confided to me
has never been made subservient to my personal good or to
any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is in thy palpitating
bosom that I have found that which I sought; like a patient
miner, I have dug deep into thy very entrails to root out
evil thence. Now my work is accomplished, my mission is
terminated, now thou canst neither afford me pain nor
pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu!"

His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some
genius of the night; he passed his hand over his brow, got
into the carriage, the door was closed on him, and the
vehicle quickly disappeared down the other side of the hill
in a whirlwind of noise and dust.

Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered.

Morrel was dreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the
dreamer.

"Morrel," said the count to him at length, "do you repent
having followed me?"

"No, count; but to leave Paris" --

"If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I
would have left you there."

"Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave
Paris is like losing her a second time."

"Maximilian," said the count, "the friends that we have lost
do not repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep
in our hearts, and it has been thus ordained that we may
always be accompanied by them. I have two friends, who in
this way never depart from me; the one who gave me being,
and the other who conferred knowledge and intelligence on
me. Their spirits live in me. I consult them when doubtful,
and if I ever do any good, it is due to their beneficent
counsels. Listen to the voice of your heart, Morrel, and ask
it whether you ought to preserve this melancholy exterior
towards me."

"My friend," said Maximilian, "the voice of my heart is very
sorrowful, and promises me nothing but misfortune."

"It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a
black cloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is
darkened, and consequently the sky of the future appears
stormy and unpromising."

"That may possibly be true," said Maximilian, and he again
subsided into his thoughtful mood.

The journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity
which the unlimited power of the count ever commanded. Towns
fled from them like shadows on their path, and trees shaken
by the first winds of autumn seemed like giants madly
rushing on to meet them, and retreating as rapidly when once
reached. The following morning they arrived at Chalons,
where the count's steamboat waited for them. Without the
loss of an instant, the carriage was placed on board and the
two travellers embarked without delay. The boat was built
for speed; her two paddle-wheels were like two wings with
which she skimmed the water like a bird. Morrel was not
insensible to that sensation of delight which is generally
experienced in passing rapidly through the air, and the wind
which occasionally raised the hair from his forehead seemed
on the point of dispelling momentarily the clouds collected
there.

As the distance increased between the travellers and Paris,
almost superhuman serenity appeared to surround the count;
he might have been taken for an exile about to revisit his
native land. Ere long Marseilles presented herself to view,
-- Marseilles, white, fervid, full of life and energy, --
Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyre and Carthage, the
successor to them in the empire of the Mediterranean, --
Marseilles, old, yet always young. Powerful memories were
stirred within them by the sight of the round tower, Fort
Saint-Nicolas, the City Hall designed by Puget,* the port
with its brick quays, where they had both played in
childhood, and it was with one accord that they stopped on
the Cannebiere. A vessel was setting sail for Algiers, on
board of which the bustle usually attending departure
prevailed. The passengers and their relations crowded on the
deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowful leave of each
other, some weeping, others noisy in their grief, the whole
forming a spectacle that might be exciting even to those who
witnessed similar sights daily, but which had no power to
disturb the current of thought that had taken possession of
the mind of Maximilian from the moment he had set foot on
the broad pavement of the quay.

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

"Here," said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo,
-- "here is the spot where my father stopped, when the
Pharaon entered the port; it was here that the good old man,
whom you saved from death and dishonor, threw himself into
my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my face, and his were
not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our meeting
wept also." Monte Cristo gently smiled and said, -- "I was
there;" at the same time pointing to the corner of a street.
As he spoke, and in the very direction he indicated, a
groan, expressive of bitter grief, was heard, and a woman
was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the vessel
about to sail. Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion
that must have been remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been
fixed on the vessel.

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Morrel, "I do not deceive myself --
that young man who is waving his hat, that youth in the
uniform of a lieutenant, is Albert de Morcerf!"

"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "I recognized him."

"How so? -- you were looking the other way." the count
smiled, as he was in the habit of doing when he did not want
to make any reply, and he again turned towards the veiled
woman, who soon disappeared at the corner of the street.
Turning to his friend, -- "Dear Maximilian," said the count,
"have you nothing to do in this land?"

"I have to weep over the grave of my father," replied Morrel
in a broken voice.

"Well, then, go, -- wait for me there, and I will soon join
you."

"You leave me, then?"

"Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay."

Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count
extended to him; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful
inclination of the head he quitted the count and bent his
steps to the east of the city. Monte Cristo remained on the
same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he then walked
slowly towards the Allees de Meillan to seek out a small
house with which our readers were made familiar at the
beginning of this story. It yet stood, under the shade of
the fine avenue of lime-trees, which forms one of the most
frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles, covered by an
immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened branches
over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the
south. Two stone steps worn away by the friction of many
feet led to the door, which was made of three planks; the
door had never been painted or varnished, so great cracks
yawned in it during the dry season to close again when the
rains came on. The house, with all its crumbling antiquity
and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and picturesque, and
was the same that old Dantes formerly inhabited -- the only
difference being that the old man occupied merely the
garret, while the whole house was now placed at the command
of Mercedes by the count.

The woman whom the count had seen leave the ship with so
much regret entered this house; she had scarcely closed the
door after her when Monte Cristo appeared at the corner of a
street, so that he found and lost her again almost at the
same instant. The worn out steps were old acquaintances of
his; he knew better than any one else how to open that
weather-beaten door with the large headed nail which served
to raise the latch within. He entered without knocking, or
giving any other intimation of his presence, as if he had
been a friend or the master of the place. At the end of a
passage paved with bricks, was a little garden, bathed in
sunshine, and rich in warmth and light. In this garden
Mercedes had found, at the place indicated by the count, the
sum of money which he, through a sense of delicacy, had
described as having been placed there twenty-four years
previously. The trees of the garden were easily seen from
the steps of the street-door. Monte Cristo, on stepping into
the house, heard a sigh that was almost a deep sob; he
looked in the direction whence it came, and there under an
arbor of Virginia jessamine,* with its thick foliage and
beautiful long purple flowers, he saw Mercedes seated, with
her head bowed, and weeping bitterly. She had raised her
veil, and with her face hidden by her hands was giving free
scope to the sighs and tears which had been so long
restrained by the presence of her son. Monte Cristo advanced
a few steps, which were heard on the gravel. Mercedes raised
her head, and uttered a cry of terror on beholding a man
before her.

* The Carolina -- not Virginia -- jessamine, gelsemium
sempervirens (properly speaking not a jessamine at all) has
yellow blossoms. The reference is no doubt to the Wistaria
frutescens. -- Ed.

"Madame," said the count, "it is no longer in my power to
restore you to happiness, but I offer you consolation; will
you deign to accept it as coming from a friend?"

"I am, indeed, most wretched," replied Mercedes. "Alone in
the world, I had but my son, and he has left me!"

"He possesses a noble heart, madame," replied the count,
"and he has acted rightly. He feels that every man owes a
tribute to his country; some contribute their talents,
others their industry; these devote their blood, those their
nightly labors, to the same cause. Had he remained with you,
his life must have become a hateful burden, nor would he
have participated in your griefs. He will increase in
strength and honor by struggling with adversity, which he
will convert into prosperity. Leave him to build up the
future for you, and I venture to say you will confide it to
safe hands."

"Oh," replied the wretched woman, mournfully shaking her
head, "the prosperity of which you speak, and which, from
the bottom of my heart, I pray God in his mercy to grant
him, I can never enjoy. The bitter cup of adversity has been
drained by me to the very dregs, and I feel that the grave
is not far distant. You have acted kindly, count, in
bringing me back to the place where I have enjoyed so much
bliss. I ought to meet death on the same spot where
happiness was once all my own."

"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "your words sear and embitter my
heart, the more so as you have every reason to hate me. I
have been the cause of all your misfortunes; but why do you
pity, instead of blaming me? You render me still more
unhappy" --

"Hate you, blame you -- you, Edmond! Hate, reproach, the man
that has spared my son's life! For was it not your fatal and
sanguinary intention to destroy that son of whom M. de
Morcerf was so proud? Oh, look at me closely, and discover
if you can even the semblance of a reproach in me." The
count looked up and fixed his eyes on Mercedes, who arose
partly from her seat and extended both her hands towards
him. "Oh, look at me," continued she, with a feeling of
profound melancholy, "my eyes no longer dazzle by their
brilliancy, for the time has long fled since I used to smile
on Edmond Dantes, who anxiously looked out for me from the
window of yonder garret, then inhabited by his old father.
Years of grief have created an abyss between those days and
the present. I neither reproach you nor hate you, my friend.
Oh, no, Edmond, it is myself that I blame, myself that I
hate! Oh, miserable creature that I am!" cried she, clasping
her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven. "I once possessed
piety, innocence, and love, the three ingredients of the
happiness of angels, and now what am I?" Monte Cristo
approached her, and silently took her hand. "No," said she,
withdrawing it gently -- "no, my friend, touch me not. You
have spared me, yet of all those who have fallen under your
vengeance I was the most guilty. They were influenced by
hatred, by avarice, and by self-love; but I was base, and
for want of courage acted against my judgment. Nay, do not
press my hand, Edmond; you are thinking, I am sure, of some
kind speech to console me, but do not utter it to me,
reserve it for others more worthy of your kindness. See"
(and she exposed her face completely to view) -- "see,
misfortune has silvered my hair, my eyes have shed so many
tears that they are encircled by a rim of purple, and my
brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on the contrary, -- you are
still young, handsome, dignified; it is because you have had
faith; because you have had strength, because you have had
trust in God, and God has sustained you. But as for me, I
have been a coward; I have denied God and he has abandoned
me."

Mercedes burst into tears; her woman's heart was breaking
under its load of memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and
imprinted a kiss on it; but she herself felt that it was a
kiss of no greater warmth than he would have bestowed on the
hand of some marble statue of a saint. "It often happens,"
continued she, "that a first fault destroys the prospects of
a whole life. I believed you dead; why did I survive you?
What good has it done me to mourn for you eternally in the
secret recesses of my heart? -- only to make a woman of
thirty-nine look like a woman of fifty. Why, having
recognized you, and I the only one to do so -- why was I
able to save my son alone? Ought I not also to have rescued
the man that I had accepted for a husband, guilty though he
were? Yet I let him die! What do I say? Oh, merciful
heavens, was I not accessory to his death by my supine
insensibility, by my contempt for him, not remembering, or
not willing to remember, that it was for my sake he had
become a traitor and a perjurer? In what am I benefited by
accompanying my son so far, since I now abandon him, and
allow him to depart alone to the baneful climate of Africa?
Oh, I have been base, cowardly, I tell you; I have abjured
my affections, and like all renegades I am of evil omen to
those who surround me!"

"No, Mercedes," said Monte Cristo, "no; you judge yourself
with too much severity. You are a noble-minded woman, and it
was your grief that disarmed me. Still I was but an agent,
led on by an invisible and offended Deity, who chose not to
withhold the fatal blow that I was destined to hurl. I take
that God to witness, at whose feet I have prostrated myself
daily for the last ten years, that I would have sacrificed
my life to you, and with my life the projects that were
indissolubly linked with it. But -- and I say it with some
pride, Mercedes -- God needed me, and I lived. Examine the
past and the present, and endeavor to dive into futurity,
and then say whether I am not a divine instrument. The most
dreadful misfortunes, the most frightful sufferings, the
abandonment of all those who loved me, the persecution of
those who did not know me, formed the trials of my youth;
when suddenly, from captivity, solitude, misery, I was
restored to light and liberty, and became the possessor of a
fortune so brilliant, so unbounded, so unheard-of, that I
must have been blind not to be conscious that God had
endowed me with it to work out his own great designs. From
that time I looked upon this fortune as something confided
to me for an especial purpose. Not a thought was given to a
life which you once, Mercedes, had the power to render
blissful; not one hour of peaceful calm was mine; but I felt
myself driven on like an exterminating angel. Like
adventurous captains about to embark on some enterprise full
of danger, I laid in my provisions, I loaded my weapons, I
collected every means of attack and defence; I inured my
body to the most violent exercises, my soul to the bitterest
trials; I taught my arm to slay, my eyes to behold
excruciating sufferings, and my mouth to smile at the most
horrid spectacles. Good-natured, confiding, and forgiving as
I had been, I became revengeful, cunning, and wicked, or
rather, immovable as fate. Then I launched out into the path
that was opened to me. I overcame every obstacle, and
reached the goal; but woe to those who stood in my pathway!"

"Enough," said Mercedes; "enough, Edmond! Believe me, that
she who alone recognized you has been the only one to
comprehend you; and had she crossed your path, and you had
crushed her like glass, still, Edmond, still she must have
admired you! Like the gulf between me and the past, there is
an abyss between you, Edmond, and the rest of mankind; and I
tell you freely that the comparison I draw between you and
other men will ever be one of my greatest tortures. No,
there is nothing in the world to resemble you in worth and
goodness! But we must say farewell, Edmond, and let us
part."

"Before I leave you, Mercedes, have you no request to make?"
said the count.

"I desire but one thing in this world, Edmond, -- the
happiness of my son."

"Pray to the Almighty to spare his life, and I will take
upon myself to promote his happiness."

"Thank you, Edmond."

"But have you no request to make for yourself, Mercedes?"

"For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two
graves. One is that of Edmond Dantes, lost to me long, long
since. He had my love! That word ill becomes my faded lip
now, but it is a memory dear to my heart, and one that I
would not lose for all that the world contains. The other
grave is that of the man who met his death from the hand of
Edmond Dantes. I approve of the deed, but I must pray for
the dead."

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

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

"But what are your intentions?"

"To say that I shall live here, like the Mercedes of other
times, gaining my bread by labor, would not be true, nor
would you believe me. I have no longer the strength to do
anything but to spend my days in prayer. However, I shall
have no occasion to work, for the little sum of money buried
by you, and which I found in the place you mentioned, will
be sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will probably be busy
respecting me, my occupations, my manner of living -- that
will signify but little."

"Mercedes," said the count, "I do not say it to blame you,
but you made an unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing the
whole of the fortune amassed by M. de Morcerf; half of it at
least by right belonged to you, in virtue of your vigilance
and economy."

"I perceive what you are intending to propose to me; but I
cannot accept it, Edmond -- my son would not permit it."

"Nothing shall be done without the full approbation of
Albert de Morcerf. I will make myself acquainted with his
intentions and will submit to them. But if he be willing to
accept my offers, will you oppose them?"

"You well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning
creature; I have no will, unless it be the will never to
decide. I have been so overwhelmed by the many storms that
have broken over my head, that I am become passive in the
hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in the talons of an
eagle. I live, because it is not ordained for me to die. If
succor be sent to me, I will accept it."

"Ah, madame," said Monte Cristo, "you should not talk thus!
It is not so we should evince our resignation to the will of
heaven; on the contrary, we are all free agents."

"Alas!" exclaimed Mercedes, "if it were so, if I possessed
free-will, but without the power to render that will
efficacious, it would drive me to despair." Monte Cristo
dropped his head and shrank from the vehemence of her grief.
"Will you not even say you will see me again?" he asked.

"On the contrary, we shall meet again," said Mercedes,
pointing to heaven with solemnity. "I tell you so to prove
to you that I still hope." And after pressing her own
trembling hand upon that of the count, Mercedes rushed up
the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo slowly left the
house and turned towards the quay. But Mercedes did not
witness his departure, although she was seated at the little
window of the room which had been occupied by old Dantes.
Her eyes were straining to see the ship which was carrying
her son over the vast sea; but still her voice involuntarily
murmured softly, "Edmond, Edmond, Edmond!"



Chapter 113
The Past.

The count departed with a sad heart from the house in which
he had left Mercedes, probably never to behold her again.
Since the death of little Edward a great change had taken
place in Monte Cristo. Having reached the summit of his
vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an abyss of
doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation
which had just taken place between Mercedes and himself had
awakened so many recollections in his heart that he felt it
necessary to combat with them. A man of the count's
temperament could not long indulge in that melancholy which
can exist in common minds, but which destroys superior ones.
He thought he must have made an error in his calculations if
he now found cause to blame himself.

"I cannot have deceived myself," he said; "I must look upon
the past in a false light. What!" he continued, "can I have
been following a false path? -- can the end which I proposed
be a mistaken end? -- can one hour have sufficed to prove to
an architect that the work upon which he founded all his
hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking?
I cannot reconcile myself to this idea -- it would madden
me. The reason why I am now dissatisfied is that I have not
a clear appreciation of the past. The past, like the country
through which we walk, becomes indistinct as we advance. My
position is like that of a person wounded in a dream; he
feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he received
it. Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagant
prodigal, thou awakened sleeper, thou all-powerful
visionary, thou invincible millionaire, -- once again review
thy past life of starvation and wretchedness, revisit the
scenes where fate and misfortune conducted, and where
despair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold and
splendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which Monte
Cristo seeks to behold Dantes. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy
gold, shroud thy splendor, exchange riches for poverty,
liberty for a prison, a living body for a corpse!" As he
thus reasoned, Monte Cristo walked down the Rue de la
Caisserie. It was the same through which, twenty-four years
ago, he had been conducted by a silent and nocturnal guard;
the houses, to-day so smiling and animated, were on that
night dark, mute, and closed. "And yet they were the same,"
murmured Monte Cristo, "only now it is broad daylight
instead of night; it is the sun which brightens the place,
and makes it appear so cheerful."

He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, and
advanced to the Consigne; it was the point where he had
embarked. A pleasure-boat with striped awning was going by.
Monte Cristo called the owner, who immediately rowed up to
him with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for a good fare.
The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat.

The sun, red and flaming, was sinking into the embrace of
the welcoming ocean. The sea, smooth as crystal, was now and
then disturbed by the leaping of fish, which were pursued by
some unseen enemy and sought for safety in another element;
while on the extreme verge of the horizon might be seen the
fishermen's boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull, or
the merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.

But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed
boats, and the golden light in which the whole scene was
bathed, the Count of Monte Cristo, wrapped in his cloak,
could think only of this terrible voyage, the details of
which were one by one recalled to his memory. The solitary
light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the
Chateau d'If, which told him whither they were leading him;
the struggle with the gendarmes when he wished to throw
himself overboard; his despair when he found himself
vanquished, and the sensation when the muzzle of the carbine
touched his forehead -- all these were brought before him in
vivid and frightful reality. Like the streams which the heat
of the summer has dried up, and which after the autumnal
storms gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so did the count
feel his heart gradually fill with the bitterness which
formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantes. Clear sky,
swift-flitting boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared;
the heavens were hung with black, and the gigantic structure
of the Chateau d'If seemed like the phantom of a mortal
enemy. As they reached the shore, the count instinctively
shrunk to the extreme end of the boat, and the owner was
obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice, "Sir, we
are at the landing."

Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same
rock, he had been violently dragged by the guards, who
forced him to ascend the slope at the points of their
bayonets. The journey had seemed very long to Dantes, but
Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the oar
seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with
the flying spray of the sea.

There had been no prisoners confined in the Chateau d'If
since the revolution of July; it was only inhabited by a
guard, kept there for the prevention of smuggling. A
concierge waited at the door to exhibit to visitors this
monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror. The count
inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still
there; but they had all been pensioned, or had passed on to
some other employment. The concierge who attended him had
only been there since 1830. He visited his own dungeon. He
again beheld the dull light vainly endeavoring to penetrate
the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the spot where had
stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed the
new stones indicated where the breach made by the Abbe Faria
had been. Monte Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he seated
himself upon a log of wood.

"Are there any stories connected with this prison besides
the one relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?" asked the
count; "are there any traditions respecting these dismal
abodes, -- in which it is difficult to believe men can ever
have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?"

"Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected
with this very dungeon."

Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had
almost forgotten his name and face, but at the mention of
the name he recalled his person as he used to see it, the
face encircled by a beard, wearing the brown jacket, the
bunch of keys, the jingling of which he still seemed to
hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in the
corridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by the
concierge. "Would you like to hear the story, sir?"

"Yes; relate it," said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand to
his heart to still its violent beatings; he felt afraid of
hearing his own history.

"This dungeon," said the concierge, "was, it appears, some
time ago occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so
since he was full of industry. Another person was confined
in the Chateau at the same time, but he was not wicked, he
was only a poor mad priest."

"Ah, indeed? -- mad!" repeated Monte Cristo; "and what was
his mania?"

"He offered millions to any one who would set him at
liberty."

Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see the
heavens; there was a stone veil between him and the
firmament. He thought that there had been no less thick a
veil before the eyes of those to whom Faria offered the
treasures. "Could the prisoners see each other?" he asked.

"Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded
the vigilance of the guards, and made a passage from one
dungeon to the other."

"And which of them made this passage?"

"Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was
strong and industrious, while the abbe was aged and weak;
besides, his mind was too vacillating to allow him to carry
out an idea."

"Blind fools!" murmured the count.

"However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel,
how or by what means no one knows; but he made it, and there
is the evidence yet remaining of his work. Do you see it?"
and the man held the torch to the wall.

"Ah, yes; I see," said the count, in a voice hoarse from
emotion.

"The result was that the two men communicated with one
another; how long they did so, nobody knows. One day the old
man fell ill and died. Now guess what the young one did?"

"Tell me."

"He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed
with its face to the wall; then he entered the empty
dungeon, closed the entrance, and slipped into the sack
which had contained the dead body. Did you ever hear of such
an idea?" Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again to
experience all the sensations he had felt when the coarse
canvas, yet moist with the cold dews of death, had touched
his face. The jailer continued: "Now this was his project.
He fancied that they buried the dead at the Chateau d'If,
and imagining they would not expend much labor on the grave
of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with his
shoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the
Chateau frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead;
they merely attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and
then threw them into the sea. This is what was done. The
young man was thrown from the top of the rock; the corpse
was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth was
guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned
what they had not dared to speak of before, that at the
moment the corpse was thrown into the deep, they heard a
shriek, which was almost immediately stifled by the water in
which it disappeared." The count breathed with difficulty;
the cold drops ran down his forehead, and his heart was full
of anguish.

"No," he muttered, "the doubt I felt was but the
commencement of forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens,
and the heart again thirsts for vengeance. And the
prisoner," he continued aloud, "was he ever heard of
afterwards?"

"Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two
things must have happened; he must either have fallen flat,
in which case the blow, from a height of ninety feet, must
have killed him instantly, or he must have fallen upright,
and then the weight would have dragged him to the bottom,
where he remained -- poor fellow!"

"Then you pity him?" said the count.

"Ma foi, yes; though he was in his own element."

"What do you mean?"

"The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had
been confined for plotting with the Bonapartists."

"Great is truth," muttered the count, "fire cannot burn, nor
water drown it! Thus the poor sailor lives in the
recollection of those who narrate his history; his terrible
story is recited in the chimney-corner, and a shudder is
felt at the description of his transit through the air to be
swallowed by the deep." Then, the count added aloud, "Was
his name ever known?"

"Oh, yes; but only as No. 34."

"Oh, Villefort, Villefort," murmured the count, "this scene
must often have haunted thy sleepless hours!"

"Do you wish to see anything more, sir?" said the concierge.

"Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbe's room."

"Ah -- No. 27."

"Yes; No. 27." repeated the count, who seemed to hear the
voice of the abbe answering him in those very words through
the wall when asked his name.

"Come, sir."

"Wait," said Monte Cristo, "I wish to take one final glance
around this room."

"This is fortunate," said the guide; "I have forgotten the
other key."

"Go and fetch it."

"I will leave you the torch, sir."

"No, take it away; I can see in the dark."

"Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to
darkness that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of
his dungeon."

"He spent fourteen years to arrive at that," muttered the
count.

The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken
correctly. Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw
everything as distinctly as by daylight. Then he looked
around him, and really recognized his dungeon.

"Yes," he said, "there is the stone upon which I used to
sit; there is the impression made by my shoulders on the
wall; there is the mark of my blood made when one day I
dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those figures, how well
I remember them! I made them one day to calculate the age of
my father, that I might know whether I should find him still
living, and that of Mercedes, to know if I should find her
still free. After finishing that calculation, I had a
minute's hope. I did not reckon upon hunger and infidelity!"
and a bitter laugh escaped the count. He saw in fancy the
burial of his father, and the marriage of Mercedes. On the
other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the
white letters of which were still visible on the green wall.
"`O God,'" he read, "`preserve my memory!' Oh, yes," he
cried, "that was my only prayer at last; I no longer begged
for liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad and
forgetful. O God, thou hast preserved my memory; I thank
thee, I thank thee!" At this moment the light of the torch
was reflected on the wall; the guide was coming; Monte
Cristo went to meet him.

"Follow me, sir;" and without ascending the stairs the guide
conducted him by a subterraneous passage to another
entrance. There, again, Monte Cristo was assailed by a
multitude of thoughts. The first thing that met his eye was
the meridian, drawn by the abbe on the wall, by which he
calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on
which the poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead
of exciting the anguish experienced by the count in the
dungeon, filled his heart with a soft and grateful
sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.

"This is where the mad abbe was kept, sir, and that is where
the young man entered; "and the guide pointed to the
opening, which had remained unclosed. "From the appearance
of the stone," he continued, "a learned gentleman discovered
that the prisoners might have communicated together for ten
years. Poor things! Those must have been ten weary years."

Dantes took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the
man who had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took
them, thinking them merely a few pieces of little value; but
the light of the torch revealed their true worth. "Sir," he
said, "you have made a mistake; you have given me gold."

"I know it." The concierge looked upon the count with
surprise. "Sir," he cried, scarcely able to believe his good
fortune -- "sir, I cannot understand your generosity!"

"Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a
sailor, and your story touched me more than it would
others."

"Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you
something."

"What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells?
Straw-work? Thank you!"

"No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this
story."

"Really? What is it?"

"Listen," said the guide; "I said to myself, `Something is
always left in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen
years,' so I began to sound the wall."

"Ah," cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbe's two
hiding-places.

"After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow
sound near the head of the bed, and at the hearth."

"Yes," said the count, "yes."

"I raised the stones, and found" --

"A rope-ladder and some tools?"

"How do you know that?" asked the guide in astonishment.

"I do not know -- I only guess it, because that sort of
thing is generally found in prisoners' cells."

"Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools."

"And have you them yet?"

"No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great
curiosities; but I have still something left."

"What is it?" asked the count, impatiently.

"A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth."

"Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope,
you will do well."

"I will run for it, sir;" and the guide went out. Then the
count knelt down by the side of the bed, which death had
converted into an altar. "Oh, second father," he exclaimed,
"thou who hast given me liberty, knowledge, riches; thou
who, like beings of a superior order to ourselves, couldst
understand the science of good and evil; if in the depths of
the tomb there still remain something within us which can
respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if
after death the soul ever revisit the places where we have
lived and suffered, -- then, noble heart, sublime soul, then
I conjure thee by the paternal love thou didst bear me, by
the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me some sign,
some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which,
if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!" The
count bowed his head, and clasped his hands together.

"Here, sir," said a voice behind him.

Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out
the strips of cloth upon which the Abbe Faria had spread the
riches of his mind. The manuscript was the great work by the
Abbe Faria upon the kingdoms of Italy. The count seized it
hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the epigraph, and he
read, "`Thou shalt tear out the dragons' teeth, and shall
trample the lions under foot, saith the Lord.'"

"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is my answer. Thanks, father,
thanks." And feeling in his pocket, he took thence a small
pocket-book, which contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000
francs.

"Here," he said, "take this pocket-book."

"Do you give it to me?"

"Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I
am gone;" and placing in his breast the treasure he had just
found, which was more valuable to him than the richest
jewel, he rushed out of the corridor, and reaching his boat,
cried, "To Marseilles!" Then, as he departed, he fixed his
eyes upon the gloomy prison. "Woe," he cried, "to those who
confined me in that wretched prison; and woe to those who
forgot that I was there!" As he repassed the Catalans, the
count turned around and burying his head in his cloak
murmured the name of a woman. The victory was complete;
twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, in
a voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of
Haidee.

On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he
felt sure of finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had
piously sought out a tomb, and sought it vainly. He, who
returned to France with millions, had been unable to find
the grave of his father, who had perished from hunger.
Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had
fallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all
the old wood in the churchyard. The worthy merchant had been
more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his children, he had
been by them laid by the side of his wife, who had preceded
him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, on
which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side
of a little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four
cypress-trees. Morrel was leaning against one of these,
mechanically fixing his eyes on the graves. His grief was so
profound that he was nearly unconscious. "Maximilian," said
the count, "you should not look on the graves, but there;"
and he pointed upwards.

"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel; "did you not
yourself tell me so as we left Paris?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "you asked me during the
journey to allow you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do
you still wish to do so?"

"I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time
less painfully here than anywhere else."

"So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your
word with me, do I not?"

"Ah, count, I shall forget it."

"No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor,
Morrel, because you have taken an oath, and are about to do
so again."

"Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy."

"I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel."

"Impossible!"

"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "it is the infirmity of our
nature always to believe ourselves much more unhappy than
those who groan by our sides!"

"What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he
loved and desired in the world?"

"Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to
tell you. I knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes
of happiness upon a woman. He was young, he had an old
father whom he loved, a betrothed bride whom he adored. He
was about to marry her, when one of the caprices of fate, --
which would almost make us doubt the goodness of providence,
if that providence did not afterwards reveal itself by
proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end, --
one of those caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the
future of which he had dreamed (for in his blindness he
forgot he could only read the present), and cast him into a
dungeon."

"Ah," said Morrel, "one quits a dungeon in a week, a month,
or a year."

"He remained there fourteen years, Morrel," said the count,
placing his hand on the young man's shoulder. Maximilian
shuddered.

"Fourteen years!" he muttered -- "Fourteen years!" repeated
the count. "During that time he had many moments of despair.
He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the unhappiest
of men."

"Well?" asked Morrel.

"Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through
human means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the
infinite mercy of the Lord, but at last he took patience and
waited. One day he miraculously left the prison,
transformed, rich, powerful. His first cry was for his
father; but that father was dead."

"My father, too, is dead," said Morrel.

"Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected,
rich, and full of years; his father died poor, despairing,
almost doubtful of providence; and when his son sought his
grave ten years afterwards, his tomb had disappeared, and no
one could say, `There sleeps the father you so well loved.'"

"Oh!" exclaimed Morrel.

"He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he
could not even find his father's grave."

"But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?"

"You are deceived, Morrel, that woman" --

"She was dead?"

"Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of
the persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel,
that he was a more unhappy lover than you."

"And has he found consolation?"

"He has at least found peace."

"And does he ever expect to be happy?"

"He hopes so, Maximilian." The young man's head fell on his
breast.

"You have my promise," he said, after a minute's pause,
extending his hand to Monte Cristo. "Only remember" --

"On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the
Island of Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you
in the port of Bastia, it will be called the Eurus. You will
give your name to the captain, who will bring you to me. It
is understood -- is it not?"

"But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October" --

"Child," replied the count, "not to know the value of a
man's word! I have told you twenty times that if you wish to
die on that day, I will assist you. Morrel, farewell!"

"Do you leave me?"

"Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone with your
misfortunes, and with hope, Maximilian."

"When do you leave?"

"Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be
far from you. Will you accompany me to the harbor,
Maximilian?"

"I am entirely yours, count." Morrel accompanied the count
to the harbor. The white steam was ascending like a plume of
feathers from the black chimney. The steamer soon
disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had
said, was scarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the
fogs of the night.



Chapter 114
Peppino.

At the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape
Morgion, a man travelling post on the road from Florence to
Rome had just passed the little town of Aquapendente. He was
travelling fast enough to cover a great deal of ground
without exciting suspicion. This man was dressed in a
greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a little worse for the
journey, but which exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of
Honor still fresh and brilliant, a decoration which also
ornamented the under coat. He might be recognized, not only
by these signs, but also from the accent with which he spoke
to the postilion, as a Frenchman. Another proof that he was
a native of the universal country was apparent in the fact
of his knowing no other Italian words than the terms used in
music, and which like the "goddam" of Figaro, served all
possible linguistic requirements. "Allegro!" he called out
to the postilions at every ascent. "Moderato!" he cried as
they descended. And heaven knows there are hills enough
between Rome and Florence by the way of Aquapendente! These
two words greatly amused the men to whom they were
addressed. On reaching La Storta, the point from whence Rome
is first visible, the traveller evinced none of the
enthusiastic curiosity which usually leads strangers to
stand up and endeavor to catch sight of the dome of St.
Peter's, which may be seen long before any other object is
distinguishable. No, he merely drew a pocketbook from his
pocket, and took from it a paper folded in four, and after
having examined it in a manner almost reverential, he said
-- "Good! I have it still!"

The carriage entered by the Porto del Popolo, turned to the
left, and stopped at the Hotel d'Espagne. Old Pastrini, our
former acquaintance, received the traveller at the door, hat
in hand. The traveller alighted, ordered a good dinner, and
inquired the address of the house of Thomson & French, which
was immediately given to him, as it was one of the most
celebrated in Rome. It was situated in the Via dei Banchi,
near St. Peter's. In Rome, as everywhere else, the arrival
of a post-chaise is an event. Ten young descendants of
Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and out at elbows, with
one hand resting on the hip and the other gracefully curved
above the head, stared at the traveller, the post-chaise,
and the horses; to these were added about fifty little
vagabonds from the Papal States, who earned a pittance by
diving into the Tiber at high water from the bridge of St.
Angelo. Now, as these street Arabs of Rome, more fortunate
than those of Paris, understand every language, more
especially the French, they heard the traveller order an
apartment, a dinner, and finally inquire the way to the
house of Thomson & French. The result was that when the
new-comer left the hotel with the cicerone, a man detached
himself from the rest of the idlers, and without having been
seen by the traveller, and appearing to excite no attention
from the guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as
a Parisian police agent would have used.

The Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of
Thomson & French that he would not wait for the horses to be
harnessed, but left word for the carriage to overtake him on
the road, or to wait for him at the bankers' door. He
reached it before the carriage arrived. The Frenchman
entered, leaving in the anteroom his guide, who immediately
entered into conversation with two or three of the
industrious idlers who are always to be found in Rome at the
doors of banking-houses, churches, museums, or theatres.
With the Frenchman, the man who had followed him entered
too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and entered
the first room; his shadow did the same.

"Messrs. Thomson & French?" inquired the stranger.

An attendant arose at a sign from a confidential clerk at
the first desk. "Whom shall I announce?" said the attendant.

"Baron Danglars."

"Follow me," said the man. A door opened, through which the
attendant and the baron disappeared. The man who had
followed Danglars sat down on a bench. The clerk continued
to write for the next five minutes; the man preserved
profound silence, and remained perfectly motionless. Then
the pen of the clerk ceased to move over the paper; he
raised his head, and appearing to be perfectly sure of
privacy, -- "Ah, ha," he said, "here you are, Peppino!"

"Yes," was the laconic reply. "You have found out that there
is something worth having about this large gentleman?"

"There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of
it."

"You know his business here, then."

"Pardieu, he has come to draw, but I don't know how much!"

"You will know presently, my friend."

"Very well, only do not give me false information as you did
the other day."

"What do you mean? -- of whom do you speak? Was it the
Englishman who carried off 3,000 crowns from here the other
day?"

"No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean
the Russian prince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we
only found 22,000."

"You must have searched badly."

"Luigi Vampa himself searched."

"Indeed? But you must let me make my observations, or the
Frenchman will transact his business without my knowing the
sum." Peppino nodded, and taking a rosary from his pocket
began to mutter a few prayers while the clerk disappeared
through the same door by which Danglars and the attendant
had gone out. At the expiration of ten minutes the clerk
returned with a beaming countenance. "Well?" asked Peppino
of his friend.

"Joy, joy -- the sum is large!"

"Five or six millions, is it not?"

"Yes, you know the amount."

"On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo?"

"Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this?"

"I told you we were informed beforehand."

"Then why do you apply to me?"

"That I may be sure I have the right man."

"Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions -- a pretty sum, eh,
Peppino?"

"Hush -- here is our man!" The clerk seized his pen, and
Peppino his beads; one was writing and the other praying
when the door opened. Danglars looked radiant with joy; the
banker accompanied him to the door. Peppino followed
Danglars.

According to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at
the door. The guide held the door open. Guides are useful
people, who will turn their hands to anything. Danglars
leaped into the carriage like a young man of twenty. The
cicerone reclosed the door, and sprang up by the side of the
coachman. Peppino mounted the seat behind.

"Will your excellency visit St. Peter's?" asked the
cicerone.

"I did not come to Rome to see," said Danglars aloud; then
he added softly, with an avaricious smile, "I came to
touch!" and he rapped his pocket-book, in which he had just
placed a letter.

"Then your excellency is going" --

"To the hotel."

"Casa Pastrini!" said the cicerone to the coachman, and the
carriage drove rapidly on. Ten minutes afterwards the baron
entered his apartment, and Peppino stationed himself on the
bench outside the door of the hotel, after having whispered
something in the ear of one of the descendants of Marius and
the Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning of the chapter,
who immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol at
his fullest speed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he
therefore went to bed, placing his pocketbook under his
pillow. Peppino had a little spare time, so he had a game of
mora with the facchini, lost three crowns, and then to
console himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.

The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed
so early; he had not slept well for five or six nights, even
if he had slept at all. He breakfasted heartily, and caring
little, as he said, for the beauties of the Eternal City,
ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars had not reckoned
upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of the
posting-master. The horses only arrived at two o'clock, and
the cicerone did not bring the passport till three. All
these preparations had collected a number of idlers round
the door of Signor Pastrini's; the descendants of Marius and
the Gracchi were also not wanting. The baron walked
triumphantly through the crowd, who for the sake of gain
styled him "your excellency." As Danglars had hitherto
contented himself with being called a baron, he felt rather
flattered at the title of excellency, and distributed a
dozen silver coins among the beggars, who were ready, for
twelve more, to call him "your highness."

"Which road?" asked the postilion in Italian. "The Ancona
road," replied the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the
question and answer, and the horses galloped off. Danglars
intended travelling to Venice, where he would receive one
part of his fortune, and then proceeding to Vienna, where he
would find the rest, he meant to take up his residence in
the latter town, which he had been told was a city of
pleasure.

He had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when
daylight began to disappear. Danglars had not intended
starting so late, or he would have remained; he put his head
out and asked the postilion how long it would be before they
reached the next town. "Non capisco" (do not understand),
was the reply. Danglars bent his head, which he meant to
imply, "Very well." The carriage again moved on. "I will
stop at the first posting-house," said Danglars to himself.

He still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had
experienced the previous evening, and which had procured him
so good a night's rest. He was luxuriously stretched in a
good English calash, with double springs; he was drawn by
four good horses, at full gallop; he knew the relay to be at
a distance of seven leagues. What subject of meditation
could present itself to the banker, so fortunately become
bankrupt?

Danglars thought for ten minutes about his wife in Paris;
another ten minutes about his daughter travelling with
Mademoiselle d'Armilly; the same period was given to his
creditors, and the manner in which he intended spending
their money; and then, having no subject left for
contemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and
then a jolt more violent than the rest caused him to open
his eyes; then he felt that he was still being carried with
great rapidity over the same country, thickly strewn with
broken aqueducts, which looked like granite giants petrified
while running a race. But the night was cold, dull, and
rainy, and it was much more pleasant for a traveller to
remain in the warm carriage than to put his head out of the
window to make inquiries of a postilion whose only answer
was "Non capisco."

Danglars therefore continued to sleep, saying to himself
that he would be sure to awake at the posting-house. The
carriage stopped. Danglars fancied that they had reached the
long-desired point; he opened his eyes and looked through
the window, expecting to find himself in the midst of some
town, or at least village; but he saw nothing except what
seemed like a ruin, where three or four men went and came
like shadows. Danglars waited a moment, expecting the
postilion to come and demand payment with the termination of
his stage. He intended taking advantage of the opportunity
to make fresh inquiries of the new conductor; but the horses
were unharnessed, and others put in their places, without
any one claiming money from the traveller. Danglars,
astonished, opened the door; but a strong hand pushed him
back, and the carriage rolled on. The baron was completely
roused. "Eh?" he said to the postilion, "eh, mio caro?"

This was another little piece of Italian the baron had
learned from hearing his daughter sing Italian duets with
Cavalcanti. But mio caro did not reply. Danglars then opened
the window.

"Come, my friend," he said, thrusting his hand through the
opening, "where are we going?"

"Dentro la testa!" answered a solemn and imperious voice,
accompanied by a menacing gesture. Danglars thought dentro
la testa meant, "Put in your head!" He was making rapid
progress in Italian. He obeyed, not without some uneasiness,
which, momentarily increasing, caused his mind, instead of
being as unoccupied as it was when he began his journey, to
fill with ideas which were very likely to keep a traveller
awake, more especially one in such a situation as Danglars.
His eyes acquired that quality which in the first moment of
strong emotion enables them to see distinctly, and which
afterwards fails from being too much taxed. Before we are
alarmed, we see correctly; when we are alarmed, we see
double; and when we have been alarmed, we see nothing but
trouble. Danglars observed a man in a cloak galloping at the
right hand of the carriage.

"Some gendarme!" he exclaimed. "Can I have been intercepted
by French telegrams to the pontifical authorities?" He
resolved to end his anxiety. "Where are you taking me?" he
asked. "Dentro la testa," replied the same voice, with the
same menacing accent.

Danglars turned to the left; another man on horseback was
galloping on that side. "Decidedly," said Danglars, with the
perspiration on his forehead, "I must be under arrest." And
he threw himself back in the calash, not this time to sleep,
but to think. Directly afterwards the moon rose. He then saw
the great aqueducts, those stone phantoms which he had
before remarked, only then they were on the right hand, now
they were on the left. He understood that they had described
a circle, and were bringing him back to Rome. "Oh,
unfortunate!" he cried, "they must have obtained my arrest."
The carriage continued to roll on with frightful speed. An
hour of terror elapsed, for every spot they passed showed
that they were on the road back. At length he saw a dark
mass, against which it seemed as if the carriage was about
to dash; but the vehicle turned to one side, leaving the
barrier behind and Danglars saw that it was one of the
ramparts encircling Rome.

"Mon dieu!" cried Danglars, "we are not returning to Rome;
then it is not justice which is pursuing me! Gracious
heavens; another idea presents itself -- what if they should
be" --

His hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting
stories, so little believed in Paris, respecting Roman
bandits; he remembered the adventures that Albert de Morcerf
had related when it was intended that he should marry
Mademoiselle Eugenie. "They are robbers, perhaps," he
muttered. Just then the carriage rolled on something harder
than gravel road. Danglars hazarded a look on both sides of
the road, and perceived monuments of a singular form, and
his mind now recalled all the details Morcerf had related,
and comparing them with his own situation, he felt sure that
he must be on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort of
valley, he perceived a circular excavation. It was
Caracalla's circus. On a word from the man who rode at the
side of the carriage, it stopped. At the same time the door
was opened. "Scendi!" exclaimed a commanding voice. Danglars
instantly descended; although he did not yet speak Italian,
he understood it very well. More dead than alive, he looked
around him. Four men surrounded him, besides the postilion.

"Di qua," said one of the men, descending a little path
leading out of the Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide
without opposition, and had no occasion to turn around to
see whether the three others were following him. Still it
appeared as though they were stationed at equal distances
from one another, like sentinels. After walking for about
ten minutes, during which Danglars did not exchange a single
word with his guide, he found himself between a hillock and
a clump of high weeds; three men, standing silent, formed a
triangle, of which he was the centre. He wished to speak,
but his tongue refused to move. "Avanti!" said the same
sharp and imperative voice.

This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if
the word and gesture had not explained the speaker's
meaning, it was clearly expressed by the man walking behind
him, who pushed him so rudely that he struck against the
guide. This guide was our friend Peppino, who dashed into
the thicket of high weeds, through a path which none but
lizards or polecats could have imagined to be an open road.
Peppino stopped before a pit overhung by thick hedges; the
pit, half open, afforded a passage to the young man, who
disappeared like the evil spirits in the fairy tales. The
voice and gesture of the man who followed Danglars ordered
him to do the same. There was no longer any doubt, the
bankrupt was in the hands of Roman banditti. Danglars
acquitted himself like a man placed between two dangerous
positions, and who is rendered brave by fear.
Notwithstanding his large stomach, certainly not intended to
penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, he slid down like
Peppino, and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As he
touched the ground, he opened his eyes. The path was wide,
but dark. Peppino, who cared little for being recognized now
that he was in his own territories, struck a light and lit a
torch. Two other men descended after Danglars forming the
rearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he happened to
stop, they came by a gentle declivity to the intersection of
two corridors. The walls were hollowed out in sepulchres,
one above the other, and which seemed in contrast with the
white stones to open their large dark eyes, like those which
we see on the faces of the dead. A sentinel struck the rings
of his carbine against his left hand. "Who comes there?" he
cried.

"A friend, a friend!" said Peppino; "but where is the
captain?"

"There," said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a
spacious crypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from
which shone into the passage through the large arched
openings. "Fine spoil, captain, fine spoil!" said Peppino in
Italian, and taking Danglars by the collar of his coat he
dragged him to an opening resembling a door, through which
they entered the apartment which the captain appeared to
have made his dwelling-place.

"Is this the man?" asked the captain, who was attentively
reading Plutarch's "Life of Alexander."

"Himself, captain -- himself."

"Very well, show him to me." At this rather impertinent
order, Peppino raised his torch to the face of Danglars, who
hastily withdrew that he might not have his eyelashes burnt.
His agitated features presented the appearance of pale and
hideous terror. "The man is tired," said the captain,
"conduct him to his bed."

"Oh," murmured Danglars," that bed is probably one of the
coffins hollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy
will be death from one of the poniards I see glistening in
the darkness."

From their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of
the chamber now arose the companions of the man who had been
found by Albert de Morcerf reading "Caesar's Commentaries,"
and by Danglars studying the "Life of Alexander." The banker
uttered a groan and followed his guide; he neither
supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer possessed strength,
will, power, or feeling; he followed where they led him. At
length he found himself at the foot of a staircase, and he
mechanically lifted his foot five or six times. Then a low
door was opened before him, and bending his head to avoid
striking his forehead he entered a small room cut out of the
rock. The cell was clean, though empty, and dry, though
situated at an immeasurable distance under the earth. A bed
of dried grass covered with goat-skins was placed in one
corner. Danglars brightened up on beholding it, fancying
that it gave some promise of safety. "Oh, God be praised,"
he said; "it is a real bed!"

"Ecco!" said the guide, and pushing Danglars into the cell,
he closed the door upon him. A bolt grated and Danglars was
a prisoner. If there had been no bolt, it would have been
impossible for him to pass through the midst of the garrison
who held the catacombs of St. Sebastian, encamped round a
master whom our readers must have recognized as the famous
Luigi Vampa. Danglars, too, had recognized the bandit, whose
existence he would not believe when Albert de Morcerf
mentioned him in Paris; and not only did he recognize him,
but the cell in which Albert had been confined, and which
was probably kept for the accommodation of strangers. These
recollections were dwelt upon with some pleasure by
Danglars, and restored him to some degree of tranquillity.
Since the bandits had not despatched him at once, he felt
that they would not kill him at all. They had arrested him
for the purpose of robbery, and as he had only a few louis
about him, he doubted not he would be ransomed. He
remembered that Morcerf had been taxed at 4,000 crowns, and
as he considered himself of much greater importance than
Morcerf he fixed his own price at 8,000 crowns. Eight
thousand crowns amounted to 48,000 livres; he would then
have about 5,050,000 francs left. With this sum he could
manage to keep out of difficulties. Therefore, tolerably
secure in being able to extricate himself from his position,
provided he were not rated at the unreasonable sum of
5,050,000 francs, he stretched himself on his bed, and after
turning over two or three times, fell asleep with the
tranquillity of the hero whose life Luigi Vampa was
studying.



Chapter 115
Luigi Vampa's Bill of Fare.

We awake from every sleep except the one dreaded by
Danglars. He awoke. To a Parisian accustomed to silken
curtains, walls hung with velvet drapery, and the soft
perfume of burning wood, the white smoke of which diffuses
itself in graceful curves around the room, the appearance of
the whitewashed cell which greeted his eyes on awakening
seemed like the continuation of some disagreeable dream. But
in such a situation a single moment suffices to change the
strongest doubt into certainty. "Yes, yes," he murmured, "I
am in the hands of the brigands of whom Albert de Morcerf
spoke." His first idea was to breathe, that he might know
whether he was wounded. He borrowed this from "Don Quixote,"
the only book he had ever read, but which he still slightly
remembered.

"No," he cried, "they have not wounded, but perhaps they
have robbed me!" and he thrust his hands into his pockets.
They were untouched; the hundred louis he had reserved for
his journey from Rome to Venice were in his trousers pocket,
and in that of his great-coat he found the little note-case
containing his letter of credit for 5,050,000 francs.
"Singular bandits!" he exclaimed; "they have left me my
purse and pocket-book. As I was saying last night, they
intend me to be ransomed. Hallo, here is my watch! Let me
see what time it is." Danglars' watch, one of Breguet's
repeaters, which he had carefully wound up on the previous
night, struck half past five. Without this, Danglars would
have been quite ignorant of the time, for daylight did not
reach his cell. Should he demand an explanation from the
bandits, or should he wait patiently for them to propose it?
The last alternative seemed the most prudent, so he waited
until twelve o'clock. During all this time a sentinel, who
had been relieved at eight o'clock, had been watching his
door. Danglars suddenly felt a strong inclination to see the
person who kept watch over him. He had noticed that a few
rays, not of daylight, but from a lamp, penetrated through
the ill-joined planks of the door; he approached just as the
brigand was refreshing himself with a mouthful of brandy,
which, owing to the leathern bottle containing it, sent
forth an odor which was extremely unpleasant to Danglars.
"Faugh!" he exclaimed, retreating to the farther corner of
his cell.

At twelve this man was replaced by another functionary, and
Danglars, wishing to catch sight of his new guardian,
approached the door again. He was an athletic, gigantic
bandit, with large eyes, thick lips, and a flat nose; his
red hair fell in dishevelled masses like snakes around his
shoulders. "Ah, ha," cried Danglars, "this fellow is more
like an ogre than anything else; however, I am rather too
old and tough to be very good eating!" We see that Danglars
was collected enough to jest; at the same time, as though to
disprove the ogreish propensities, the man took some black
bread, cheese, and onions from his wallet, which he began
devouring voraciously. "May I be hanged," said Danglars,
glancing at the bandit's dinner through the crevices of the
door, -- "may I be hanged if I can understand how people can
eat such filth!" and he withdrew to seat himself upon his
goat-skin, which reminded him of the smell of the brandy.

But the mysteries of nature are incomprehensible, and there
are certain invitations contained in even the coarsest food
which appeal very irresistibly to a fasting stomach.
Danglars felt his own not to be very well supplied just
then, and gradually the man appeared less ugly, the bread
less black, and the cheese more fresh, while those dreadful
vulgar onions recalled to his mind certain sauces and
side-dishes, which his cook prepared in a very superior
manner whenever he said, "Monsieur Deniseau, let me have a
nice little fricassee to-day." He got up and knocked on the
door; the bandit raised his head. Danglars knew that he was
heard, so he redoubled his blows. "Che cosa?" asked the
bandit. "Come, come," said Danglars, tapping his fingers
against the door, "I think it is quite time to think of
giving me something to eat!" But whether he did not
understand him, or whether he had received no orders
respecting the nourishment of Danglars, the giant, without
answering, went on with his dinner. Danglars' feelings were
hurt, and not wishing to put himself under obligations to
the brute, the banker threw himself down again on his
goat-skin and did not breathe another word.

Four hours passed by and the giant was replaced by another
bandit. Danglars, who really began to experience sundry
gnawings at the stomach, arose softly, again applied his eye
to the crack of the door, and recognized the intelligent
countenance of his guide. It was, indeed, Peppino who was
preparing to mount guard as comfortably as possible by
seating himself opposite to the door, and placing between
his legs an earthen pan, containing chick-pease stewed with
bacon. Near the pan he also placed a pretty little basket of
Villetri grapes and a flask of Orvieto. Peppino was
decidedly an epicure. Danglars watched these preparations
and his mouth watered. "Come," he said to himself, "let me
try if he will be more tractable than the other;" and he
tapped gently at the door. "On y va," (coming) exclaimed
Peppino, who from frequenting the house of Signor Pastrini
understood French perfectly in all its idioms.

Danglars immediately recognized him as the man who had
called out in such a furious manner, "Put in your head!" But
this was not the time for recrimination, so he assumed his
most agreeable manner and said with a gracious smile, --
"Excuse me, sir, but are they not going to give me any
dinner?"

"Does your excellency happen to be hungry?"

"Happen to be hungry, -- that's pretty good, when I haven't
eaten for twenty-four hours!" muttered Danglars. Then he
added aloud, "Yes, sir, I am hungry -- very hungry."

"What would your excellency like?" and Peppino placed his
pan on the ground, so that the steam rose directly under the
nostrils of Danglars. "Give your orders."

"Have you kitchens here?"

"Kitchens? -- of course -- complete ones."

"And cooks?"

"Excellent!"

"Well, a fowl, fish, game, -- it signifies little, so that I
eat."

"As your excellency pleases. You mentioned a fowl, I think?"

"Yes, a fowl." Peppino, turning around, shouted, "A fowl for
his excellency!" His voice yet echoed in the archway when a
handsome, graceful, and half-naked young man appeared,
bearing a fowl in a silver dish on his head, without the
assistance of his hands. "I could almost believe myself at
the Cafe de Paris," murmured Danglars.

"Here, your excellency," said Peppino, taking the fowl from
the young bandit and placing it on the worm-eaten table,
which with the stool and the goat-skin bed formed the entire
furniture of the cell. Danglars asked for a knife and fork.
"Here, excellency," said Peppino, offering him a little
blunt knife and a boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife in
one hand and the fork in the other, and was about to cut up
the fowl. "Pardon me, excellency," said Peppino, placing his
hand on the banker's shoulder; "people pay here before they
eat. They might not be satisfied, and" --

"Ah, ha," thought Danglars, "this is not so much like Paris,
except that I shall probably be skinned! Never mind, I'll
fix that all right. I have always heard how cheap poultry is
in Italy; I should think a fowl is worth about twelve sous
at Rome. -- There," he said, throwing a louis down. Peppino
picked up the louis, and Danglars again prepared to carve
the fowl. "Stay a moment, your excellency," said Peppino,
rising; "you still owe me something."

"I said they would skin me," thought Danglars; but resolving
to resist the extortion, he said, "Come, how much do I owe
you for this fowl?"

"Your excellency has given me a louis on account."

"A louis on account for a fowl?"

"Certainly; and your excellency now owes me 4,999 louis."
Danglars opened his enormous eyes on hearing this gigantic
joke. "Come, come, this is very droll -- very amusing -- I
allow; but, as I am very hungry, pray allow me to eat. Stay,
here is another louis for you."

"Then that will make only 4,998 louis more," said Peppino
with the same indifference. "I shall get them all in time."

"Oh, as for that," said Danglars, angry at this prolongation
of the jest, -- "as for that you won't get them at all. Go
to the devil! You do not know with whom you have to deal!"
Peppino made a sign, and the youth hastily removed the fowl.
Danglars threw himself upon his goat-skin, and Peppino,
reclosing the door, again began eating his pease and bacon.
Though Danglars could not see Peppino, the noise of his
teeth allowed no doubt as to his occupation. He was
certainly eating, and noisily too, like an ill-bred man.
"Brute!" said Danglars. Peppino pretended not to hear him,
and without even turning his head continued to eat slowly.
Danglars' stomach felt so empty, that it seemed as if it
would be impossible ever to fill it again; still he had
patience for another half-hour, which appeared to him like a
century. He again arose and went to the door. "Come, sir, do
not keep me starving here any longer, but tell me what they
want."

"Nay, your excellency, it is you who should tell us what you
want. Give your orders, and we will execute them."

"Then open the door directly." Peppino obeyed. "Now look
here, I want something to eat! To eat -- do you hear?"

"Are you hungry?"

"Come, you understand me."

"What would your excellency like to eat?"

"A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price
in this accursed place."

"Bread? Very well. Hallo, there, some bread!" he called. The
youth brought a small loaf. "How much?" asked Danglars.

"Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis," said
Peppino; "You have paid two louis in advance."

"What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf?"

"One hundred thousand francs," repeated Peppino.

"But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl!"

"We have a fixed price for all our provisions. It signifies
nothing whether you eat much or little -- whether you have
ten dishes or one -- it is always the same price."

"What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it
is perfectly ridiculous -- stupid! You had better tell me at
once that you intend starving me to death."

"Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless you intend to commit
suicide. Pay and eat."

"And what am I to pay with, brute?" said Danglars, enraged.
"Do you suppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?"

"Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in your pocket; that
will be fifty fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and half a
fowl for the 50,000."

Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell from his eyes, and he
understood the joke, which he did not think quite so stupid
as he had done just before. "Come," he said, "if I pay you
the 100,000 francs, will you be satisfied, and allow me to
eat at my ease?"

"Certainly," said Peppino.

"But how can I pay them?"

"Oh, nothing easier; you have an account open with Messrs.
Thomson & French, Via dei Banchi, Rome; give me a draft for
4,998 louis on these gentlemen, and our banker shall take
it." Danglars thought it as well to comply with a good
grace, so he took the pen, ink, and paper Peppino offered
him, wrote the draft, and signed it. "Here," he said, "here
is a draft at sight."

"And here is your fowl." Danglars sighed while he carved the
fowl; it appeared very thin for the price it had cost. As
for Peppino, he examined the paper attentively, put it into
his pocket, and continued eating his pease.



Chapter 116
The Pardon.

The next day Danglars was again hungry; certainly the air of
that dungeon was very provocative of appetite. The prisoner
expected that he would be at no expense that day, for like
an economical man he had concealed half of his fowl and a
piece of the bread in the corner of his cell. But he had no
sooner eaten than he felt thirsty; he had forgotten that. He
struggled against his thirst till his tongue clave to the
roof of his mouth; then, no longer able to resist, he called
out. The sentinel opened the door; it was a new face. He
thought it would be better to transact business with his old
acquaintance, so he sent for Peppino. "Here I am, your
excellency," said Peppino, with an eagerness which Danglars
thought favorable to him. "What do you want?"

"Something to drink."

"Your excellency knows that wine is beyond all price near
Rome."

"Then give me water," cried Danglars, endeavoring to parry
the blow.

"Oh, water is even more scarce than wine, your excellency,
-- there has been such a drought."

"Come," thought Danglars, "it is the same old story." And
while he smiled as he attempted to regard the affair as a
joke, he felt his temples get moist with perspiration.

"Come, my friend," said Danglars, seeing that he made no
impression on Peppino, "you will not refuse me a glass of
wine?"

"I have already told you that we do not sell at retail."

"Well, then, let me have a bottle of the least expensive."

"They are all the same price."

"And what is that?"

"Twenty-five thousand francs a bottle."

"Tell me," cried Danglars, in a tone whose bitterness
Harpagon* alone has been capable of revealing -- "tell the
that you wish to despoil me of all; it will be sooner over
than devouring me piecemeal."

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

"It is possible such may be the master's intention."

"The master? -- who is he?"

"The person to whom you were conducted yesterday."

"Where is he?"

"Here."

"Let me see him."

"Certainly." And the next moment Luigi Vampa appeared before
Danglars.

"You sent for me?" he said to the prisoner.

"Are you, sir, the chief of the people who brought me here?"

"Yes, your excellency. What then?"

"How much do you require for my ransom?"

"Merely the 5,000,000 you have about you." Danglars felt a
dreadful spasm dart through his heart. "But this is all I
have left in the world," he said, "out of an immense
fortune. If you deprive me of that, take away my life also."

"We are forbidden to shed your blood."

"And by whom are you forbidden?"

"By him we obey."

"You do, then, obey some one?"

"Yes, a chief."

"I thought you said you were the chief?"

"So I am of these men; but there is another over me."

"And did your superior order you to treat me in this way?"

"Yes."

"But my purse will be exhausted."

"Probably."

"Come," said Danglars, "will you take a million?"

"No."

"Two millions? -- three? -- four? Come, four? I will give
them to you on condition that you let me go."

"Why do you offer me 4,000,000 for what is worth 5,000,000?
This is a kind of usury, banker, that I do not understand."

"Take all, then -- take all, I tell you, and kill me!"

"Come, come, calm yourself. You will excite your blood, and
that would produce an appetite it would require a million a
day to satisfy. Be more economical."

"But when I have no more money left to pay you?" asked the
infuriated Danglars.

"Then you must suffer hunger."

"Suffer hunger?" said Danglars, becoming pale.

"Most likely," replied Vampa coolly.

"But you say you do not wish to kill me?"

"No."

"And yet you will let me perish with hunger?"

"Ah, that is a different thing."

"Well, then, wretches," cried Danglars, "I will defy your
infamous calculations -- I would rather die at once! You may
torture, torment, kill me, but you shall not have my
signature again!"

"As your excellency pleases," said Vampa, as he left the
cell. Danglars, raving, threw himself on the goat-skin. Who
could these men be? Who was the invisible chief? What could
be his intentions towards him? And why, when every one else
was allowed to be ransomed, might he not also be? Oh, yes;
certainly a speedy, violent death would be a fine means of
deceiving these remorseless enemies, who appeared to pursue
him with such incomprehensible vengeance. But to die? For
the first time in his life, Danglars contemplated death with
a mixture of dread and desire; the time had come when the
implacable spectre, which exists in the mind of every human
creature, arrested his attention and called out with every
pulsation of his heart, "Thou shalt die!"

Danglars resembled a timid animal excited in the chase;
first it flies, then despairs, and at last, by the very
force of desperation, sometimes succeeds in eluding its
pursuers. Danglars meditated an escape; but the walls were
solid rock, a man was sitting reading at the only outlet to
the cell, and behind that man shapes armed with guns
continually passed. His resolution not to sign lasted two
days, after which he offered a million for some food. They
sent him a magnificent supper, and took his million.

From this time the prisoner resolved to suffer no longer,
but to have everything he wanted. At the end of twelve days,
after having made a splendid dinner, he reckoned his
accounts, and found that he had only 50,000 francs left.
Then a strange reaction took place; he who had just
abandoned 5,000,000 endeavored to save the 50,000 francs he
had left, and sooner than give them up he resolved to enter
again upon a life of privation -- he was deluded by the
hopefulness that is a premonition of madness. He who for so
long a time had forgotten God, began to think that miracles
were possible -- that the accursed cavern might be
discovered by the officers of the Papal States, who would
release him; that then he would have 50,000 remaining, which
would be sufficient to save him from starvation; and finally
he prayed that this sum might be preserved to him, and as he
prayed he wept. Three days passed thus, during which his
prayers were frequent, if not heartfelt. Sometimes he was
delirious, and fancied he saw an old man stretched on a
pallet; he, also, was dying of hunger.

On the fourth, he was no longer a man, but a living corpse.
He had picked up every crumb that had been left from his
former meals, and was beginning to eat the matting which
covered the floor of his cell. Then he entreated Peppino, as
he would a guardian angel, to give him food; he offered him
1,000 francs for a mouthful of bread. But Peppino did not
answer. On the fifth day he dragged himself to the door of
the cell.

"Are you not a Christian?" he said, falling on his knees.
"Do you wish to assassinate a man who, in the eyes of
heaven, is a brother? Oh, my former friends, my former
friends!" he murmured, and fell with his face to the ground.
Then rising in despair, he exclaimed, "The chief, the
chief!"

"Here I am," said Vampa, instantly appearing; "what do you
want?"

"Take my last gold," muttered Danglars, holding out his
pocket-book, "and let me live here; I ask no more for
liberty -- I only ask to live!"

"Then you suffer a great deal?"

"Oh, yes, yes, cruelly!"

"Still, there have been men who suffered more than you."

"I do not think so."

"Yes; those who have died of hunger."

Danglars thought of the old man whom, in his hours of
delirium, he had seen groaning on his bed. He struck his
forehead on the ground and groaned. "Yes," he said, "there
have been some who have suffered more than I have, but then
they must have been martyrs at least."

"Do you repent?" asked a deep, solemn voice, which caused
Danglars' hair to stand on end. His feeble eyes endeavored
to distinguish objects, and behind the bandit he saw a man
enveloped in a cloak, half lost in the shadow of a stone
column.

"Of what must I repent?" stammered Danglars.

"Of the evil you have done," said the voice.

"Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent." And he struck his
breast with his emaciated fist.

"Then I forgive you," said the man, dropping his cloak, and
advancing to the light.

"The Count of Monte Cristo!" said Danglars, more pale from
terror than he had been just before from hunger and misery.

"You are mistaken -- I am not the Count of Monte Cristo."

"Then who are you?"

"I am he whom you sold and dishonored -- I am he whose
betrothed you prostituted -- I am he upon whom you trampled
that you might raise yourself to fortune -- I am he whose
father you condemned to die of hunger -- I am he whom you
also condemned to starvation, and who yet forgives you,
because he hopes to be forgiven -- I am Edmond Dantes!"
Danglars uttered a cry, and fell prostrate. "Rise," said the
count, "your life is safe; the same good fortune has not
happened to your accomplices -- one is mad, the other dead.
Keep the 50,000 francs you have left -- I give them to you.
The 5,000,000 you stole from the hospitals has been restored
to them by an unknown hand. And now eat and drink; I will
entertain you to-night. Vampa, when this man is satisfied,
let him be free." Danglars remained prostrate while the
count withdrew; when he raised his head he saw disappearing
down the passage nothing but a shadow, before which the
bandits bowed. According to the count's directions, Danglars
was waited on by Vampa, who brought him the best wine and
fruits of Italy; then, having conducted him to the road, and
pointed to the post-chaise, left him leaning against a tree.
He remained there all night, not knowing where he was. When
daylight dawned he saw that he was near a stream; he was
thirsty, and dragged himself towards it. As he stooped down
to drink, he saw that his hair had become entirely white.



Chapter 117
The Fifth of October.

It was about six o'clock in the evening; an opal-colored
light, through which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays,
descended on the blue ocean. The heat of the day had
gradually decreased, and a light breeze arose, seeming like
the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning
siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along the
coasts of the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore
the sweet perfume of plants, mingled with the fresh smell of
the sea.

A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding
amidst the first dews of night over the immense lake,
extending from Gibraltar to the Dardanelles, and from Tunis
to Venice. The vessel resembled a swan with its wings opened
towards the wind, gliding on the water. It advanced swiftly
and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretch of
foam. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western
horizon; but as though to prove the truth of the fanciful
ideas in heathen mythology, its indiscreet rays reappeared
on the summit of every wave, as if the god of fire had just
sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain endeavored to
hide her lover beneath her azure mantle. The yacht moved
rapidly on, though there did not appear to be sufficient
wind to ruffle the curls on the head of a young girl.
Standing on the prow was a tall man, of a dark complexion,
who saw with dilating eyes that they were approaching a dark
mass of land in the shape of a cone, which rose from the
midst of the waves like the hat of a Catalan. "Is that Monte
Cristo?" asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht was
for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.

"Yes, your excellency," said the captain, "we have reached
it."

"We have reached it!" repeated the traveller in an accent of
indescribable sadness. Then he added, in a low tone, "Yes;
that is the haven." And then he again plunged into a train
of thought, the character of which was better revealed by a
sad smile, than it would have been by tears. A few minutes
afterwards a flash of light, which was extinguished
instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of firearms
reached the yacht.

"Your excellency," said the captain, "that was the land
signal, will you answer yourself?"

"What signal?" The captain pointed towards the island, up
the side of which ascended a volume of smoke, increasing as
it rose. "Ah, yes," he said, as if awaking from a dream.
"Give it to me."

The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly
raised it, and fired in the air. Ten minutes afterwards, the
sails were furled, and they cast anchor about a hundred
fathoms from the little harbor. The gig was already lowered,
and in it were four oarsmen and a coxswain. The traveller
descended, and instead of sitting down at the stern of the
boat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his
accommodation, stood up with his arms crossed. The rowers
waited, their oars half lifted out of the water, like birds
drying their wings.

"Give way," said the traveller. The eight oars fell into the
sea simultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and
the boat, yielding to the impulsion, glided forward. In an
instant they found themselves in a little harbor, formed in
a natural creek; the boat grounded on the fine sand.

"Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders
of two of our men, they will carry you ashore?" The young
man answered this invitation with a gesture of indifference,
and stepped out of the boat; the sea immediately rose to his
waist. "Ah, your excellency," murmured the pilot, "you
should not have done so; our master will scold us for it."
The young man continued to advance, following the sailors,
who chose a firm footing. Thirty strides brought them to dry
land; the young man stamped on the ground to shake off the
wet, and looked around for some one to show him his road,
for it was quite dark. Just as he turned, a hand rested on
his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder exclaimed,
-- "Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!"

"Ah, is it you, count?" said the young man, in an almost
joyful accent, pressing Monte Cristo's hand with both his
own.

"Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are
dripping, my dear fellow; you must change your clothes, as
Calypso said to Telemachus. Come, I have a habitation
prepared for you in which you will soon forget fatigue and
cold." Monte Cristo perceived that the young man had turned
around; indeed, Morrel saw with surprise that the men who
had brought him had left without being paid, or uttering a
word. Already the sound of their oars might be heard as they
returned to the yacht.

"Oh, yes," said the count, "you are looking for the
sailors."

"Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone."

"Never mind that, Maximilian," said Monte Cristo, smiling.
"I have made an agreement with the navy, that the access to
my island shall be free of all charge. I have made a
bargain." Morrel looked at the count with surprise. "Count,"
he said, "you are not the same here as in Paris."

"How so?"

"Here you laugh." The count's brow became clouded. "You are
right to recall me to myself, Maximilian," he said; "I was
delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that
all happiness is fleeting."

"Oh, no, no, count," cried Maximilian, seizing the count's
hands, "pray laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your
indifference, that life is endurable to sufferers. Oh, how
charitable, kind, and good you are; you affect this gayety
to inspire me with courage."

"You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy."

"Then you forget me, so much the better."

"How so?"

"Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he
entered the arena, `He who is about to die salutes you.'"

"Then you are not consoled?" asked the count, surprised.

"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter
reproach, "do you think it possible that I could be?"

"Listen," said the count. "Do you understand the meaning of
my words? You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere
rattle, emitting a vague and senseless noise. When I ask you
if you are consoled, I speak to you as a man for whom the
human heart has no secrets. Well, Morrel, let us both
examine the depths of your heart. Do you still feel the same
feverish impatience of grief which made you start like a
wounded lion? Have you still that devouring thirst which can
only be appeased in the grave? Are you still actuated by the
regret which drags the living to the pursuit of death; or
are you only suffering from the prostration of fatigue and
the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss of memory
rendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend,
if this be the case, -- if you can no longer weep, if your
frozen heart be dead, if you put all your trust in God,
then, Maximilian, you are consoled -- do not complain."

"Count," said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft
voice, "listen to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised
to heaven, though he remains on earth; I come to die in the
arms of a friend. Certainly, there are people whom I love. I
love my sister Julie, -- I love her husband Emmanuel; but I
require a strong mind to smile on my last moments. My sister
would be bathed in tears and fainting; I could not bear to
see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand,
and alarm the house with his cries. You, count, who are more
than mortal, will, I am sure, lead me to death by a pleasant
path, will you not?"

"My friend," said the count, "I have still one doubt, -- are
you weak enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?"

"No, indeed, -- I am calm," said Morrel, giving his hand to
the count; "my pulse does not beat slower or faster than
usual. No, I feel that I have reached the goal, and I will
go no farther. You told me to wait and hope; do you know
what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month, or
rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor
wretched creature), I did hope. What I cannot tell, --
something wonderful, an absurdity, a miracle, -- of what
nature he alone can tell who has mingled with our reason
that folly we call hope. Yes, I did wait -- yes, I did hope,
count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been
talking together, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured
my heart, for every word you have uttered proved that there
was no hope for me. Oh, count, I shall sleep calmly,
deliciously in the arms of death." Morrel uttered these
words with an energy which made the count shudder. "My
friend," continued Morrel, "you named the fifth of October
as the end of the period of waiting, -- to-day is the fifth
of October," he took out his watch, "it is now nine o'clock,
-- I have yet three hours to live."

"Be it so," said the count, "come." Morrel mechanically
followed the count, and they had entered the grotto before
he perceived it. He felt a carpet under his feet, a door
opened, perfumes surrounded him, and a brilliant light
dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance; he dreaded
the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo drew
him in gently. "Why should we not spend the last three hours
remaining to us of life, like those ancient Romans, who when
condemned by Nero, their emperor and heir, sat down at a
table covered with flowers, and gently glided into death,
amid the perfume of heliotropes and roses?" Morrel smiled.
"As you please," he said; "death is always death, -- that is
forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore
from grief." He sat down, and Monte Cristo placed himself
opposite to him. They were in the marvellous dining-room
before described, where the statues had baskets on their
heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel had
looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing.

"Let us talk like men," he said, looking at the count.

"Go on!"

"Count," said Morrel, "you are the epitome of all human
knowledge, and you seem like a being descended from a wiser
and more advanced world than ours."

"There is something true in what you say," said the count,
with that smile which made him so handsome; "I have
descended from a planet called grief."

"I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning;
for instance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told
me to hope, and I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask
you, as though you had experienced death, `is it painful to
die?'"

Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable
tenderness. "Yes," he said, "yes, doubtless it is painful,
if you violently break the outer covering which obstinately
begs for life. If you plunge a dagger into your flesh, if
you insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the least
shock disorders, -- then certainly, you will suffer pain,
and you will repent quitting a life for a repose you have
bought at so dear a price."

"Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in
death, as well as in life; the only thing is to understand
it."

"You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we
bestow upon it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently
as a nurse, or an enemy who violently drags the soul from
the body. Some day, when the world is much older, and when
mankind will be masters of all the destructive powers in
nature, to serve for the general good of humanity; when
mankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the
secrets of death, then that death will become as sweet and
voluptuous as a slumber in the arms of your beloved."

"And if you wished to die, you would choose this death,
count?"

"Yes."

Morrel extended his hand. "Now I understand," he said, "why
you had me brought here to this desolate spot, in the midst
of the ocean, to this subterranean palace; it was because
you loved me, was it not, count? It was because you loved me
well enough to give me one of those sweet means of death of
which we were speaking; a death without agony, a death which
allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine's name
and pressing your hand."

"Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel," said the count,
"that is what I intended."

"Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is
sweet to my heart."

"Do you then regret nothing?"

"No," replied Morrel.

"Not even me?" asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel's
clear eye was for the moment clouded, then it shone with
unusual lustre, and a large tear rolled down his cheek.

"What," said the count, "do you still regret anything in the
world, and yet die?"

"Oh, I entreat you," exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, "do
not speak another word, count; do not prolong my
punishment." The count fancied that he was yielding, and
this belief revived the horrible doubt that had overwhelmed
him at the Chateau d'If. "I am endeavoring," he thought, "to
make this man happy; I look upon this restitution as a
weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil I have
wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man
has not been unhappy enough to merit happiness. Alas, what
would become of me who can only atone for evil by doing
good?" Then he said aloud: "Listen, Morrel, I see your grief
is great, but still you do not like to risk your soul."
Morrel smiled sadly. "Count," he said, "I swear to you my
soul is no longer my own."

"Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I
have accustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then,
to save my son, I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my
fortune."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not
understand all the enjoyments which are the fruits of a
large fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly a hundred millions
and I give them to you; with such a fortune you can attain
every wish. Are you ambitions? Every career is open to you.
Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad
ideas, be even criminal -- but live."

"Count, I have your word," said Morrel coldly; then taking
out his watch, he added, "It is half-past eleven."

"Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?"

"Then let me go," said Maximilian, "or I shall think you did
not love me for my own sake, but for yours; "and he arose.

"It is well," said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened
at these words; "you wish -- you are inflexible. Yes, as you
said, you are indeed wretched and a miracle alone can cure
you. Sit down, Morrel, and wait."

Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with
a key suspended from his gold chain, took from it a little
silver casket, beautifully carved and chased, the corners of
which represented four bending figures, similar to the
Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols of the angels
aspiring to heaven. He placed the casket on the table; then
opening it took out a little golden box, the top of which
flew open when touched by a secret spring. This box
contained an unctuous substance partly solid, of which it
was impossible to discover the color, owing to the
reflection of the polished gold, sapphires, rubies,
emeralds, which ornamented the box. It was a mixed mass of
blue, red, and gold. The count took out a small quantity of
this with a gilt spoon, and offered it to Morrel, fixing a
long steadfast glance upon him. It was then observable that
the substance was greenish.

"This is what you asked for," he said, "and what I promised
to give you."

"I thank you from the depths of my heart," said the young
man, taking the spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. The
count took another spoon, and again dipped it into the
golden box. "What are you going to do, my friend?" asked
Morrel, arresting his hand.

"Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am
weary of life, and since an opportunity presents itself" --

"Stay!" said the young man. "You who love, and are beloved;
you, who have faith and hope, -- oh, do not follow my
example. In your case it would be a crime. Adieu, my noble
and generous friend, adieu; I will go and tell Valentine
what you have done for me." And slowly, though without any
hesitation, only waiting to press the count's hand
fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered by
Monte Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and
attentive, brought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By
degrees, the light of the lamps gradually faded in the hands
of the marble statues which held them, and the perfumes
appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated opposite to him,
Monte Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel saw
nothing but the bright eyes of the count. An overpowering
sadness took possession of the young man, his hands relaxed
their hold, the objects in the room gradually lost their
form and color, and his disturbed vision seemed to perceive
doors and curtains open in the walls.

"Friend," he cried, "I feel that I am dying; thanks!" He
made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless
beside him. Then it appeared to him that Monte Cristo
smiled, not with the strange and fearful expression which
had sometimes revealed to him the secrets of his heart, but
with the benevolent kindness of a father for a child. At the
same time the count appeared to increase in stature, his
form, nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief
against the red tapestry, his black hair was thrown back,
and he stood in the attitude of an avenging angel. Morrel,
overpowered, turned around in the arm-chair; a delicious
torpor permeated every vein. A change of ideas presented
themselves to his brain, like a new design on the
kaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he
became unconscious of outward objects; he seemed to be
entering that vague delirium preceding death. He wished once
again to press the count's hand, but his own was immovable.
He wished to articulate a last farewell, but his tongue lay
motionless and heavy in his throat, like a stone at the
mouth of a sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid eyes closed,
and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to
move amid the obscurity with which he thought himself
enveloped.

The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant
light from the next room, or rather from the palace
adjoining, shone upon the room in which he was gently
gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman of
marvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the door
separating the two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she
looked like an angel of mercy conjuring the angel of
vengeance. "Is it heaven that opens before me?" thought the
dying man; "that angel resembles the one I have lost." Monte
Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced
towards him with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.

"Valentine, Valentine!" he mentally ejaculated; but his lips
uttered no sound, and as though all his strength were
centred in that internal emotion, he sighed and closed his
eyes. Valentine rushed towards him; his lips again moved.

"He is calling you," said the count; "he to whom you have
confided your destiny -- he from whom death would have
separated you, calls you to him. Happily, I vanquished
death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never again be
separated on earth, since he has rushed into death to find
you. Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my
atonement in the preservation of these two existences!"

Valentine seized the count's hand, and in her irresistible
impulse of joy carried it to her lips.

"Oh, thank me again!" said the count; "tell me till you are
weary, that I have restored you to happiness; you do not
know how much I require this assurance."

"Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart," said
Valentine; "and if you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude,
oh, then, ask Haidee! ask my beloved sister Haidee, who ever
since our departure from France, has caused me to wait
patiently for this happy day, while talking to me of you."

"You then love Haidee?" asked Monte Cristo with an emotion
he in vain endeavored to dissimulate.

"Oh, yes, with all my soul."

"Well, then, listen, Valentine," said the count; "I have a
favor to ask of you."

"Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?"

"Yes; you have called Haidee your sister, -- let her become
so indeed, Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy
that you owe to me; protect her, for" (the count's voice was
thick with emotion) "henceforth she will be alone in the
world."

"Alone in the world!" repeated a voice behind the count,
"and why?"

Monte Cristo turned around; Haidee was standing pale,
motionless, looking at the count with an expression of
fearful amazement.

"Because to-morrow, Haidee, you will be free; you will then
assume your proper position in society, for I will not allow
my destiny to overshadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I
restore to you the riches and name of your father."

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

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

"It is well," said Haidee; "your order shall be executed, my
lord; I will forget even your name, and be happy." And she
stepped back to retire.

"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the
head of Morrel on her shoulder, "do you not see how pale she
is? Do you not see how she suffers?"

Haidee answered with a heartrending expression, "Why should
he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his
slave; he has the right to notice nothing."

The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated
the inmost recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the
young girl and he could not bear their brilliancy. "Oh,
heavens," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "can my suspicions be
correct? Haidee, would it please you not to leave me?"

"I am young," gently replied Haidee; "I love the life you
have made so sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die."

"You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haidee" --

"I should die; yes, my lord."

"Do you then love me?"

"Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him
if you love Maximilian." The count felt his heart dilate and
throb; he opened his arms, and Haidee, uttering a cry,
sprang into them. "Oh, yes," she cried, "I do love you! I
love you as one loves a father, brother, husband! I love you
as my life, for you are the best, the noblest of created
beings!"

"Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has
sustained me in my struggle with my enemies, and has given
me this reward; he will not let me end my triumph in
suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he has pardoned
me. Love me then, Haidee! Who knows? perhaps your love will
make me forget all that I do not wish to remember."

"What do you mean, my lord?"

"I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than
twenty years of slow experience; I have but you in the
world, Haidee; through you I again take hold on life,
through you I shall suffer, through you rejoice."

"Do you hear him, Valentine?" exclaimed Haidee; "he says
that through me he will suffer -- through me, who would
yield my life for his." The count withdrew for a moment.
"Have I discovered the truth?" he said; "but whether it be
for recompense or punishment, I accept my fate. Come,
Haidee, come!" and throwing his arm around the young girl's
waist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.

An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine,
breathless and motionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel.
At length she felt his heart beat, a faint breath played
upon his lips, a slight shudder, announcing the return of
life, passed through the young man's frame. At length his
eyes opened, but they were at first fixed and
expressionless; then sight returned, and with it feeling and
grief. "Oh," he cried, in an accent of despair, "the count
has deceived me; I am yet living; "and extending his hand
towards the table, he seized a knife.

"Dearest," exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile,
"awake, and look at me!" Morrel uttered a loud exclamation,
and frantic, doubtful, dazzled, as though by a celestial
vision, he fell upon his knees.

The next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were
walking arm-in-arm on the sea-shore, Valentine relating how
Monte Cristo had appeared in her room, explained everything,
revealed the crime, and, finally, how he had saved her life
by enabling her to simulate death. They had found the door
of the grotto opened, and gone forth; on the azure dome of
heaven still glittered a few remaining stars. Morrel soon
perceived a man standing among the rocks, apparently
awaiting a sign from them to advance, and pointed him out to
Valentine. "Ah, it is Jacopo," she said, "the captain of the
yacht; "and she beckoned him towards them.

"Do you wish to speak to us?" asked Morrel.

"I have a letter to give you from the count."

"From the count!" murmured the two young people.

"Yes; read it." Morrel opened the letter, and read: --

"My Dear Maximilian, --

"There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you
to Leghorn, where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his
granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless before you lead her
to the altar. All that is in this grotto, my friend, my
house in the Champs Elysees, and my chateau at Treport, are
the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantes upon the son of
his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share
them with you; for I entreat her to give to the poor the
immense fortune reverting to her from her father, now a
madman, and her brother who died last September with his
mother. Tell the angel who will watch over your future
destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who like Satan
thought himself for an instant equal to God, but who now
acknowledges with Christian humility that God alone
possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom. Perhaps those
prayers may soften the remorse he feels in his heart. As for
you, Morrel, this is the secret of my conduct towards you.
There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is
only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more.
He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience
supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die,
Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of living.

"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and
never forget that until the day when God shall deign to
reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in
these two words, -- `Wait and hope.' Your friend,

"Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo."

During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine
for the first time of the madness of her father and the
death of her brother, she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped
from her bosom, and tears, not the less painful because they
were silent, ran down her cheeks; her happiness cost her
very dear. Morrel looked around uneasily. "But," he said,
"the count's generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine will
be satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count,
friend? Lead me to him." Jacopo pointed towards the horizon.
"What do you mean?" asked Valentine. "Where is the count? --
where is Haidee?"

"Look!" said Jacopo.

The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the
sailor, and on the blue line separating the sky from the
Mediterranean Sea, they perceived a large white sail.
"Gone," said Morrel; "gone! -- adieu, my friend -- adieu, my
father!"

"Gone," murmured Valentine; "adieu, my sweet Haidee --
adieu, my sister!"

"Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?" said
Morrel with tearful eyes.

"Darling," replied Valentine, "has not the count just told
us that all human wisdom is summed up in two words? -- `Wait
and hope.'"





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Count of Monte Cristo by Dumas