



The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas [Pere]




Chapter 1 Marseilles -- The Arrival.

On the 24th of February, 1810, the
look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde
signalled the three-master, the Pharaon
from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.

As usual, a pilot put off immediately,
and rounding the Chateau d'If, got on
board the vessel between Cape Morgion
and Rion island.

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, is it you, Dantes?" cried the man
in the skiff. "What's the matter? and
why have you such an air of sadness
aboard?"

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

"And the cargo?" inquired the owner,
eagerly.

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

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

"He died."

"Fell into the sea?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes -- yes: poor Captain Leclere! He
was a brave and an honest man."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In a moment, sir," answered Dantes,
"and I'm with you." Then calling to the
crew, he said -- "Let go!"

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

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

"And so, in fact, he is," said the
owner.

"Except your signature and your
partner's, M. Morrel."

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

A cloud passed over Danglars' brow.
"Your pardon, M. Morrel," said Dantes,
approaching, "the vessel now rides at
anchor, and I am at your service. You
hailed me, I think?"

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

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

"Then did you see him, Edmond?"

"Who?"

"The marshal."

"Yes."

Morrel looked around him, and then,
drawing Dantes on one side, he said
suddenly -- "And how is the emperor?"

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

"You saw the emperor, then?"

"He entered the marshal's apartment
while I was there."

"And you spoke to him?"

"Why, it was he who spoke to me, sir,"
said Dantes, with a smile.

"And what did he say to you?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes, most satisfactory, my dear
Danglars."

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

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

"Talking of Captain Leclere, has not
Dantes given you a letter from him?"

"To me? -- no -- was there one?"

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

"Of what packet are you speaking,
Danglars?"

"Why, that which Dantes left at
Porto-Ferrajo."

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

Danglars turned very red.

"I was passing close to the door of the
captain's cabin, which was half open,
and I saw him give the packet and letter
to Dantes."

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

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

At this moment the young man returned;
Danglars withdrew.

"Well, my dear Dantes, are you now
free?" inquired the owner.

"Yes, sir."

"You have not been long detained."

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

"Then you have nothing more to do here?"

"No -- everything is all right now."

"Then you can come and dine with me?"

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

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

"And," inquired Dantes, with some
hesitation, "do you know how my father
is?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dantes blushed.

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

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

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

"Not with us, sir," replied Dantes.

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

"No, sir; I have all my pay to take --
nearly three months' wages."

"You are a careful fellow, Edmond."

"Say I have a poor father, sir."

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

"Then I have your leave, sir?"

"Yes, if you have nothing more to say to
me."

"Nothing."

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

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

"To get married?"

"Yes, first, and then to go to Paris."

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

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

"If I were sole owner we'd shake hands
on it now, my dear Dantes, and call it
settled; but I have a partner, and you
know the Italian proverb -- Chi ha
compagno ha padrone -- `He who has a
partner has a master.' But the thing is
at least half done, as you have one out
of two votes. Rely on me to procure you
the other; I will do my best."

"Ah, M. Morrel," exclaimed the young
seaman, with tears in his eyes, and
grasping the owner's hand, "M. Morrel, I
thank you in the name of my father and
of Mercedes."

"That's all right, Edmond. There's a
providence that watches over the
deserving. Go to your father: go and see
Mercedes, and afterwards come to me."

"Shall I row you ashore?"

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

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

"But tell me, Dantes, if you had command
of the Pharaon should you be glad to see
Danglars remain?"

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

"That's right, that's right, Dantes! I
see you are a thoroughly good fellow,
and will detain you no longer. Go, for I
see how impatient you are."

"Then I have leave?"

"Go, I tell you."

"May I have the use of your skiff?"

"Certainly."

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

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

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

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



Chapter 2 Father and Son.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon
pass away" -- and as he said so the old
man's strength failed him, and he fell
backwards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yet," stammered Dantes, wiping the
perspiration from his brow, -- "yet I
gave you two hundred francs when I left,
three months ago."

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

"Well?"

"Why, I paid him."

"But," cried Dantes, "it was a hundred
and forty francs I owed Caderousse."

"Yes," stammered the old man.

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

The old man nodded.

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

"You have wounded me to the heart."

"Never mind it, for I see you once
more," said the old man; "and now it's
all over -- everything is all right
again."

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

"Whom does this belong to?" he inquired.

"To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some
provisions; be happy, and to-morrow we
shall have more."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We are never quits with those who
oblige us," was Dantes' reply; "for when
we do not owe them money, we owe them
gratitude."

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

"`I thought you were at Smyrna.' -- `I
was; but am now back again.'

"`And where is the dear boy, our little
Edmond?'

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

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

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

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

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

"It was offered with good will," said
Dantes.

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

"M. Morrel has always been exceedingly
kind to me," replied Dantes.

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

"What, did you refuse to dine with him?"
said old Dantes; "and did he invite you
to dine?"

"Yes, my dear father," replied Edmond,
smiling at his father's astonishment at
the excessive honor paid to his son.

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

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

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

"But I explained to him the cause of my
refusal," replied Dantes, "and I hope he
fully understood it."

"Yes, but to be captain one must do a
little flattery to one's patrons."

"I hope to be captain without that,"
said Dantes.

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

"Mercedes?" said the old man.

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

"Go, my dear boy," said old Dantes: "and
heaven bless you in your wife, as it has
blessed me in my son!"

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

"So, but according to all probability
she soon will be," replied Edmond.

"Yes -- yes," said Caderousse; "but you
were right to return as soon as
possible, my boy."

"And why?"

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

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

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

"Meaning to say," replied Dantes, with a
smile which but ill-concealed his
trouble, "that if I were not a
captain" --

"Eh -- eh!" said Caderousse, shaking his
head.

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

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

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

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

"Well," said Danglars, "did you see
him?"

"I have just left him," answered
Caderousse.

"Did he allude to his hope of being
captain?"

"He spoke of it as a thing already
decided."

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

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

"So that he is quite elated about it?"

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

"Which you refused?"

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

"Pooh!" said Danglars, "he is not one
yet."

"Ma foi, it will be as well if he is
not," answered Caderousse; "for if he
should be, there will be really no
speaking to him."

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

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing -- I was speaking to myself.
And is he still in love with the
Catalane?"

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

"Explain yourself."

"Why should I?"

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

"I never like upstarts."

"Then tell me all you know about the
Catalane."

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

"What have you seen? -- come, tell me!"

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

"Really; and you think this cousin pays
her attentions?"

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

"And you say that Dantes has gone to the
Catalans?"

"He went before I came down."

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

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

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

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



Chapter 3 The Catalans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love Edmond Dantes," the young girl
calmly replied, "and none but Edmond
shall ever be my husband."

"And you will always love him?"

"As long as I live."

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

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

"If he has forgotten you" --

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My health is well enough," said
Fernand, clinching his hands without
raising his head.

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

"No; I do not understand," said
Danglars.

"Poor Fernand has been dismissed,"
continued Caderousse.

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

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

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

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

"Ah, ma foi, under any circumstances,"
said Caderousse, who drank as he spoke,
and on whom the fumes of the wine began
to take effect, -- "under any
circumstances Fernand is not the only
person put out by the fortunate arrival
of Dantes; is he, Danglars?"

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

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

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

"And when is the wedding to be?" he
asked.

"Oh, it is not yet fixed!" murmured
Fernand.

"No, but it will be," said Caderousse,
"as surely as Dantes will be captain of
the Pharaon -- eh, Danglars?"

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

"Well," said he, filling the glasses,
"let us drink to Captain Edmond Dantes,
husband of the beautiful Catalane!"

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

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

Danglars did not lose one pang that
Fernand endured.

"Do you know them, Fernand?" he said.

"Yes," was the reply, in a low voice.
"It is Edmond and Mercedes!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, very well, that's an explanation!"
said Caderousse. "How do you do, Madame
Dantes?"

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

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

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

"As soon as possible, M. Danglars;
to-day all preliminaries will be
arranged at my father's, and to-morrow,
or next day at latest, the wedding
festival here at La Reserve. My friends
will be there, I hope; that is to say,
you are invited, M. Danglars, and you,
Caderousse."

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

"My wife's brother is my brother," said
Edmond; "and we, Mercedes and I, should
be very sorry if he were absent at such
a time."

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

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

"Danglars," said Edmond, smiling, "I
will say to you as Mercedes said just
now to Caderousse, `Do not give me a
title which does not belong to me'; that
may bring me bad luck."

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

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

"Ah, really? -- to Paris! and will it be
the first time you have ever been there,
Dantes?"

"Yes."

"Have you business there?"

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

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

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



Chapter 4 Conspiracy.

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

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

"It drives me to despair," said Fernand.

"Do you, then, love Mercedes?"

"I adore her!"

"For long?"

"As long as I have known her -- always."

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

"What would you have me do?" said
Fernand.

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

"I have found already."

"What?"

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

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

"You do not know Mercedes; what she
threatens she will do."

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

"Before Mercedes should die," replied
Fernand, with the accents of unshaken
resolution, "I would die myself!"

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

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

"Yes," said Caderousse, "but how?"

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

"I -- drunk!" said Caderousse; "well
that's a good one! I could drink four
more such bottles; they are no bigger
than cologne flasks. Pere Pamphile, more
wine!" and Caderousse rattled his glass
upon the table.

"You were saving, sir" -- said Fernand,
awaiting with great anxiety the end of
this interrupted remark.

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

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

`Tous les mechants sont beuveurs d'eau;
C'est bien prouve par le deluge.'*

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

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

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

"Death alone can separate them,"
remarked Fernand.

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

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

"Yes; but one gets out of prison," said
Caderousse, who, with what sense was
left him, listened eagerly to the
conversation, "and when one gets out and
one's name is Edmond Dantes, one seeks
revenge" --

"What matters that?" muttered Fernand.

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

"Hold your tongue!" said Danglars.

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

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

"Certainly not, if, as you said just
now, you have the means of having Dantes
arrested. Have you that means?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, yes, Dantes' good health!" said
Caderousse, emptying his glass, "here's
to his health! his health -- hurrah!"

"But the means -- the means?" said
Fernand.

"Have you not hit upon any?" asked
Danglars.

"No! -- you undertook to do so."

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

"Do you invent, then," said Fernand
impatiently.

"Waiter," said Danglars, "pen, ink, and
paper."

"Pen, ink, and paper," muttered Fernand.

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

"Pen, ink, and paper, then," called
Fernand loudly.

"There's what you want on that table,"
said the waiter.

"Bring them here." The waiter did as he
was desired.

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

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

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

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

"Well, then, I should say, for
instance," resumed Danglars, "that if
after a voyage such as Dantes has just
made, in which he touched at the Island
of Elba, some one were to denounce him
to the king's procureur as a Bonapartist
agent" --

"I will denounce him!" exclaimed the
young man hastily.

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

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

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

"True!" said Fernand.

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

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

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

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

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

"All right!" said Caderousse. "Dantes is
my friend, and I won't have him
ill-used."

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

"In this case," replied Caderousse,
"let's have some more wine. I wish to
drink to the health of Edmond and the
lovely Mercedes."

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

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

"Done!" said Danglars, "I'll take your
bet; but to-morrow -- to-day it is time
to return. Give me your arm, and let us
go."

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

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

"You're wrong. Come with us to
Marseilles -- come along."

"I will not."

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

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

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

"Well," said Caderousse, "why, what a
lie he told! He said he was going to the
Catalans, and he is going to the city.
Hallo, Fernand!"

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

"Well," said Caderousse, "I should have
said not -- how treacherous wine is!"

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



Chapter 5 The Marriage-Feast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Having acquitted themselves of their
errand, and exchanged a hearty shake of
the hand with Edmond, Danglars and
Caderousse took their places beside
Fernand and old Dantes, -- the latter of
whom attracted universal notice. The old
man was attired in a suit of glistening
watered silk, trimmed with steel
buttons, beautifully cut and polished.
His thin but wiry legs were arrayed in a
pair of richly embroidered clocked
stockings, evidently of English
manufacture, while from his
three-cornered hat depended a long
streaming knot of white and blue
ribbons. Thus he came along, supporting
himself on a curiously carved stick, his
aged countenance lit up with happiness,
looking for all the world like one of
the aged dandies of 1796, parading the
newly opened gardens of the Tuileries
and Luxembourg. Beside him glided
Caderousse, whose desire to partake of
the good things provided for the
wedding-party had induced him to become
reconciled to the Dantes, father and
son, although there still lingered in
his mind a faint and unperfect
recollection of the events of the
preceding night; just as the brain
retains on waking in the morning the dim
and misty outline of a dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But," asked Danglars, in a timid tone,
"how did you manage about the other
formalities -- the contract -- the
settlement?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To be sure! -- to be sure!" cried
Dantes, eagerly quitting the table; "let
us go directly!"

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

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

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

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

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

"If it be so," replied the magistrate,
"rely upon every reparation being made;
meanwhile, I am the bearer of an order
of arrest, and although I most
reluctantly perform the task assigned
me, it must, nevertheless, be fulfilled.
Who among the persons here assembled
answers to the name of Edmond Dantes?"
Every eye was turned towards the young
man who, spite of the agitation he could
not but feel, advanced with dignity, and
said, in a firm voice, "I am he; what is
your pleasure with me?"

"Edmond Dantes," replied the magistrate,
"I arrest you in the name of the law!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, you did not!" answered Caderousse,
"you merely threw it by -- I saw it
lying in a corner."

"Hold your tongue, you fool! -- what
should you know about it? -- why, you
were drunk!"

"Where is Fernand?" inquired Caderousse.

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

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

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

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

"Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!" cried
Mercedes, stretching out her arms to him
from the balcony.

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

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

"That's right!" exclaimed a multitude of
voices, "go, and return as quickly as
you can!"

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

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

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

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

"You don't mention those who aided and
abetted the deed," said Caderousse.

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

"You can, indeed, when the arrow lights
point downward on somebody's head."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hope!" repeated Danglars.

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

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

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

"What news?" exclaimed a general burst
of voices.

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

"Oh, indeed -- indeed, sir, he is
innocent!" sobbed forth Mercedes.

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

"With what?" inquired the elder Dantes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After their departure, Fernand, who had
now again become the friend and
protector of Mercedes, led the girl to
her home, while the friends of Dantes
conducted the now half-fainting man back
to his abode.

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

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

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

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

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

"'Tis well, Danglars -- 'tis well!"
replied M. Morrel. "You are a worthy
fellow; and I had already thought of
your interests in the event of poor
Edmond having become captain of the
Pharaon."

"Is it possible you were so kind?"

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

"And what was his reply?"

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

"The hypocrite!" murmured Danglars.

"Poor Dantes!" said Caderousse. "No one
can deny his being a noble-hearted young
fellow."

"But meanwhile," continued M. Morrel,
"here is the Pharaon without a captain."

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

"No doubt; but in the meantime?"

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps not," replied Danglars; "but I
hear that he is ambitions, and that's
rather against him."

"Well, well," returned M. Morrel, "we
shall see. But now hasten on board, I
will join you there ere long." So
saying, the worthy shipowner quitted the
two allies, and proceeded in the
direction of the Palais de Justice.

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you were aware of Dantes being
engaged in a conspiracy?"

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

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

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

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

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



Chapter 6 The Deputy Procureur du Roi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you, indeed, think so?" inquired the
marquise.

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

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

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

"To Saint Helena."

"For heaven's sake, where is that?"
asked the marquise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For shame, M. de Villefort!" said
Renee, becoming quite pale; "don't you
see how you are frightening us? -- and
yet you laugh."

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

"Gracious heavens, M. de Villefort,"
said Renee, becoming more and more
terrified; "you surely are not in
earnest."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know anything about that,"
replied Renee; "but, M. de Villefort,
you have promised me -- have you not? --
always to show mercy to those I plead
for."

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

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

"Cedant arma togae," said Villefort with
a bow.

"I cannot speak Latin," responded the
marquise.

"Well," said Renee, "I cannot help
regretting you had not chosen some other
profession than your own -- a physician,
for instance. Do you know I always felt
a shudder at the idea of even a
destroying angel?"

"Dear, good Renee," whispered Villefort,
as he gazed with unutterable tenderness
on the lovely speaker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is true," answered the marquis.

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

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

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

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

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

"You were wishing just now," said
Villefort, addressing her, "that I were
a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at
least resemble the disciples of
Esculapius in one thing -- that of not
being able to call a day my own, not
even that of my betrothal."

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

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

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Renee, turning
pale.

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

"Why, if my information prove correct, a
sort of Bonaparte conspiracy has just
been discovered."

"Can I believe my ears?" cried the
marquise.

"I will read you the letter containing
the accusation, at least," said
Villefort: --

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And where is the unfortunate being?"
asked Renee.

"He is at my house."

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

"O Villefort!" cried Renee, clasping her
hands, and looking towards her lover
with piteous earnestness, "be merciful
on this the day of our betrothal."

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

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

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

"These are mournful auspices to
accompany a betrothal," sighed poor
Renee.

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

"O mother!" murmured Renee.

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



Chapter 7 The Examination.

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

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

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

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

"Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young."

"How old?"

"Nineteen or twenty at the most."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My name is Edmond Dantes," replied the
young man calmly; "I am mate of the
Pharaon, belonging to Messrs. Morrel &
Son."

"Your age?" continued Villefort.

"Nineteen," returned Dantes.

"What were you doing at the moment you
were arrested?"

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

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

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

"Go on, sir," said he.

"What would you have me say?"

"Give all the information in your
power."

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

"Have you served under the usurper?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"None at all. I will tell you the real
facts. I swear by my honor as a sailor,
by my love for Mercedes, by the life of
my father" --

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

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

"`I swear, captain,' replied I.

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

"`I will do it, captain; but perhaps I
shall not be admitted to the grand
marshal's presence as easily as you
expect?'

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

"And what did you do then?"

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

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

"I am free, then, sir?" cried Dantes
joyfully.

"Yes; but first give me this letter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you shown this letter to any one?"
asked Villefort, becoming still more
pale.

"To no one, on my honor."

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

"Everybody, except the person who gave
it to me."

"And that was too much, far too much,"
murmured Villefort. Villefort's brow
darkened more and more, his white lips
and clinched teeth filled Dantes with
apprehension. After reading the letter,
Villefort covered his face with his
hands.

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

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

"I give you my word of honor, sir," said
Dantes; "but what is the matter? You are
ill -- shall I ring for assistance? --
shall I call?"

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

"Monsieur," replied Dantes proudly, "it
was only to summon assistance for you."

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

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

"Oh, it is impossible to doubt it,"
cried he, suddenly.

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

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

"Oh, monsieur," cried Dantes, "you have
been rather a friend than a judge."

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

"You see, I destroy it?"

"Oh," exclaimed Dantes, "you are
goodness itself."

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

"Oh, command, and I will obey."

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

"Speak, and I will follow your advice."

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

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

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

"Be satisfied; I will deny it."

"It was the only letter you had?"

"It was."

"Swear it."

"I swear it."

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

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

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

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



Chapter 8 The Chateau D'If.

The commissary of police, as he
traversed the ante-chamber, made a sign
to two gendarmes, who placed themselves
one on Dantes' right and the other on
his left. A door that communicated with
the Palais de Justice was opened, and
they went through a long range of gloomy
corridors, whose appearance might have
made even the boldest shudder. The
Palais de Justice communicated with the
prison, -- a sombre edifice, that from
its grated windows looks on the
clock-tower of the Accoules. After
numberless windings, Dantes saw a door
with an iron wicket. The commissary took
up an iron mallet and knocked thrice,
every blow seeming to Dantes as if
struck on his heart. The door opened,
the two gendarmes gently pushed him
forward, and the door closed with a loud
sound behind him. The air he inhaled was
no longer pure, but thick and
mephitic, -- he was in prison. He was
conducted to a tolerably neat chamber,
but grated and barred, and its
appearance, therefore, did not greatly
alarm him; besides, the words of
Villefort, who seemed to interest
himself so much, resounded still in his
ears like a promise of freedom. It was
four o'clock when Dantes was placed in
this chamber. It was, as we have said,
the 1st of March, and the prisoner was
soon buried in darkness. The obscurity
augmented the acuteness of his hearing;
at the slightest sound he rose and
hastened to the door, convinced they
were about to liberate him, but the
sound died away, and Dantes sank again
into his seat. At last, about ten
o'clock, and just as Dantes began to
despair, steps were heard in the
corridor, a key turned in the lock, the
bolts creaked, the massy oaken door flew
open, and a flood of light from two
torches pervaded the apartment. By the
torchlight Dantes saw the glittering
sabres and carbines of four gendarmes.
He had advanced at first, but stopped at
the sight of this display of force.

"Are you come to fetch me?" asked he.

"Yes," replied a gendarme.

"By the orders of the deputy procureur?"

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

"Is this carriage for me?" said Dantes.

"It is for you," replied a gendarme.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whither are you taking me?" asked he.

"You will soon know."

"But still" --

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

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

He waited silently, striving to pierce
through the darkness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"On my honor, I have no idea."

"Have you no idea whatever?"

"None at all."

"That is impossible."

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

"But my orders."

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

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

"I do not."

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

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

"I am not going there to be imprisoned,"
said Dantes; "it is only used for
political prisoners. I have committed no
crime. Are there any magistrates or
judges at the Chateau d'If?"

"There are only," said the gendarme, "a
governor, a garrison, turnkeys, and good
thick walls. Come, come, do not look so
astonished, or you will make me think
you are laughing at me in return for my
good nature." Dantes pressed the
gendarme's hand as though he would crush
it.

"You think, then," said he, "that I am
taken to the Chateau d'If to be
imprisoned there?"

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

"Without any inquiry, without any
formality?"

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

"And so, in spite of M. de Villefort's
promises?"

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

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

"Good!" said the gendarme, placing his
knee on his chest; "believe soft-spoken
gentlemen again! Harkye, my friend, I
have disobeyed my first order, but I
will not disobey the second; and if you
move, I will blow your brains out." And
he levelled his carbine at Dantes, who
felt the muzzle against his temple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is the prisoner?" said a voice.

"Here," replied the gendarmes.

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

"Go!" said the gendarmes, thrusting
Dantes forward.

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

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

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

"Have you not slept?" said the jailer.

"I do not know," replied Dantes. The
jailer stared.

"Are you hungry?" continued he.

"I do not know."

"Do you wish for anything?"

"I wish to see the governor." The jailer
shrugged his shoulders and left the
chamber.

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

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

"Well," said the jailer, "are you more
reasonable to-day?" Dantes made no
reply.

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

"I wish to see the governor."

"I have already told you it was
impossible."

"Why so?"

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

"What is allowed, then?"

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

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

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

"Well, then," said Edmond, "if you do
not, I shall die of hunger -- that is
all."

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

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

"But," asked Dantes, "how long shall I
have to wait?"

"Ah, a month -- six months -- a year."

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

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

"You think so?"

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

"How long has he left it?"

"Two years."

"Was he liberated, then?"

"No; he was put in a dungeon."

"Listen!" said Dantes. "I am not an
abbe, I am not mad; perhaps I shall be,
but at present, unfortunately, I am not.
I will make you another offer."

"What is that?"

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

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

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

"Threats!" cried the jailer, retreating
and putting himself on the defensive;
"you are certainly going mad. The abbe
began like you, and in three days you
will be like him, mad enough to tie up;
but, fortunately, there are dungeons
here." Dantes whirled the stool round
his head.

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

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

"By the governor's orders," said he,
"conduct the prisoner to the tier
beneath."

"To the dungeon, then," said the
corporal.

"Yes; we must put the madman with the
madmen." The soldiers seized Dantes, who
followed passively.

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



Chapter 9 The Evening of the Betrothal.

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

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

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

"Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?"
cried a third.

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

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

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

"You are going to leave us?" cried
Renee, unable to hide her emotion at
this unexpected announcement.

"Alas," returned Villefort, "I must!"

"Where, then, are you going?" asked the
marquise.

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

"You wish to speak to me alone?" said
the marquis.

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

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

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

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

"Then sell out -- sell out, marquis, or
you will lose it all."

"But how can I sell out here?"

"You have it broker, have you not?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

"To whom?"

"To the king."

"To the king?"

"Yes."

"I dare not write to his majesty."

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell your coachman to stop at the
door."

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

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

"A thousand thanks -- and now for the
letter."

The marquis rang, a servant entered.

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

"Now, then, go," said the marquis.

"I shall be gone only a few moments."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Chapter 10 The King's Closet at the
Tuileries.

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

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

"You say, sir" -- said the king.

"That I am exceedingly disquieted,
sire."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Caninus surdis," replied the king,
continuing the annotations in his
Horace.

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

"By whom?"

"By Bonaparte, or, at least, by his
adherents."

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

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

"Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I
have such a delightful note on the
Pastor quum traheret -- wait, and I will
listen to you afterwards."

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

"Go on, my dear duke, go on -- I
listen."

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

"Mala ducis avi domum," continued Louis
XVIII., still annotating.

"Does your majesty wish me to drop the
subject?"

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

"Which?"

"Whichever you please -- there to the
left."

"Here, sire?"

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

"Come in," said Louis XVIII., with
repressed smile, "come in, Baron, and
tell the duke all you know -- the latest
news of M. de Bonaparte; do not conceal
anything, however serious, -- let us
see, the Island of Elba is a volcano,
and we may expect to have issuing thence
flaming and bristling war -- bella,
horrida bella." M. Dandre leaned very
respectfully on the back of a chair with
his two hands, and said, --

"Has your majesty perused yesterday's
report?"

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

"Monsieur," said the baron to the duke,
"all the servants of his majesty must
approve of the latest intelligence which
we have from the Island of Elba.
Bonaparte" -- M. Dandre looked at Louis
XVIII., who, employed in writing a note,
did not even raise his head.
"Bonaparte," continued the baron, "is
mortally wearied, and passes whole days
in watching his miners at work at
Porto-Longone."

"And scratches himself for amusement,"
added the king.

"Scratches himself?" inquired the duke,
"what does your majesty mean?"

"Yes, indeed, my dear duke. Did you
forget that this great man, this hero,
this demigod, is attacked with a malady
of the skin which worries him to death,
prurigo?"

"And, moreover, my dear duke," continued
the minister of police, "we are almost
assured that, in a very short time, the
usurper will be insane."

"Insane?"

"Raving mad; his head becomes weaker.
Sometimes he weeps bitterly, sometimes
laughs boisterously, at other time he
passes hours on the seashore, flinging
stones in the water and when the flint
makes `duck-and-drake' five or six
times, he appears as delighted as if he
had gained another Marengo or
Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that
these are indubitable symptoms of
insanity."

"Or of wisdom, my dear baron -- or of
wisdom," said Louis XVIII., laughing;
"the greatest captains of antiquity
amused themselves by casting pebbles
into the ocean -- see Plutarch's life of
Scipio Africanus."

M. de Blacas pondered deeply between the
confident monarch and the truthful
minister. Villefort, who did not choose
to reveal the whole secret, lest another
should reap all the benefit of the
disclosure, had yet communicated enough
to cause him the greatest uneasiness.

"Well, well, Dandre," said Louis XVIII.,
"Blacas is not yet convinced; let us
proceed, therefore, to the usurper's
conversion." The minister of police
bowed.

"The usurper's conversion!" murmured the
duke, looking at the king and Dandre,
who spoke alternately, like Virgil's
shepherds. "The usurper converted!"

"Decidedly, my dear duke."

"In what way converted?"

"To good principles. Tell him all about
it, baron."

"Why, this is the way of it," said the
minister, with the gravest air in the
world: "Napoleon lately had a review,
and as two or three of his old veterans
expressed a desire to return to France,
he gave them their dismissal, and
exhorted them to `serve the good king.'
These were his own words, of that I am
certain."

"Well, Blacas, what think you of this?"
inquired the king triumphantly, and
pausing for a moment from the voluminous
scholiast before him.

"I say, sire, that the minister of
police is greatly deceived or I am; and
as it is impossible it can be the
minister of police as he has the
guardianship of the safety and honor of
your majesty, it is probable that I am
in error. However, sire, if I might
advise, your majesty will interrogate
the person of whom I spoke to you, and I
will urge your majesty to do him this
honor."

"Most willingly, duke; under your
auspices I will receive any person you
please, but you must not expect me to be
too confiding. Baron, have you any
report more recent than this dated the
20th February. -- this is the 4th of
March?"

"No, sire, but I am hourly expecting
one; it may have arrived since I left my
office."

"Go thither, and if there be none --
well, well," continued Louis XVIII.,
"make one; that is the usual way, is it
not?" and the king laughed facetiously.

"Oh, sire," replied the minister, "we
have no occasion to invent any; every
day our desks are loaded with most
circumstantial denunciations, coming
from hosts of people who hope for some
return for services which they seek to
render, but cannot; they trust to
fortune, and rely upon some unexpected
event in some way to justify their
predictions."

"Well, sir, go"; said Louis XVIII., "and
remember that I am waiting for you."

"I will but go and return, sire; I shall
be back in ten minutes."

"And I, sire," said M. de Blacas, "will
go and find my messenger."

"Wait, sir, wait," said Louis XVIII.
"Really, M. de Blacas, I must change
your armorial bearings; I will give you
an eagle with outstretched wings,
holding in its claws a prey which tries
in vain to escape, and bearing this
device -- Tenax."

"Sire, I listen," said De Blacas, biting
his nails with impatience.

"I wish to consult you on this passage,
`Molli fugiens anhelitu," you know it
refers to a stag flying from a wolf. Are
you not a sportsman and a great
wolf-hunter? Well, then, what do you
think of the molli anhelitu?"

"Admirable, sire; but my messenger is
like the stag you refer to, for he has
posted two hundred and twenty leagues in
scarcely three days."

"Which is undergoing great fatigue and
anxiety, my dear duke, when we have a
telegraph which transmits messages in
three or four hours, and that without
getting in the least out of breath."

"Ah, sire, you recompense but badly this
poor young man, who has come so far, and
with so much ardor, to give your majesty
useful information. If only for the sake
of M. de Salvieux, who recommends him to
me, I entreat your majesty to receive
him graciously."

"M. de Salvieux, my brother's
chamberlain?"

"Yes, sire."

"He is at Marseilles."

"And writes me thence."

"Does he speak to you of this
conspiracy?"

"No; but strongly recommends M. de
Villefort, and begs me to present him to
your majesty."

"M. de Villefort!" cried the king, "is
the messenger's name M. de Villefort?"

"Yes, sire."

"And he comes from Marseilles?"

"In person."

"Why did you not mention his name at
once?" replied the king, betraying some
uneasiness.

"Sire, I thought his name was unknown to
your majesty."

"No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong
and elevated understanding, ambitious,
too, and, pardieu, you know his father's
name!"

"His father?"

"Yes, Noirtier."

"Noirtier the Girondin? -- Noirtier the
senator?"

"He himself."

"And your majesty has employed the son
of such a man?"

"Blacas, my friend, you have but limited
comprehension. I told you Villefort was
ambitions, and to attain this ambition
Villefort would sacrifice everything,
even his father."

"Then, sire, may I present him?"

"This instant, duke! Where is he?"

"Waiting below, in my carriage."

"Seek him at once."

"I hasten to do so." The duke left the
royal presence with the speed of a young
man; his really sincere royalism made
him youthful again. Louis XVIII.
remained alone, and turning his eyes on
his half-opened Horace, muttered, --

"Justum et tenacem propositi virum."

M. de Blacas returned as speedily as he
had departed, but in the ante-chamber he
was forced to appeal to the king's
authority. Villefort's dusty garb, his
costume, which was not of courtly cut,
excited the susceptibility of M. de
Breze, who was all astonishment at
finding that this young man had the
audacity to enter before the king in
such attire. The duke, however, overcame
all difficulties with a word -- his
majesty's order; and, in spite of the
protestations which the master of
ceremonies made for the honor of his
office and principles, Villefort was
introduced.

The king was seated in the same place
where the duke had left him. On opening
the door, Villefort found himself facing
him, and the young magistrate's first
impulse was to pause.

"Come in, M. de Villefort," said the
king, "come in." Villefort bowed, and
advancing a few steps, waited until the
king should interrogate him.

"M. de Villefort," said Louis XVIII.,
"the Duc de Blacas assures me you have
some interesting information to
communicate.

"Sire, the duke is right, and I believe
your majesty will think it equally
important."

"In the first place, and before
everything else, sir, is the news as bad
in your opinion as I am asked to
believe?"

"Sire, I believe it to be most urgent,
but I hope, by the speed I have used,
that it is not irreparable."

"Speak as fully as you please, sir,"
said the king, who began to give way to
the emotion which had showed itself in
Blacas's face and affected Villefort's
voice. "Speak, sir, and pray begin at
the beginning; I like order in
everything."

"Sire," said Villefort, "I will render a
faithful report to your majesty, but I
must entreat your forgiveness if my
anxiety leads to some obscurity in my
language." A glance at the king after
this discreet and subtle exordium,
assured Villefort of the benignity of
his august auditor, and he went on: --

"Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris
as possible, to inform your majesty that
I have discovered, in the exercise of my
duties, not a commonplace and
insignificant plot, such as is every day
got up in the lower ranks of the people
and in the army, but an actual
conspiracy -- a storm which menaces no
less than your majesty's throne. Sire,
the usurper is arming three ships, he
meditates some project, which, however
mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this
moment he will have left Elba, to go
whither I know not, but assuredly to
attempt a landing either at Naples, or
on the coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on
the shores of France. Your majesty is
well aware that the sovereign of the
Island of Elba has maintained his
relations with Italy and France?"

"I am, sir," said the king, much
agitated; "and recently we have had
information that the Bonapartist clubs
have had meetings in the Rue
Saint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of
you. How did you obtain these details?"

"Sire, they are the results of an
examination which I have made of a man
of Marseilles, whom I have watched for
some time, and arrested on the day of my
departure. This person, a sailor, of
turbulent character, and whom I
suspected of Bonapartism, has been
secretly to the Island of Elba. There he
saw the grand-marshal, who charged him
with an oral message to a Bonapartist in
Paris, whose name I could not extract
from him; but this mission was to
prepare men's minds for a return (it is
the man who says this, sire) -- a return
which will soon occur."

"And where is this man?"

"In prison, sire."

"And the matter seems serious to you?"

"So serious, sire, that when the
circumstance surprised me in the midst
of a family festival, on the very day of
my betrothal, I left my bride and
friends, postponing everything, that I
might hasten to lay at your majesty's
feet the fears which impressed me, and
the assurance of my devotion."

"True," said Louis XVIII., "was there
not a marriage engagement between you
and Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran?"

"Daughter of one of your majesty's most
faithful servants."

"Yes, yes; but let us talk of this plot,
M. de Villefort."

"Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I
fear it is a conspiracy."

"A conspiracy in these times," said
Louis XVIII., smiling, "is a thing very
easy to meditate, but more difficult to
conduct to an end, inasmuch as,
re-established so recently on the throne
of our ancestors, we have our eyes open
at once upon the past, the present, and
the future. For the last ten months my
ministers have redoubled their
vigilance, in order to watch the shore
of the Mediterranean. If Bonaparte
landed at Naples, the whole coalition
would be on foot before he could even
reach Piomoino; if he land in Tuscany,
he will be in an unfriendly territory;
if he land in France, it must be with a
handful of men, and the result of that
is easily foretold, execrated as he is
by the population. Take courage, sir;
but at the same time rely on our royal
gratitude."

"Ah, here is M. Dandre!" cried de
Blacas. At this instant the minister of
police appeared at the door, pale,
trembling, and as if ready to faint.
Villefort was about to retire, but M. de
Blacas, taking his hand, restrained him.



Chapter 11 The Corsican Ogre.

At the sight of this agitation Louis
XVIII. pushed from him violently the
table at which he was sitting.

"What ails you, baron?" he exclaimed.
"You appear quite aghast. Has your
uneasiness anything to do with what M.
de Blacas has told me, and M. de
Villefort has just confirmed?" M. de
Blacas moved suddenly towards the baron,
but the fright of the courtier pleaded
for the forbearance of the statesman;
and besides, as matters were, it was
much more to his advantage that the
prefect of police should triumph over
him than that he should humiliate the
prefect.

"Sire" -- stammered the baron.

"Well, what is it?" asked Louis XVIII.
The minister of police, giving way to an
impulse of despair, was about to throw
himself at the feet of Louis XVIII., who
retreated a step and frowned.

"Will you speak?" he said.

"Oh, sire, what a dreadful misfortune! I
am, indeed, to be pitied. I can never
forgive myself!"

"Monsieur," said Louis XVIII., "I
command you to speak."

"Well, sire, the usurper left Elba on
the 26th February, and landed on the 1st
of March."

"And where? In Italy?" asked the king
eagerly.

"In France, sire, -- at a small port,
near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan."

"The usurper landed in France, near
Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan, two
hundred and fifty leagues from Paris, on
the 1st of March, and you only acquired
this information to-day, the 4th of
March! Well, sir, what you tell me is
impossible. You must have received a
false report, or you have gone mad."

"Alas, sire, it is but too true!" Louis
made a gesture of indescribable anger
and alarm, and then drew himself up as
if this sudden blow had struck him at
the same moment in heart and
countenance.

"In France!" he cried, "the usurper in
France! Then they did not watch over
this man. Who knows? they were, perhaps,
in league with him."

"Oh, sire," exclaimed the Duc de Blacas,
"M. Dandre is not a man to be accused of
treason! Sire, we have all been blind,
and the minister of police has shared
the general blindness, that is all."

"But" -- said Villefort, and then
suddenly checking himself, he was
silent; then he continued, "Your pardon,
sire," he said, bowing, "my zeal carried
me away. Will your majesty deign to
excuse me?"

"Speak, sir, speak boldly," replied
Louis. "You alone forewarned us of the
evil; now try and aid us with the
remedy."

"Sire," said Villefort, "the usurper is
detested in the south; and it seems to
me that if he ventured into the south,
it would be easy to raise Languedoc and
Provence against him."

"Yes, assuredly," replied the minister;
"but he is advancing by Gap and
Sisteron."

"Advancing -- he is advancing!" said
Louis XVIII. "Is he then advancing on
Paris?" The minister of police
maintained a silence which was
equivalent to a complete avowal.

"And Dauphine, sir?" inquired the king,
of Villefort. "Do you think it possible
to rouse that as well as Provence?"

"Sire, I am sorry to tell your majesty a
cruel fact; but the feeling in Dauphine
is quite the reverse of that in Provence
or Languedoc. The mountaineers are
Bonapartists, sire."

"Then," murmured Louis, "he was well
informed. And how many men had he with
him?"

"I do not know, sire," answered the
minister of police.

"What, you do not know! Have you
neglected to obtain information on that
point? Of course it is of no
consequence," he added, with a withering
smile.

"Sire, it was impossible to learn; the
despatch simply stated the fact of the
landing and the route taken by the
usurper."

"And how did this despatch reach you?"
inquired the king. The minister bowed
his head, and while a deep color
overspread his cheeks, he stammered
out, --

"By the telegraph, sire." -- Louis
XVIII. advanced a step, and folded his
arms over his chest as Napoleon would
have done.

"So then," he exclaimed, turning pale
with anger, "seven conjoined and allied
armies overthrew that man. A miracle of
heaven replaced me on the throne of my
fathers after five-and-twenty years of
exile. I have, during those
five-and-twenty years, spared no pains
to understand the people of France and
the interests which were confided to me;
and now, when I see the fruition of my
wishes almost within reach, the power I
hold in my hands bursts, and shatters me
to atoms!"

"Sire, it is fatality!" murmured the
minister, feeling that the pressure of
circumstances, however light a thing to
destiny, was too much for any human
strength to endure.

"What our enemies say of us is then
true. We have learnt nothing, forgotten
nothing! If I were betrayed as he was, I
would console myself; but to be in the
midst of persons elevated by myself to
places of honor, who ought to watch over
me more carefully than over
themselves, -- for my fortune is
theirs -- before me they were nothing --
after me they will be nothing, and
perish miserably from incapacity --
ineptitude! Oh, yes, sir, you are
right -- it is fatality!"

The minister quailed before this
outburst of sarcasm. M. de Blacas wiped
the moisture from his brow. Villefort
smiled within himself, for he felt his
increased importance.

"To fall," continued King Louis, who at
the first glance had sounded the abyss
on which the monarchy hung suspended, --
"to fall, and learn of that fall by
telegraph! Oh, I would rather mount the
scaffold of my brother, Louis XVI., than
thus descend the staircase at the
Tuileries driven away by ridicule.
Ridicule, sir -- why, you know not its
power in France, and yet you ought to
know it!"

"Sire, sire," murmured the minister,
"for pity's" --

"Approach, M. de Villefort," resumed the
king, addressing the young man, who,
motionless and breathless, was listening
to a conversation on which depended the
destiny of a kingdom. "Approach, and
tell monsieur that it is possible to
know beforehand all that he has not
known."

"Sire, it was really impossible to learn
secrets which that man concealed from
all the world."

"Really impossible! Yes -- that is a
great word, sir. Unfortunately, there
are great words, as there are great men;
I have measured them. Really impossible
for a minister who has an office,
agents, spies, and fifteen hundred
thousand francs for secret service
money, to know what is going on at sixty
leagues from the coast of France! Well,
then, see, here is a gentleman who had
none of these resources at his
disposal -- a gentleman, only a simple
magistrate, who learned more than you
with all your police, and who would have
saved my crown, if, like you, he had the
power of directing a telegraph." The
look of the minister of police was
turned with concentrated spite on
Villefort, who bent his head in modest
triumph.

"I do not mean that for you, Blacas,"
continued Louis XVIII.; "for if you have
discovered nothing, at least you have
had the good sense to persevere in your
suspicions. Any other than yourself
would have considered the disclosure of
M. de Villefort insignificant, or else
dictated by venal ambition," These words
were an allusion to the sentiments which
the minister of police had uttered with
so much confidence an hour before.

Villefort understood the king's intent.
Any other person would, perhaps, have
been overcome by such an intoxicating
draught of praise; but he feared to make
for himself a mortal enemy of the police
minister, although he saw that Dandre
was irrevocably lost. In fact, the
minister, who, in the plenitude of his
power, had been unable to unearth
Napoleon's secret, might in despair at
his own downfall interrogate Dantes and
so lay bare the motives of Villefort's
plot. Realizing this, Villefort came to
the rescue of the crest-fallen minister,
instead of aiding to crush him.

"Sire," said Villefort, "the suddenness
of this event must prove to your majesty
that the issue is in the hands of
Providence; what your majesty is pleased
to attribute to me as profound
perspicacity is simply owing to chance,
and I have profited by that chance, like
a good and devoted servant -- that's
all. Do not attribute to me more than I
deserve, sire, that your majesty may
never have occasion to recall the first
opinion you have been pleased to form of
me." The minister of police thanked the
young man by an eloquent look, and
Villefort understood that he had
succeeded in his design; that is to say,
that without forfeiting the gratitude of
the king, he had made a friend of one on
whom, in case of necessity, he might
rely.

"'Tis well," resumed the king. "And now,
gentlemen," he continued, turning
towards M. de Blacas and the minister of
police, "I have no further occasion for
you, and you may retire; what now
remains to do is in the department of
the minister of war."

"Fortunately, sire," said M. de Blacas,
"we can rely on the army; your majesty
knows how every report confirms their
loyalty and attachment."

"Do not mention reports, duke, to me,
for I know now what confidence to place
in them. Yet, speaking of reports,
baron, what have you learned with regard
to the affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques?"

"The affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques!"
exclaimed Villefort, unable to repress
an exclamation. Then, suddenly pausing,
he added, "Your pardon, sire, but my
devotion to your majesty has made me
forget, not the respect I have, for that
is too deeply engraved in my heart, but
the rules of etiquette."

"Go on, go on, sir," replied the king;
"you have to-day earned the right to
make inquiries here."

"Sire," interposed the minister of
police, "I came a moment ago to give
your majesty fresh information which I
had obtained on this head, when your
majesty's attention was attracted by the
terrible event that has occurred in the
gulf, and now these facts will cease to
interest your majesty."

"On the contrary, sir, -- on the
contrary," said Louis XVIII., "this
affair seems to me to have a decided
connection with that which occupies our
attention, and the death of General
Quesnel will, perhaps, put us on the
direct track of a great internal
conspiracy." At the name of General
Quesnel, Villefort trembled.

"Everything points to the conclusion,
sire," said the minister of police,
"that death was not the result of
suicide, as we first believed, but of
assassination. General Quesnel, it
appears, had just left a Bonapartist
club when he disappeared. An unknown
person had been with him that morning,
and made an appointment with him in the
Rue Saint-Jacques; unfortunately, the
general's valet, who was dressing his
hair at the moment when the stranger
entered, heard the street mentioned, but
did not catch the number." As the police
minister related this to the king,
Villefort, who looked as if his very
life hung on the speaker's lips, turned
alternately red and pale. The king
looked towards him.

"Do you not think with me, M. de
Villefort, that General Quesnel, whom
they believed attached to the usurper,
but who was really entirely devoted to
me, has perished the victim of a
Bonapartist ambush?"

"It is probable, sire," replied
Villefort. "But is this all that is
known?"

"They are on the track of the man who
appointed the meeting with him."

"On his track?" said Villefort.

"Yes, the servant has given his
description. He is a man of from fifty
to fifty-two years of age, dark, with
black eyes covered with shaggy eyebrows,
and a thick mustache. He was dressed in
a blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the
chin, and wore at his button-hole the
rosette of an officer of the Legion of
Honor. Yesterday a person exactly
corresponding with this description was
followed, but he was lost sight of at
the corner of the Rue de la Jussienne
and the Rue Coq-Heron." Villefort leaned
on the back of an arm-chair, for as the
minister of police went on speaking he
felt his legs bend under him; but when
he learned that the unknown had escaped
the vigilance of the agent who followed
him, he breathed again.

"Continue to seek for this man, sir,"
said the king to the minister of police;
"for if, as I am all but convinced,
General Quesnel, who would have been so
useful to us at this moment, has been
murdered, his assassins, Bonapartists or
not, shall be cruelly punished." It
required all Villefort's coolness not to
betray the terror with which this
declaration of the king inspired him.

"How strange," continued the king, with
some asperity; "the police think that
they have disposed of the whole matter
when they say, `A murder has been
committed,' and especially so when they
can add, `And we are on the track of the
guilty persons.'"

"Sire, your majesty will, I trust, be
amply satisfied on this point at least."

"We shall see. I will no longer detain
you, M. de Villefort, for you must be
fatigued after so long a journey; go and
rest. Of course you stopped at your
father's?" A feeling of faintness came
over Villefort.

"No, sire," he replied, "I alighted at
the Hotel de Madrid, in the Rue de
Tournon."

"But you have seen him?"

"Sire, I went straight to the Duc de
Blacas."

"But you will see him, then?"

"I think not, sire."

"Ah, I forgot," said Louis, smiling in a
manner which proved that all these
questions were not made without a
motive; "I forgot you and M. Noirtier
are not on the best terms possible, and
that is another sacrifice made to the
royal cause, and for which you should be
recompensed."

"Sire, the kindness your majesty deigns
to evince towards me is a recompense
which so far surpasses my utmost
ambition that I have nothing more to ask
for."

"Never mind, sir, we will not forget
you; make your mind easy. In the
meanwhile" (the king here detached the
cross of the Legion of Honor which he
usually wore over his blue coat, near
the cross of St. Louis, above the order
of Notre-Dame-du-Mont-Carmel and St.
Lazare, and gave it to Villefort) -- "in
the meanwhile take this cross."

"Sire," said Villefort, "your majesty
mistakes; this is an officer's cross."

"Ma foi," said Louis XVIII., "take it,
such as it is, for I have not the time
to procure you another. Blacas, let it
be your care to see that the brevet is
made out and sent to M. de Villefort."
Villefort's eyes were filled with tears
of joy and pride; he took the cross and
kissed it.

"And now," he said, "may I inquire what
are the orders with which your majesty
deigns to honor me?"

"Take what rest you require, and
remember that if you are not able to
serve me here in Paris, you may be of
the greatest service to me at
Marseilles."

"Sire," replied Villefort, bowing, "in
an hour I shall have quitted Paris."

"Go, sir," said the king; "and should I
forget you (kings' memories are short),
do not be afraid to bring yourself to my
recollection. Baron, send for the
minister of war. Blacas, remain."

"Ah, sir," said the minister of police
to Villefort, as they left the
Tuileries, "you entered by luck's
door -- your fortune is made."

"Will it be long first?" muttered
Villefort, saluting the minister, whose
career was ended, and looking about him
for a hackney-coach. One passed at the
moment, which he hailed; he gave his
address to the driver, and springing in,
threw himself on the seat, and gave
loose to dreams of ambition.

Ten minutes afterwards Villefort reached
his hotel, ordered horses to be ready in
two hours, and asked to have his
breakfast brought to him. He was about
to begin his repast when the sound of
the bell rang sharp and loud. The valet
opened the door, and Villefort heard
some one speak his name.

"Who could know that I was here
already?" said the young man. The valet
entered.

"Well," said Villefort, "what is it? --
Who rang? -- Who asked for me?"

"A stranger who will not send in his
name."

"A stranger who will not send in his
name! What can he want with me?"

"He wishes to speak to you."

"To me?"

"Yes."

"Did he mention my name?"

"Yes."

"What sort of person is he?"

"Why, sir, a man of about fifty."

"Short or tall?"

"About your own height, sir."

"Dark or fair?"

"Dark, -- very dark; with black eyes,
black hair, black eyebrows."

"And how dressed?" asked Villefort
quickly.

"In a blue frock-coat, buttoned up
close, decorated with the Legion of
Honor."

"It is he!" said Villefort, turning
pale.

"Eh, pardieu," said the individual whose
description we have twice given,
entering the door, "what a great deal of
ceremony! Is it the custom in Marseilles
for sons to keep their fathers waiting
in their anterooms?"

"Father!" cried Villefort, "then I was
not deceived; I felt sure it must be
you."

"Well, then, if you felt so sure,"
replied the new-comer, putting his cane
in a corner and his hat on a chair,
"allow me to say, my dear Gerard, that
it was not very filial of you to keep me
waiting at the door."

"Leave us, Germain," said Villefort. The
servant quitted the apartment with
evident signs of astonishment.



Chapter 12 Father and Son.

M. Noirtier -- for it was, indeed, he
who entered -- looked after the servant
until the door was closed, and then,
fearing, no doubt, that he might be
overheard in the ante-chamber, he opened
the door again, nor was the precaution
useless, as appeared from the rapid
retreat of Germain, who proved that he
was not exempt from the sin which ruined
our first parents. M. Noirtier then took
the trouble to close and bolt the
ante-chamber door, then that of the
bed-chamber, and then extended his hand
to Villefort, who had followed all his
motions with surprise which he could not
conceal.

"Well, now, my dear Gerard," said he to
the young man, with a very significant
look, "do you know, you seem as if you
were not very glad to see me?"

"My dear father," said Villefort, "I am,
on the contrary, delighted; but I so
little expected your visit, that it has
somewhat overcome me."

"But, my dear fellow," replied M.
Noirtier, seating himself, "I might say
the same thing to you, when you announce
to me your wedding for the 28th of
February, and on the 3rd of March you
turn up here in Paris."

"And if I have come, my dear father,"
said Gerard, drawing closer to M.
Noirtier, "do not complain, for it is
for you that I came, and my journey will
be your salvation."

"Ah, indeed!" said M. Noirtier,
stretching himself out at his ease in
the chair. "Really, pray tell me all
about it, for it must be interesting."

"Father, you have heard speak of a
certain Bonapartist club in the Rue
Saint-Jacques?"

"No. 53; yes, I am vice-president."

"Father, your coolness makes me
shudder."

"Why, my dear boy, when a man has been
proscribed by the mountaineers, has
escaped from Paris in a hay-cart, been
hunted over the plains of Bordeaux by
Robespierre's bloodhounds, he becomes
accustomed to most things. But go on,
what about the club in the Rue
Saint-Jacques?"

"Why, they induced General Quesnel to go
there, and General Quesnel, who quitted
his own house at nine o'clock in the
evening, was found the next day in the
Seine."

"And who told you this fine story?"

"The king himself."

"Well, then, in return for your story,"
continued Noirtier, "I will tell you
another."

"My dear father, I think I already know
what you are about to tell me."

"Ah, you have heard of the landing of
the emperor?"

"Not so loud, father, I entreat of
you -- for your own sake as well as
mine. Yes, I heard this news, and knew
it even before you could; for three days
ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris
with all possible speed, half-desperate
at the enforced delay."

"Three days ago? You are crazy. Why,
three days ago the emperor had not
landed."

"No matter, I was aware of his
intention."

"How did you know about it?"

"By a letter addressed to you from the
Island of Elba."

"To me?"

"To you; and which I discovered in the
pocket-book of the messenger. Had that
letter fallen into the hands of another,
you, my dear father, would probably ere
this have been shot." Villefort's father
laughed.

"Come, come," said he, "will the
Restoration adopt imperial methods so
promptly? Shot, my dear boy? What an
idea! Where is the letter you speak of?
I know you too well to suppose you would
allow such a thing to pass you."

"I burnt it, for fear that even a
fragment should remain; for that letter
must have led to your condemnation."

"And the destruction of your future
prospects," replied Noirtier; "yes, I
can easily comprehend that. But I have
nothing to fear while I have you to
protect me."

"I do better than that, sir -- I save
you."

"You do? Why, really, the thing becomes
more and more dramatic -- explain
yourself."

"I must refer again to the club in the
Rue Saint-Jacques."

"It appears that this club is rather a
bore to the police. Why didn't they
search more vigilantly? They would have
found" --

"They have not found; but they are on
the track."

"Yes, that is the usual phrase; I am
quite familiar with it. When the police
is at fault, it declares that it is on
the track; and the government patiently
awaits the day when it comes to say,
with a sneaking air, that the track is
lost."

"Yes, but they have found a corpse; the
general has been killed, and in all
countries they call that a murder."

"A murder do you call it? Why, there is
nothing to prove that the general was
murdered. People are found every day in
the Seine, having thrown themselves in,
or having been drowned from not knowing
how to swim."

"Father, you know very well that the
general was not a man to drown himself
in despair, and people do not bathe in
the Seine in the month of January. No,
no, do not be deceived; this was murder
in every sense of the word."

"And who thus designated it?"

"The king himself."

"The king! I thought he was philosopher
enough to allow that there was no murder
in politics. In politics, my dear
fellow, you know, as well as I do, there
are no men, but ideas -- no feelings,
but interests; in politics we do not
kill a man, we only remove an obstacle,
that is all. Would you like to know how
matters have progressed? Well, I will
tell you. It was thought reliance might
be placed in General Quesnel; he was
recommended to us from the Island of
Elba; one of us went to him, and invited
him to the Rue Saint-Jacques, where he
would find some friends. He came there,
and the plan was unfolded to him for
leaving Elba, the projected landing,
etc. When he had heard and comprehended
all to the fullest extent, he replied
that he was a royalist. Then all looked
at each other, -- he was made to take an
oath, and did so, but with such an ill
grace that it was really tempting
Providence to swear him, and yet, in
spite of that, the general was allowed
to depart free -- perfectly free. Yet he
did not return home. What could that
mean? Why, my dear fellow, that on
leaving us he lost his way, that's all.
A murder? really, Villefort, you
surprise me. You, a deputy procureur, to
found an accusation on such bad
premises! Did I ever say to you, when
you were fulfilling your character as a
royalist, and cut off the head of one of
my party, `My son, you have committed a
murder?' No, I said, `Very well, sir,
you have gained the victory; to-morrow,
perchance, it will be our turn.'"

"But, father, take care; when our turn
comes, our revenge will be sweeping."

"I do not understand you."

"You rely on the usurper's return?"

"We do."

"You are mistaken; he will not advance
two leagues into the interior of France
without being followed, tracked, and
caught like a wild beast."

"My dear fellow, the emperor is at this
moment on the way to Grenoble; on the
10th or 12th he will be at Lyons, and on
the 20th or 25th at Paris."

"The people will rise."

"Yes, to go and meet him."

"He has but a handful of men with him,
and armies will be despatched against
him."

"Yes, to escort him into the capital.
Really, my dear Gerard, you are but a
child; you think yourself well informed
because the telegraph has told you,
three days after the landing, `The
usurper has landed at Cannes with
several men. He is pursued.' But where
is he? what is he doing? You do not know
at all, and in this way they will chase
him to Paris, without drawing a
trigger."

"Grenoble and Lyons are faithful cities,
and will oppose to him an impassable
barrier."

"Grenoble will open her gates to him
with enthusiasm -- all Lyons will hasten
to welcome him. Believe me, we are as
well informed as you, and our police are
as good as your own. Would you like a
proof of it? well, you wished to conceal
your journey from me, and yet I knew of
your arrival half an hour after you had
passed the barrier. You gave your
direction to no one but your postilion,
yet I have your address, and in proof I
am here the very instant you are going
to sit at table. Ring, then, if you
please, for a second knife, fork, and
plate, and we will dine together."

"Indeed!" replied Villefort, looking at
his father with astonishment, "you
really do seem very well informed."

"Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who
are in power have only the means that
money produces -- we who are in
expectation, have those which devotion
prompts."

"Devotion!" said Villefort, with a
sneer.

"Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe,
the phrase for hopeful ambition."

And Villefort's father extended his hand
to the bell-rope, to summon the servant
whom his son had not called. Villefort
caught his arm.

"Wait, my dear father," said the young
man, "one word more."

"Say on."

"However stupid the royalist police may
be, they do know one terrible thing."

"What is that?"

"The description of the man who, on the
morning of the day when General Quesnel
disappeared, presented himself at his
house."

"Oh, the admirable police have found
that out, have they? And what may be
that description?"

"Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and
whiskers, black; blue frock-coat,
buttoned up to the chin; rosette of an
officer of the Legion of Honor in his
button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and a
cane."

"Ah, ha, that's it, is it?" said
Noirtier; "and why, then, have they not
laid hands on him?"

"Because yesterday, or the day before,
they lost sight of him at the corner of
the Rue Coq-Heron."

"Didn't I say that your police were good
for nothing?"

"Yes; but they may catch him yet."

"True," said Noirtier, looking
carelessly around him, "true, if this
person were not on his guard, as he is,"
and he added with a smile, "He will
consequently make a few changes in his
personal appearance." At these words he
rose, and put off his frock-coat and
cravat, went towards a table on which
lay his son's toilet articles, lathered
his face, took a razor, and, with a firm
hand, cut off the compromising whiskers.
Villefort watched him with alarm not
devoid of admiration.

His whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave
another turn to his hair; took, instead
of his black cravat, a colored
neckerchief which lay at the top of an
open portmanteau; put on, in lieu of his
blue and high-buttoned frock-coat, a
coat of Villefort's of dark brown, and
cut away in front; tried on before the
glass a narrow-brimmed hat of his son's,
which appeared to fit him perfectly,
and, leaving his cane in the corner
where he had deposited it, he took up a
small bamboo switch, cut the air with it
once or twice, and walked about with
that easy swagger which was one of his
principal characteristics.

"Well," he said, turning towards his
wondering son, when this disguise was
completed, "well, do you think your
police will recognize me now."

"No, father," stammered Villefort; "at
least, I hope not."

"And now, my dear boy," continued
Noirtier, "I rely on your prudence to
remove all the things which I leave in
your care."

"Oh, rely on me," said Villefort.

"Yes, yes; and now I believe you are
right, and that you have really saved my
life; be assured I will return the favor
hereafter." Villefort shook his head.

"You are not convinced yet?"

"I hope at least, that you may be
mistaken."

"Shall you see the king again?"

"Perhaps."

"Would you pass in his eyes for a
prophet?"

"Prophets of evil are not in favor at
the court, father."

"True, but some day they do them
justice; and supposing a second
restoration, you would then pass for a
great man."

"Well, what should I say to the king?"

"Say this to him: `Sire, you are
deceived as to the feeling in France, as
to the opinions of the towns, and the
prejudices of the army; he whom in Paris
you call the Corsican ogre, who at
Nevers is styled the usurper, is already
saluted as Bonaparte at Lyons, and
emperor at Grenoble. You think he is
tracked, pursued, captured; he is
advancing as rapidly as his own eagles.
The soldiers you believe to be dying
with hunger, worn out with fatigue,
ready to desert, gather like atoms of
snow about the rolling ball as it
hastens onward. Sire, go, leave France
to its real master, to him who acquired
it, not by purchase, but by right of
conquest; go, sire, not that you incur
any risk, for your adversary is powerful
enough to show you mercy, but because it
would be humiliating for a grandson of
Saint Louis to owe his life to the man
of Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz.' Tell
him this, Gerard; or, rather, tell him
nothing. Keep your journey a secret; do
not boast of what you have come to Paris
to do, or have done; return with all
speed; enter Marseilles at night, and
your house by the back-door, and there
remain, quiet, submissive, secret, and,
above all, inoffensive; for this time, I
swear to you, we shall act like powerful
men who know their enemies. Go, my
son -- go, my dear Gerard, and by your
obedience to my paternal orders, or, if
you prefer it, friendly counsels, we
will keep you in your place. This will
be," added Noirtier, with a smile, "one
means by which you may a second time
save me, if the political balance should
some day take another turn, and cast you
aloft while hurling me down. Adieu, my
dear Gerard, and at your next journey
alight at my door." Noirtier left the
room when he had finished, with the same
calmness that had characterized him
during the whole of this remarkable and
trying conversation. Villefort, pale and
agitated, ran to the window, put aside
the curtain, and saw him pass, cool and
collected, by two or three ill-looking
men at the corner of the street, who
were there, perhaps, to arrest a man
with black whiskers, and a blue
frock-coat, and hat with broad brim.

Villefort stood watching, breathless,
until his father had disappeared at the
Rue Bussy. Then he turned to the various
articles he had left behind him, put the
black cravat and blue frock-coat at the
bottom of the portmanteau, threw the hat
into a dark closet, broke the cane into
small bits and flung it in the fire, put
on his travelling-cap, and calling his
valet, checked with a look the thousand
questions he was ready to ask, paid his
bill, sprang into his carriage, which
was ready, learned at Lyons that
Bonaparte had entered Grenoble, and in
the midst of the tumult which prevailed
along the road, at length reached
Marseilles, a prey to all the hopes and
fears which enter into the heart of man
with ambition and its first successes.



Chapter 13 The Hundred Days.

M. Noirtier was a true prophet, and
things progressed rapidly, as he had
predicted. Every one knows the history
of the famous return from Elba, a return
which was unprecedented in the past, and
will probably remain without a
counterpart in the future.

Louis XVIII. made but a faint attempt to
parry this unexpected blow; the monarchy
he had scarcely reconstructed tottered
on its precarious foundation, and at a
sign from the emperor the incongruous
structure of ancient prejudices and new
ideas fell to the ground. Villefort,
therefore, gained nothing save the
king's gratitude (which was rather
likely to injure him at the present
time) and the cross of the Legion of
Honor, which he had the prudence not to
wear, although M. de Blacas had duly
forwarded the brevet.

Napoleon would, doubtless, have deprived
Villefort of his office had it not been
for Noirtier, who was all powerful at
court, and thus the Girondin of '93 and
the Senator of 1806 protected him who so
lately had been his protector. All
Villefort's influence barely enabled him
to stifle the secret Dantes had so
nearly divulged. The king's procureur
alone was deprived of his office, being
suspected of royalism.

However, scarcely was the imperial power
established -- that is, scarcely had the
emperor re-entered the Tuileries and
begun to issue orders from the closet
into which we have introduced our
readers, -- he found on the table there
Louis XVIII.'s half-filled snuff-box, --
scarcely had this occurred when
Marseilles began, in spite of the
authorities, to rekindle the flames of
civil war, always smouldering in the
south, and it required but little to
excite the populace to acts of far
greater violence than the shouts and
insults with which they assailed the
royalists whenever they ventured abroad.

Owing to this change, the worthy
shipowner became at that moment -- we
will not say all powerful, because
Morrel was a prudent and rather a timid
man, so much so, that many of the most
zealous partisans of Bonaparte accused
him of "moderation" -- but sufficiently
influential to make a demand in favor of
Dantes.

Villefort retained his place, but his
marriage was put off until a more
favorable opportunity. If the emperor
remained on the throne, Gerard required
a different alliance to aid his career;
if Louis XVIII. returned, the influence
of M. de Saint-Meran, like his own,
could be vastly increased, and the
marriage be still more suitable. The
deputy-procureur was, therefore, the
first magistrate of Marseilles, when one
morning his door opened, and M. Morrel
was announced.

Any one else would have hastened to
receive him; but Villefort was a man of
ability, and he knew this would be a
sign of weakness. He made Morrel wait in
the ante-chamber, although he had no one
with him, for the simple reason that the
king's procureur always makes every one
wait, and after passing a quarter of an
hour in reading the papers, he ordered
M. Morrel to be admitted.

Morrel expected Villefort would be
dejected; he found him as he had found
him six weeks before, calm, firm, and
full of that glacial politeness, that
most insurmountable barrier which
separates the well-bred from the vulgar
man.

He had entered Villefort's office
expecting that the magistrate would
tremble at the sight of him; on the
contrary, he felt a cold shudder all
over him when he saw Villefort sitting
there with his elbow on his desk, and
his head leaning on his hand. He stopped
at the door; Villefort gazed at him as
if he had some difficulty in recognizing
him; then, after a brief interval,
during which the honest shipowner turned
his hat in his hands, --

"M. Morrel, I believe?" said Villefort.

"Yes, sir."

"Come nearer," said the magistrate, with
a patronizing wave of the hand, "and
tell me to what circumstance I owe the
honor of this visit."

"Do you not guess, monsieur?" asked
Morrel.

"Not in the least; but if I can serve
you in any way I shall be delighted."

"Everything depends on you."

"Explain yourself, pray."

"Monsieur," said Morrel, recovering his
assurance as he proceeded, "do you
recollect that a few days before the
landing of his majesty the emperor, I
came to intercede for a young man, the
mate of my ship, who was accused of
being concerned in correspondence with
the Island of Elba? What was the other
day a crime is to-day a title to favor.
You then served Louis XVIII., and you
did not show any favor -- it was your
duty; to-day you serve Napoleon, and you
ought to protect him -- it is equally
your duty; I come, therefore, to ask
what has become of him?"

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

"Edmond Dantes."

Villefort would probably have rather
stood opposite the muzzle of a pistol at
five-and-twenty paces than have heard
this name spoken; but he did not blanch.

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

"Yes, monsieur." Villefort opened a
large register, then went to a table,
from the table turned to his registers,
and then, turning to Morrel, --

"Are you quite sure you are not
mistaken, monsieur?" said he, in the
most natural tone in the world.

Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted
man, or better versed in these matters,
he would have been surprised at the
king's procureur answering him on such a
subject, instead of referring him to the
governors of the prison or the prefect
of the department. But Morrel,
disappointed in his expectations of
exciting fear, was conscious only of the
other's condescension. Villefort had
calculated rightly.

"No," said Morrel; "I am not mistaken. I
have known him for ten years, the last
four of which he was in my service. Do
not you recollect, I came about six
weeks ago to plead for clemency, as I
come to-day to plead for justice. You
received me very coldly. Oh, the
royalists were very severe with the
Bonapartists in those days."

"Monsieur," returned Villefort, "I was
then a royalist, because I believed the
Bourbons not only the heirs to the
throne, but the chosen of the nation.
The miraculous return of Napoleon has
conquered me, the legitimate monarch is
he who is loved by his people."

"That's right!" cried Morrel. "I like to
hear you speak thus, and I augur well
for Edmond from it."

"Wait a moment," said Villefort, turning
over the leaves of a register; "I have
it -- a sailor, who was about to marry a
young Catalan girl. I recollect now; it
was a very serious charge."

"How so?"

"You know that when he left here he was
taken to the Palais de Justice."

"Well?"

"I made my report to the authorities at
Paris, and a week after he was carried
off."

"Carried off!" said Morrel. "What can
they have done with him?"

"Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles,
to Pignerol, or to the Sainte-Marguerite
islands. Some fine morning he will
return to take command of your vessel."

"Come when he will, it shall be kept for
him. But how is it he is not already
returned? It seems to me the first care
of government should be to set at
liberty those who have suffered for
their adherence to it."

"Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel,"
replied Villefort. "The order of
imprisonment came from high authority,
and the order for his liberation must
proceed from the same source; and, as
Napoleon has scarcely been reinstated a
fortnight, the letters have not yet been
forwarded."

"But," said Morrel, "is there no way of
expediting all these formalities -- of
releasing him from arrest?"

"There has been no arrest."

"How?"

"It is sometimes essential to government
to cause a man's disappearance without
leaving any traces, so that no written
forms or documents may defeat their
wishes."

"It might be so under the Bourbons, but
at present" --

"It has always been so, my dear Morrel,
since the reign of Louis XIV. The
emperor is more strict in prison
discipline than even Louis himself, and
the number of prisoners whose names are
not on the register is incalculable."
Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much
kindness would have dispelled them.

"Well, M. de Villefort, how would you
advise me to act?" asked he.

"Petition the minister."

"Oh, I know what that is; the minister
receives two hundred petitions every
day, and does not read three."

"That is true; but he will read a
petition countersigned and presented by
me."

"And will you undertake to deliver it?"

"With the greatest pleasure. Dantes was
then guilty, and now he is innocent, and
it is as much my duty to free him as it
was to condemn him." Villefort thus
forestalled any danger of an inquiry,
which, however improbable it might be,
if it did take place would leave him
defenceless.

"But how shall I address the minister?"

"Sit down there," said Villefort, giving
up his place to Morrel, "and write what
I dictate."

"Will you be so good?"

"Certainly. But lose no time; we have
lost too much already."

"That is true. Only think what the poor
fellow may even now be suffering."
Villefort shuddered at the suggestion;
but he had gone too far to draw back.
Dantes must be crushed to gratify
Villefort's ambition.

Villefort dictated a petition, in which,
from an excellent intention, no doubt,
Dantes' patriotic services were
exaggerated, and he was made out one of
the most active agents of Napoleon's
return. It was evident that at the sight
of this document the minister would
instantly release him. The petition
finished, Villefort read it aloud.

"That will do," said he; "leave the rest
to me."

"Will the petition go soon?"

"To-day."

"Countersigned by you?"

"The best thing I can do will be to
certify the truth of the contents of
your petition." And, sitting down,
Villefort wrote the certificate at the
bottom.

"What more is to be done?"

"I will do whatever is necessary." This
assurance delighted Morrel, who took
leave of Villefort, and hastened to
announce to old Dantes that he would
soon see his son.

As for Villefort, instead of sending to
Paris, he carefully preserved the
petition that so fearfully compromised
Dantes, in the hopes of an event that
seemed not unlikely, -- that is, a
second restoration. Dantes remained a
prisoner, and heard not the noise of the
fall of Louis XVIII.'s throne, or the
still more tragic destruction of the
empire.

Twice during the Hundred Days had Morrel
renewed his demand, and twice had
Villefort soothed him with promises. At
last there was Waterloo, and Morrel came
no more; he had done all that was in his
power, and any fresh attempt would only
compromise himself uselessly.

Louis XVIII. remounted the throne;
Villefort, to whom Marseilles had become
filled with remorseful memories, sought
and obtained the situation of king's
procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight
afterwards he married Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran, whose father now stood
higher at court than ever.

And so Dantes, after the Hundred Days
and after Waterloo, remained in his
dungeon, forgotten of earth and heaven.
Danglars comprehended the full extent of
the wretched fate that overwhelmed
Dantes; and, when Napoleon returned to
France, he, after the manner of mediocre
minds, termed the coincidence, "a decree
of Providence." But when Napoleon
returned to Paris, Danglars' heart
failed him, and he lived in constant
fear of Dantes' return on a mission of
vengeance. He therefore informed M.
Morrel of his wish to quit the sea, and
obtained a recommendation from him to a
Spanish merchant, into whose service he
entered at the end of March, that is,
ten or twelve days after Napoleon's
return. He then left for Madrid, and was
no more heard of.

Fernand understood nothing except that
Dantes was absent. What had become of
him he cared not to inquire. Only,
during the respite the absence of his
rival afforded him, he reflected, partly
on the means of deceiving Mercedes as to
the cause of his absence, partly on
plans of emigration and abduction, as
from time to time he sat sad and
motionless on the summit of Cape Pharo,
at the spot from whence Marseilles and
the Catalans are visible, watching for
the apparition of a young and handsome
man, who was for him also the messenger
of vengeance. Fernand's mind was made
up; he would shoot Dantes, and then kill
himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a man
of his disposition never kills himself,
for he constantly hopes.

During this time the empire made its
last conscription, and every man in
France capable of bearing arms rushed to
obey the summons of the emperor. Fernand
departed with the rest, bearing with him
the terrible thought that while he was
away, his rival would perhaps return and
marry Mercedes. Had Fernand really meant
to kill himself, he would have done so
when he parted from Mercedes. His
devotion, and the compassion he showed
for her misfortunes, produced the effect
they always produce on noble minds --
Mercedes had always had a sincere regard
for Fernand, and this was now
strengthened by gratitude.

"My brother," said she as she placed his
knapsack on his shoulders, "be careful
of yourself, for if you are killed, I
shall be alone in the world." These
words carried a ray of hope into
Fernand's heart. Should Dantes not
return, Mercedes might one day be his.

Mercedes was left alone face to face
with the vast plain that had never
seemed so barren, and the sea that had
never seemed so vast. Bathed in tears
she wandered about the Catalan village.
Sometimes she stood mute and motionless
as a statue, looking towards Marseilles,
at other times gazing on the sea, and
debating as to whether it were not
better to cast herself into the abyss of
the ocean, and thus end her woes. It was
not want of courage that prevented her
putting this resolution into execution;
but her religious feelings came to her
aid and saved her. Caderousse was, like
Fernand, enrolled in the army, but,
being married and eight years older, he
was merely sent to the frontier. Old
Dantes, who was only sustained by hope,
lost all hope at Napoleon's downfall.
Five months after he had been separated
from his son, and almost at the hour of
his arrest, he breathed his last in
Mercedes' arms. M. Morrel paid the
expenses of his funeral, and a few small
debts the poor old man had contracted.

There was more than benevolence in this
action; there was courage; the south was
aflame, and to assist, even on his
death-bed, the father of so dangerous a
Bonapartist as Dantes, was stigmatized
as a crime.



Chapter 14 The Two Prisoners.

A year after Louis XVIII.'s restoration,
a visit was made by the
inspector-general of prisons. Dantes in
his cell heard the noise of
preparation, -- sounds that at the depth
where he lay would have been inaudible
to any but the ear of a prisoner, who
could hear the plash of the drop of
water that every hour fell from the roof
of his dungeon. He guessed something
uncommon was passing among the living;
but he had so long ceased to have any
intercourse with the world, that he
looked upon himself as dead.

The inspector visited, one after
another, the cells and dungeons of
several of the prisoners, whose good
behavior or stupidity recommended them
to the clemency of the government. He
inquired how they were fed, and if they
had any request to make. The universal
response was, that the fare was
detestable, and that they wanted to be
set free.

The inspector asked if they had anything
else to ask for. They shook their heads.
What could they desire beyond their
liberty? The inspector turned smilingly
to the governor.

"I do not know what reason government
can assign for these useless visits;
when you see one prisoner, you see
all, -- always the same thing, -- ill
fed and innocent. Are there any others?"

"Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners
are in the dungeons."

"Let us visit them," said the inspector
with an air of fatigue. "We must play
the farce to the end. Let us see the
dungeons."

"Let us first send for two soldiers,"
said the governor. "The prisoners
sometimes, through mere uneasiness of
life, and in order to be sentenced to
death, commit acts of useless violence,
and you might fall a victim."

"Take all needful precautions," replied
the inspector.

Two soldiers were accordingly sent for,
and the inspector descended a stairway,
so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be
loathsome to sight, smell, and
respiration.

"Oh," cried the inspector, "who can live
here?"

"A most dangerous conspirator, a man we
are ordered to keep the most strict
watch over, as he is daring and
resolute."

"He is alone?"

"Certainly."

"How long has he been there?"

"Nearly a year."

"Was he placed here when he first
arrived?"

"No; not until he attempted to kill the
turnkey, who took his food to him."

"To kill the turnkey?"

"Yes, the very one who is lighting us.
Is it not true, Antoine?" asked the
governor.

"True enough; he wanted to kill me!"
returned the turnkey.

"He must be mad," said the inspector.

"He is worse than that, -- he is a
devil!" returned the turnkey.

"Shall I complain of him?" demanded the
inspector.

"Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is
almost mad now, and in another year he
will be quite so."

"So much the better for him, -- he will
suffer less," said the inspector. He
was, as this remark shows, a man full of
philanthropy, and in every way fit for
his office.

"You are right, sir," replied the
governor; "and this remark proves that
you have deeply considered the subject.
Now we have in a dungeon about twenty
feet distant, and to which you descend
by another stair, an abbe, formerly
leader of a party in Italy, who has been
here since 1811, and in 1813 he went
mad, and the change is astonishing. He
used to weep, he now laughs; he grew
thin, he now grows fat. You had better
see him, for his madness is amusing."

"I will see them both," returned the
inspector; "I must conscientiously
perform my duty." This was the
inspector's first visit; he wished to
display his authority.

"Let us visit this one first," added he.

"By all means," replied the governor,
and he signed to the turnkey to open the
door. At the sound of the key turning in
the lock, and the creaking of the
hinges, Dantes, who was crouched in a
corner of the dungeon, whence he could
see the ray of light that came through a
narrow iron grating above, raised his
head. Seeing a stranger, escorted by two
turnkeys holding torches and accompanied
by two soldiers, and to whom the
governor spoke bareheaded, Dantes, who
guessed the truth, and that the moment
to address himself to the superior
authorities was come, sprang forward
with clasped hands.

The soldiers interposed their bayonets,
for they thought that he was about to
attack the inspector, and the latter
recoiled two or three steps. Dantes saw
that he was looked upon as dangerous.
Then, infusing all the humility he
possessed into his eyes and voice, he
addressed the inspector, and sought to
inspire him with pity.

The inspector listened attentively;
then, turning to the governor, observed,
"He will become religious -- he is
already more gentle; he is afraid, and
retreated before the bayonets -- madmen
are not afraid of anything; I made some
curious observations on this at
Charenton." Then, turning to the
prisoner, "What is it you want?" said
he.

"I want to know what crime I have
committed -- to be tried; and if I am
guilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be
set at liberty."

"Are you well fed?" said the inspector.

"I believe so; I don't know; it's of no
consequence. What matters really, not
only to me, but to officers of justice
and the king, is that an innocent man
should languish in prison, the victim of
an infamous denunciation, to die here
cursing his executioners."

"You are very humble to-day," remarked
the governor; "you are not so always;
the other day, for instance, when you
tried to kill the turnkey."

"It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon,
for he has always been very good to me,
but I was mad."

"And you are not so any longer?"

"No; captivity has subdued me -- I have
been here so long."

"So long? -- when were you arrested,
then?" asked the inspector.

"The 28th of February, 1815, at
half-past two in the afternoon."

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

"Only seventeen months," replied Dantes.
"Oh, you do not know what is seventeen
months in prison! -- seventeen ages
rather, especially to a man who, like
me, had arrived at the summit of his
ambition -- to a man, who, like me, was
on the point of marrying a woman he
adored, who saw an honorable career
opened before him, and who loses all in
an instant -- who sees his prospects
destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate
of his affianced wife, and whether his
aged father be still living! Seventeen
months captivity to a sailor accustomed
to the boundless ocean, is a worse
punishment than human crime ever
merited. Have pity on me, then, and ask
for me, not intelligence, but a trial;
not pardon, but a verdict -- a trial,
sir, I ask only for a trial; that,
surely, cannot be denied to one who is
accused!"

"We shall see," said the inspector;
then, turning to the governor, "On my
word, the poor devil touches me. You
must show me the proofs against him."

"Certainly; but you will find terrible
charges."

"Monsieur," continued Dantes, "I know it
is not in your power to release me; but
you can plead for me -- you can have me
tried -- and that is all I ask. Let me
know my crime, and the reason why I was
condemned. Uncertainty is worse than
all."

"Go on with the lights," said the
inspector.

"Monsieur," cried Dantes, "I can tell by
your voice you are touched with pity;
tell me at least to hope."

"I cannot tell you that," replied the
inspector; "I can only promise to
examine into your case."

"Oh, I am free -- then I am saved!"

"Who arrested you?"

"M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he
says."

"M. Villefort is no longer at
Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse."

"I am no longer surprised at my
detention," murmured Dantes, "since my
only protector is removed."

"Had M. de Villefort any cause of
personal dislike to you?"

"None; on the contrary, he was very kind
to me."

"I can, then, rely on the notes he has
left concerning you?"

"Entirely."

"That is well; wait patiently, then."
Dantes fell on his knees, and prayed
earnestly. The door closed; but this
time a fresh inmate was left with
Dantes -- hope.

"Will you see the register at once,"
asked the governor, "or proceed to the
other cell?"

"Let us visit them all," said the
inspector. "If I once went up those
stairs. I should never have the courage
to come down again."

"Ah, this one is not like the other, and
his madness is less affecting than this
one's display of reason."

"What is his folly?"

"He fancies he possesses an immense
treasure. The first year he offered
government a million of francs for his
release; the second, two; the third,
three; and so on progressively. He is
now in his fifth year of captivity; he
will ask to speak to you in private, and
offer you five millions."

"How curious! -- what is his name?"

"The Abbe Faria."

"No. 27," said the inspector.

"It is here; unlock the door, Antoine."
The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector
gazed curiously into the chamber of the
"mad abbe."

In the centre of the cell, in a circle
traced with a fragment of plaster
detached from the wall, sat a man whose
tattered garments scarcely covered him.
He was drawing in this circle
geometrical lines, and seemed as much
absorbed in his problem as Archimedes
was when the soldier of Marcellus slew
him.

He did not move at the sound of the
door, and continued his calculations
until the flash of the torches lighted
up with an unwonted glare the sombre
walls of his cell; then, raising his
head, he perceived with astonishment the
number of persons present. He hastily
seized the coverlet of his bed, and
wrapped it round him.

"What is it you want?" said the
inspector.

"I, monsieur," replied the abbe with an
air of surprise -- "I want nothing."

"You do not understand," continued the
inspector; "I am sent here by government
to visit the prison, and hear the
requests of the prisoners."

"Oh, that is different," cried the abbe;
"and we shall understand each other, I
hope."

"There, now," whispered the governor,
"it is just as I told you."

"Monsieur," continued the prisoner, "I
am the Abbe Faria, born at Rome. I was
for twenty years Cardinal Spada's
secretary; I was arrested, why, I know
not, toward the beginning of the year
1811; since then I have demanded my
liberty from the Italian and French
government."

"Why from the French government?"

"Because I was arrested at Piombino, and
I presume that, like Milan and Florence,
Piombino has become the capital of some
French department."

"Ah," said the inspector, "you have not
the latest news from Italy?"

"My information dates from the day on
which I was arrested," returned the Abbe
Faria; "and as the emperor had created
the kingdom of Rome for his infant son,
I presume that he has realized the dream
of Machiavelli and Caesar Borgia, which
was to make Italy a united kingdom."

"Monsieur," returned the inspector,
"providence has changed this gigantic
plan you advocate so warmly."

"It is the only means of rendering Italy
strong, happy, and independent."

"Very possibly; only I am not come to
discuss politics, but to inquire if you
have anything to ask or to complain of."

"The food is the same as in other
prisons, -- that is, very bad; the
lodging is very unhealthful, but, on the
whole, passable for a dungeon; but it is
not that which I wish to speak of, but a
secret I have to reveal of the greatest
importance."

"We are coming to the point," whispered
the governor.

"It is for that reason I am delighted to
see you," continued the abbe, "although
you have disturbed me in a most
important calculation, which, if it
succeeded, would possibly change
Newton's system. Could you allow me a
few words in private."

"What did I tell you?" said the
governor.

"You knew him," returned the inspector
with a smile.

"What you ask is impossible, monsieur,"
continued he, addressing Faria.

"But," said the abbe, "I would speak to
you of a large sum, amounting to five
millions."

"The very sum you named," whispered the
inspector in his turn.

"However," continued Faria, seeing that
the inspector was about to depart, "it
is not absolutely necessary for us to be
alone; the governor can be present."

"Unfortunately," said the governor, "I
know beforehand what you are about to
say; it concerns your treasures, does it
not?" Faria fixed his eyes on him with
an expression that would have convinced
any one else of his sanity.

"Of course," said he; "of what else
should I speak?"

"Mr. Inspector," continued the governor,
"I can tell you the story as well as he,
for it has been dinned in my ears for
the last four or five years."

"That proves," returned the abbe, "that
you are like those of Holy Writ, who
having ears hear not, and having eyes
see not."

"My dear sir, the government is rich and
does not want your treasures," replied
the inspector; "keep them until you are
liberated." The abbe's eyes glistened;
he seized the inspector's hand.

"But what if I am not liberated," cried
he, "and am detained here until my
death? this treasure will be lost. Had
not government better profit by it? I
will offer six millions, and I will
content myself with the rest, if they
will only give me my liberty."

"On my word," said the inspector in a
low tone, "had I not been told
beforehand that this man was mad, I
should believe what he says."

"I am not mad," replied Faria, with that
acuteness of hearing peculiar to
prisoners. "The treasure I speak of
really exists, and I offer to sign an
agreement with you, in which I promise
to lead you to the spot where you shall
dig; and if I deceive you, bring me here
again, -- I ask no more."

The governor laughed. "Is the spot far
from here?"

"A hundred leagues."

"It is not ill-planned," said the
governor. "If all the prisoners took it
into their heads to travel a hundred
leagues, and their guardians consented
to accompany them, they would have a
capital chance of escaping."

"The scheme is well known," said the
inspector; "and the abbe's plan has not
even the merit of originality."

Then turning to Faria -- "I inquired if
you are well fed?" said he.

"Swear to me," replied Faria, "to free
me if what I tell you prove true, and I
will stay here while you go to the
spot."

"Are you well fed?" repeated the
inspector.

"Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I
told you, I will stay here; so there is
no chance of my escaping."

"You do not reply to my question,"
replied the inspector impatiently.

"Nor you to mine," cried the abbe. "You
will not accept my gold; I will keep it
for myself. You refuse me my liberty;
God will give it me." And the abbe,
casting away his coverlet, resumed his
place, and continued his calculations.

"What is he doing there?" said the
inspector.

"Counting his treasures," replied the
governor.

Faria replied to this sarcasm with a
glance of profound contempt. They went
out. The turnkey closed the door behind
them.

"He was wealthy once, perhaps?" said the
inspector.

"Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad."

"After all," said the inspector, "if he
had been rich, he would not have been
here." So the matter ended for the Abbe
Faria. He remained in his cell, and this
visit only increased the belief in his
insanity.

Caligula or Nero, those
treasure-seekers, those desirers of the
impossible, would have accorded to the
poor wretch, in exchange for his wealth,
the liberty he so earnestly prayed for.
But the kings of modern times,
restrained by the limits of mere
probability, have neither courage nor
desire. They fear the ear that hears
their orders, and the eye that
scrutinizes their actions. Formerly they
believed themselves sprung from Jupiter,
and shielded by their birth; but
nowadays they are not inviolable.

It has always been against the policy of
despotic governments to suffer the
victims of their persecutions to
reappear. As the Inquisition rarely
allowed its victims to be seen with
their limbs distorted and their flesh
lacerated by torture, so madness is
always concealed in its cell, from
whence, should it depart, it is conveyed
to some gloomy hospital, where the
doctor has no thought for man or mind in
the mutilated being the jailer delivers
to him. The very madness of the Abbe
Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned him
to perpetual captivity.

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

Edmond Dantes:

Violent Bonapartist; took an active part
in the return from Elba.

The greatest watchfulness and care to be
exercised.

This note was in a different hand from
the rest, which showed that it had been
added since his confinement. The
inspector could not contend against this
accusation; he simply wrote, -- "Nothing
to be done."

This visit had infused new vigor into
Dantes; he had, till then, forgotten the
date; but now, with a fragment of
plaster, he wrote the date, 30th July,
1816, and made a mark every day, in
order not to lose his reckoning again.
Days and weeks passed away, then
months -- Dantes still waited; he at
first expected to be freed in a
fortnight. This fortnight expired, he
decided that the inspector would do
nothing until his return to Paris, and
that he would not reach there until his
circuit was finished, he therefore fixed
three months; three months passed away,
then six more. Finally ten months and a
half had gone by and no favorable change
had taken place, and Dantes began to
fancy the inspector's visit but a dream,
an illusion of the brain.

At the expiration of a year the governor
was transferred; he had obtained charge
of the fortress at Ham. He took with him
several of his subordinates, and amongst
them Dantes' jailer. A new governor
arrived; it would have been too tedious
to acquire the names of the prisoners;
he learned their numbers instead. This
horrible place contained fifty cells;
their inhabitants were designated by the
numbers of their cell, and the unhappy
young man was no longer called Edmond
Dantes -- he was now number 34.



Chapter 15 Number 34 and Number 27.

Dantes passed through all the stages of
torture natural to prisoners in
suspense. He was sustained at first by
that pride of conscious innocence which
is the sequence to hope; then he began
to doubt his own innocence, which
justified in some measure the governor's
belief in his mental alienation; and
then, relaxing his sentiment of pride,
he addressed his supplications, not to
God, but to man. God is always the last
resource. Unfortunates, who ought to
begin with God, do not have any hope in
him till they have exhausted all other
means of deliverance.

Dantes asked to be removed from his
present dungeon into another; for a
change, however disadvantageous, was
still a change, and would afford him
some amusement. He entreated to be
allowed to walk about, to have fresh
air, books, and writing materials. His
requests were not granted, but he went
on asking all the same. He accustomed
himself to speaking to the new jailer,
although the latter was, if possible,
more taciturn than the old one; but
still, to speak to a man, even though
mute, was something. Dantes spoke for
the sake of hearing his own voice; he
had tried to speak when alone, but the
sound of his voice terrified him. Often,
before his captivity, Dantes, mind had
revolted at the idea of assemblages of
prisoners, made up of thieves,
vagabonds, and murderers. He now wished
to be amongst them, in order to see some
other face besides that of his jailer;
he sighed for the galleys, with the
infamous costume, the chain, and the
brand on the shoulder. The galley-slaves
breathed the fresh air of heaven, and
saw each other. They were very happy. He
besought the jailer one day to let him
have a companion, were it even the mad
abbe.

The jailer, though rough and hardened by
the constant sight of so much suffering,
was yet a man. At the bottom of his
heart he had often had a feeling of pity
for this unhappy young man who suffered
so; and he laid the request of number 34
before the governor; but the latter
sapiently imagined that Dantes wished to
conspire or attempt an escape, and
refused his request. Dantes had
exhausted all human resources, and he
then turned to God.

All the pious ideas that had been so
long forgotten, returned; he recollected
the prayers his mother had taught him,
and discovered a new meaning in every
word; for in prosperity prayers seem but
a mere medley of words, until misfortune
comes and the unhappy sufferer first
understands the meaning of the sublime
language in which he invokes the pity of
heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no
longer terrified at the sound of his own
voice, for he fell into a sort of
ecstasy. He laid every action of his
life before the Almighty, proposed tasks
to accomplish, and at the end of every
prayer introduced the entreaty oftener
addressed to man than to God: "Forgive
us our trespasses as we forgive them
that trespass against us." Yet in spite
of his earnest prayers, Dantes remained
a prisoner.

Then gloom settled heavily upon him.
Dantes was a man of great simplicity of
thought, and without education; he could
not, therefore, in the solitude of his
dungeon, traverse in mental vision the
history of the ages, bring to life the
nations that had perished, and rebuild
the ancient cities so vast and
stupendous in the light of the
imagination, and that pass before the
eye glowing with celestial colors in
Martin's Babylonian pictures. He could
not do this, he whose past life was so
short, whose present so melancholy, and
his future so doubtful. Nineteen years
of light to reflect upon in eternal
darkness! No distraction could come to
his aid; his energetic spirit, that
would have exalted in thus revisiting
the past, was imprisoned like an eagle
in a cage. He clung to one idea -- that
of his happiness, destroyed, without
apparent cause, by an unheard-of
fatality; he considered and reconsidered
this idea, devoured it (so to speak), as
the implacable Ugolino devours the skull
of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of
Dante.

Rage supplanted religious fervor. Dantes
uttered blasphemies that made his jailer
recoil with horror, dashed himself
furiously against the walls of his
prison, wreaked his anger upon
everything, and chiefly upon himself, so
that the least thing, -- a grain of
sand, a straw, or a breath of air that
annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury.
Then the letter that Villefort had
showed to him recurred to his mind, and
every line gleamed forth in fiery
letters on the wall like the mene tekel
upharsin of Belshazzar. He told himself
that it was the enmity of man, and not
the vengeance of heaven, that had thus
plunged him into the deepest misery. He
consigned his unknown persecutors to the
most horrible tortures he could imagine,
and found them all insufficient, because
after torture came death, and after
death, if not repose, at least the boon
of unconsciousness.

By dint of constantly dwelling on the
idea that tranquillity was death, and if
punishment were the end in view other
tortures than death must be invented, he
began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he,
who, on the brink of misfortune, broods
over ideas like these!

Before him is a dead sea that stretches
in azure calm before the eye; but he who
unwarily ventures within its embrace
finds himself struggling with a monster
that would drag him down to perdition.
Once thus ensnared, unless the
protecting hand of God snatch him
thence, all is over, and his struggles
but tend to hasten his destruction. This
state of mental anguish is, however,
less terrible than the sufferings that
precede or the punishment that possibly
will follow. There is a sort of
consolation at the contemplation of the
yawning abyss, at the bottom of which
lie darkness and obscurity.

Edmond found some solace in these ideas.
All his sorrows, all his sufferings,
with their train of gloomy spectres,
fled from his cell when the angel of
death seemed about to enter. Dantes
reviewed his past life with composure,
and, looking forward with terror to his
future existence, chose that middle line
that seemed to afford him a refuge.

"Sometimes," said he, "in my voyages,
when I was a man and commanded other
men, I have seen the heavens overcast,
the sea rage and foam, the storm arise,
and, like a monstrous bird, beating the
two horizons with its wings. Then I felt
that my vessel was a vain refuge, that
trembled and shook before the tempest.
Soon the fury of the waves and the sight
of the sharp rocks announced the
approach of death, and death then
terrified me, and I used all my skill
and intelligence as a man and a sailor
to struggle against the wrath of God.
But I did so because I was happy,
because I had not courted death, because
to be cast upon a bed of rocks and
seaweed seemed terrible, because I was
unwilling that I, a creature made for
the service of God, should serve for
food to the gulls and ravens. But now it
is different; I have lost all that bound
me to life, death smiles and invites me
to repose; I die after my own manner, I
die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I
fall asleep when I have paced three
thousand times round my cell."

No sooner had this idea taken possession
of him than he became more composed,
arranged his couch to the best of his
power, ate little and slept less, and
found existence almost supportable,
because he felt that he could throw it
off at pleasure, like a worn-out
garment. Two methods of self-destruction
were at his disposal. He could hang
himself with his handkerchief to the
window bars, or refuse food and die of
starvation. But the first was repugnant
to him. Dantes had always entertained
the greatest horror of pirates, who are
hung up to the yard-arm; he would not
die by what seemed an infamous death. He
resolved to adopt the second, and began
that day to carry out his resolve.
Nearly four years had passed away; at
the end of the second he had ceased to
mark the lapse of time.

Dantes said, "I wish to die," and had
chosen the manner of his death, and
fearful of changing his mind, he had
taken an oath to die. "When my morning
and evening meals are brought," thought
he, "I will cast them out of the window,
and they will think that I have eaten
them."

He kept his word; twice a day he cast
out, through the barred aperture, the
provisions his jailer brought him -- at
first gayly, then with deliberation, and
at last with regret. Nothing but the
recollection of his oath gave him
strength to proceed. Hunger made viands
once repugnant, now acceptable; he held
the plate in his hand for an hour at a
time, and gazed thoughtfully at the
morsel of bad meat, of tainted fish, of
black and mouldy bread. It was the last
yearning for life contending with the
resolution of despair; then his dungeon
seemed less sombre, his prospects less
desperate. He was still young -- he was
only four or five and twenty -- he had
nearly fifty years to live. What
unforseen events might not open his
prison door, and restore him to liberty?
Then he raised to his lips the repast
that, like a voluntary Tantalus, he
refused himself; but he thought of his
oath, and he would not break it. He
persisted until, at last, he had not
sufficient strength to rise and cast his
supper out of the loophole. The next
morning he could not see or hear; the
jailer feared he was dangerously ill.
Edmond hoped he was dying.

Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a
sort of stupor creeping over him which
brought with it a feeling almost of
content; the gnawing pain at his stomach
had ceased; his thirst had abated; when
he closed his eyes he saw myriads of
lights dancing before them like the
will-o'-the-wisps that play about the
marshes. It was the twilight of that
mysterious country called Death!

Suddenly, about nine o'clock in the
evening, Edmond heard a hollow sound in
the wall against which he was lying.

So many loathsome animals inhabited the
prison, that their noise did not, in
general, awake him; but whether
abstinence had quickened his faculties,
or whether the noise was really louder
than usual, Edmond raised his head and
listened. It was a continual scratching,
as if made by a huge claw, a powerful
tooth, or some iron instrument attacking
the stones.

Although weakened, the young man's brain
instantly responded to the idea that
haunts all prisoners -- liberty! It
seemed to him that heaven had at length
taken pity on him, and had sent this
noise to warn him on the very brink of
the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved
ones he had so often thought of was
thinking of him, and striving to
diminish the distance that separated
them.

No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and
it was but one of those dreams that
forerun death!

Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted
nearly three hours; he then heard a
noise of something falling, and all was
silent.

Some hours afterwards it began again,
nearer and more distinct. Edmond was
intensely interested. Suddenly the
jailer entered.

For a week since he had resolved to die,
and during the four days that he had
been carrying out his purpose, Edmond
had not spoken to the attendant, had not
answered him when he inquired what was
the matter with him, and turned his face
to the wall when he looked too curiously
at him; but now the jailer might hear
the noise and put an end to it, and so
destroy a ray of something like hope
that soothed his last moments.

The jailer brought him his breakfast.
Dantes raised himself up and began to
talk about everything; about the bad
quality of the food, about the coldness
of his dungeon, grumbling and
complaining, in order to have an excuse
for speaking louder, and wearying the
patience of his jailer, who out of
kindness of heart had brought broth and
white bread for his prisoner.

Fortunately, he fancied that Dantes was
delirious; and placing the food on the
rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond
listened, and the sound became more and
more distinct.

"There can be no doubt about it,"
thought he; "it is some prisoner who is
striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I
were only there to help him!" Suddenly
another idea took possession of his
mind, so used to misfortune, that it was
scarcely capable of hope -- the idea
that the noise was made by workmen the
governor had ordered to repair the
neighboring dungeon.

It was easy to ascertain this; but how
could he risk the question? It was easy
to call his jailer's attention to the
noise, and watch his countenance as he
listened; but might he not by this means
destroy hopes far more important than
the short-lived satisfaction of his own
curiosity? Unfortunately, Edmond's brain
was still so feeble that he could not
bend his thoughts to anything in
particular.

He saw but one means of restoring
lucidity and clearness to his judgment.
He turned his eyes towards the soup
which the jailer had brought, rose,
staggered towards it, raised the vessel
to his lips, and drank off the contents
with a feeling of indescribable
pleasure. He had often heard that
shipwrecked persons had died through
having eagerly devoured too much food.
Edmond replaced on the table the bread
he was about to devour, and returned to
his couch -- he did not wish to die. He
soon felt that his ideas became again
collected -- he could think, and
strengthen his thoughts by reasoning.
Then he said to himself, "I must put
this to the test, but without
compromising anybody. If it is a
workman, I need but knock against the
wall, and he will cease to work, in
order to find out who is knocking, and
why he does so; but as his occupation is
sanctioned by the governor, he will soon
resume it. If, on the contrary, it is a
prisoner, the noise I make will alarm
him, he will cease, and not begin again
until he thinks every one is asleep."

Edmond rose again, but this time his
legs did not tremble, and his sight was
clear; he went to a corner of his
dungeon, detached a stone, and with it
knocked against the wall where the sound
came. He struck thrice. At the first
blow the sound ceased, as if by magic.

Edmond listened intently; an hour
passed, two hours passed, and no sound
was heard from the wall -- all was
silent there.

Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few
mouthfuls of bread and water, and,
thanks to the vigor of his constitution,
found himself well-nigh recovered.

The day passed away in utter silence --
night came without recurrence of the
noise.

"It is a prisoner," said Edmond
joyfully. The night passed in perfect
silence. Edmond did not close his eyes.

In the morning the jailer brought him
fresh provisions -- he had already
devoured those of the previous day; he
ate these listening anxiously for the
sound, walking round and round his cell,
shaking the iron bars of the loophole,
restoring vigor and agility to his limbs
by exercise, and so preparing himself
for his future destiny. At intervals he
listened to learn if the noise had not
begun again, and grew impatient at the
prudence of the prisoner, who did not
guess he had been disturbed by a captive
as anxious for liberty as himself.

Three days passed -- seventy-two long
tedious hours which he counted off by
minutes!

At length one evening, as the jailer was
visiting him for the last time that
night, Dantes, with his ear for the
hundredth time at the wall, fancied he
heard an almost imperceptible movement
among the stones. He moved away, walked
up and down his cell to collect his
thoughts, and then went back and
listened.

The matter was no longer doubtful.
Something was at work on the other side
of the wall; the prisoner had discovered
the danger, and had substituted a lever
for a chisel.

Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond
determined to assist the indefatigable
laborer. He began by moving his bed, and
looked around for anything with which he
could pierce the wall, penetrate the
moist cement, and displace a stone.

He saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp
instrument, the window grating was of
iron, but he had too often assured
himself of its solidity. All his
furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a
table, a pail, and a jug. The bed had
iron clamps, but they were screwed to
the wood, and it would have required a
screw-driver to take them off. The table
and chair had nothing, the pail had once
possessed a handle, but that had been
removed.

Dantes had but one resource, which was
to break the jug, and with one of the
sharp fragments attack the wall. He let
the jug fall on the floor, and it broke
in pieces.

Dantes concealed two or three of the
sharpest fragments in his bed, leaving
the rest on the floor. The breaking of
his jug was too natural an accident to
excite suspicion. Edmond had all the
night to work in, but in the darkness he
could not do much, and he soon felt that
he was working against something very
hard; he pushed back his bed, and waited
for day.

All night he heard the subterranean
workman, who continued to mine his way.
Day came, the jailer entered. Dantes
told him that the jug had fallen from
his hands while he was drinking, and the
jailer went grumblingly to fetch
another, without giving himself the
trouble to remove the fragments of the
broken one. He returned speedily,
advised the prisoner to be more careful,
and departed.

Dantes heard joyfully the key grate in
the lock; he listened until the sound of
steps died away, and then, hastily
displacing his bed, saw by the faint
light that penetrated into his cell,
that he had labored uselessly the
previous evening in attacking the stone
instead of removing the plaster that
surrounded it.

The damp had rendered it friable, and
Dantes was able to break it off -- in
small morsels, it is true, but at the
end of half an hour he had scraped off a
handful; a mathematician might have
calculated that in two years, supposing
that the rock was not encountered, a
passage twenty feet long and two feet
broad, might be formed.

The prisoner reproached himself with not
having thus employed the hours he had
passed in vain hopes, prayer, and
despondency. During the six years that
he had been imprisoned, what might he
not have accomplished?

In three days he had succeeded, with the
utmost precaution, in removing the
cement, and exposing the stone-work. The
wall was built of rough stones, among
which, to give strength to the
structure, blocks of hewn stone were at
intervals imbedded. It was one of these
he had uncovered, and which he must
remove from its socket.

Dantes strove to do this with his nails,
but they were too weak. The fragments of
the jug broke, and after an hour of
useless toil, he paused.

Was he to be thus stopped at the
beginning, and was he to wait inactive
until his fellow workman had completed
his task? Suddenly an idea occurred to
him -- he smiled, and the perspiration
dried on his forehead.

The jailer always brought Dantes' soup
in an iron saucepan; this saucepan
contained soup for both prisoners, for
Dantes had noticed that it was either
quite full, or half empty, according as
the turnkey gave it to him or to his
companion first.

The handle of this saucepan was of iron;
Dantes would have given ten years of his
life in exchange for it.

The jailer was accustomed to pour the
contents of the saucepan into Dantes'
plate, and Dantes, after eating his soup
with a wooden spoon, washed the plate,
which thus served for every day. Now
when evening came Dantes put his plate
on the ground near the door; the jailer,
as he entered, stepped on it and broke
it.

This time he could not blame Dantes. He
was wrong to leave it there, but the
jailer was wrong not to have looked
before him.

The jailer, therefore, only grumbled.
Then he looked about for something to
pour the soup into; Dantes' entire
dinner service consisted of one plate --
there was no alternative.

"Leave the saucepan," said Dantes; "you
can take it away when you bring me my
breakfast." This advice was to the
jailer's taste, as it spared him the
necessity of making another trip. He
left the saucepan.

Dantes was beside himself with joy. He
rapidly devoured his food, and after
waiting an hour, lest the jailer should
change his mind and return, he removed
his bed, took the handle of the
saucepan, inserted the point between the
hewn stone and rough stones of the wall,
and employed it as a lever. A slight
oscillation showed Dantes that all went
well. At the end of an hour the stone
was extricated from the wall, leaving a
cavity a foot and a half in diameter.

Dantes carefully collected the plaster,
carried it into the corner of his cell,
and covered it with earth. Then, wishing
to make the best use of his time while
he had the means of labor, he continued
to work without ceasing. At the dawn of
day he replaced the stone, pushed his
bed against the wall, and lay down. The
breakfast consisted of a piece of bread;
the jailer entered and placed the bread
on the table.

"Well, don't you intend to bring me
another plate?" said Dantes.

"No," replied the turnkey; "you destroy
everything. First you break your jug,
then you make me break your plate; if
all the prisoners followed your example,
the government would be ruined. I shall
leave you the saucepan, and pour your
soup into that. So for the future I hope
you will not be so destructive."

Dantes raised his eyes to heaven and
clasped his hands beneath the coverlet.
He felt more gratitude for the
possession of this piece of iron than he
had ever felt for anything. He had
noticed, however, that the prisoner on
the other side had ceased to labor; no
matter, this was a greater reason for
proceeding -- if his neighbor would not
come to him, he would go to his
neighbor. All day he toiled on
untiringly, and by the evening he had
succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of
plaster and fragments of stone. When the
hour for his jailer's visit arrived,
Dantes straightened the handle of the
saucepan as well as he could, and placed
it in its accustomed place. The turnkey
poured his ration of soup into it,
together with the fish -- for thrice a
week the prisoners were deprived of
meat. This would have been a method of
reckoning time, had not Dantes long
ceased to do so. Having poured out the
soup, the turnkey retired. Dantes wished
to ascertain whether his neighbor had
really ceased to work. He listened --
all was silent, as it had been for the
last three days. Dantes sighed; it was
evident that his neighbor distrusted
him. However, he toiled on all the night
without being discouraged; but after two
or three hours he encountered an
obstacle. The iron made no impression,
but met with a smooth surface; Dantes
touched it, and found that it was a
beam. This beam crossed, or rather
blocked up, the hole Dantes had made; it
was necessary, therefore, to dig above
or under it. The unhappy young man had
not thought of this. "O my God, my God!"
murmured he, "I have so earnestly prayed
to you, that I hoped my prayers had been
heard. After having deprived me of my
liberty, after having deprived me of
death, after having recalled me to
existence, my God, have pity on me, and
do not let me die in despair!"

"Who talks of God and despair at the
same time?" said a voice that seemed to
come from beneath the earth, and,
deadened by the distance, sounded hollow
and sepulchral in the young man's ears.
Edmond's hair stood on end, and he rose
to his knees.

"Ah," said he, "I hear a human voice."
Edmond had not heard any one speak save
his jailer for four or five years; and a
jailer is no man to a prisoner -- he is
a living door, a barrier of flesh and
blood adding strength to restraints of
oak and iron.

"In the name of heaven," cried Dantes,
"speak again, though the sound of your
voice terrifies me. Who are you?"

"Who are you?" said the voice.

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

"Of what country?"

"A Frenchman."

"Your name?"

"Edmond Dantes."

"Your profession?"

"A sailor."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since the 28th of February, 1815."

"Your crime?"

"I am innocent."

"But of what are you accused?"

"Of having conspired to aid the
emperor's return."

"What! For the emperor's return? -- the
emperor is no longer on the throne,
then?"

"He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814,
and was sent to the Island of Elba. But
how long have you been here that you are
ignorant of all this?"

"Since 1811."

Dantes shuddered; this man had been four
years longer than himself in prison.

"Do not dig any more," said the voice;
"only tell me how high up is your
excavation?"

"On a level with the floor."

"How is it concealed?"

"Behind my bed."

"Has your bed been moved since you have
been a prisoner?"

"No."

"What does your chamber open on?"

"A corridor."

"And the corridor?"

"On a court."

"Alas!" murmured the voice.

"Oh, what is the matter?" cried Dantes.

"I have made a mistake owing to an error
in my plans. I took the wrong angle, and
have come out fifteen feet from where I
intended. I took the wall you are mining
for the outer wall of the fortress."

"But then you would be close to the
sea?"

"That is what I hoped."

"And supposing you had succeeded?"

"I should have thrown myself into the
sea, gained one of the islands near
here -- the Isle de Daume or the Isle de
Tiboulen -- and then I should have been
safe."

"Could you have swum so far?"

"Heaven would have given me strength;
but now all is lost."

"All?"

"Yes; stop up your excavation carefully,
do not work any more, and wait until you
hear from me."

"Tell me, at least, who you are?"

"I am -- I am No. 27."

"You mistrust me, then," said Dantes.
Edmond fancied he heard a bitter laugh
resounding from the depths.

"Oh, I am a Christian," cried Dantes,
guessing instinctively that this man
meant to abandon him. "I swear to you by
him who died for us that naught shall
induce me to breathe one syllable to my
jailers; but I conjure you do not
abandon me. If you do, I swear to you,
for I have got to the end of my
strength, that I will dash my brains out
against the wall, and you will have my
death to reproach yourself with."

"How old are you? Your voice is that of
a young man."

"I do not know my age, for I have not
counted the years I have been here. All
I do know is, that I was just nineteen
when I was arrested, the 28th of
February, 1815."

"Not quite twenty-six!" murmured the
voice; "at that age he cannot be a
traitor."

"Oh, no, no," cried Dantes. "I swear to
you again, rather than betray you, I
would allow myself to be hacked in
pieces!"

"You have done well to speak to me, and
ask for my assistance, for I was about
to form another plan, and leave you; but
your age reassures me. I will not forget
you. Wait."

"How long?"

"I must calculate our chances; I will
give you the signal."

"But you will not leave me; you will
come to me, or you will let me come to
you. We will escape, and if we cannot
escape we will talk; you of those whom
you love, and I of those whom I love.
You must love somebody?"

"No, I am alone in the world."

"Then you will love me. If you are
young, I will be your comrade; if you
are old, I will be your son. I have a
father who is seventy if he yet lives; I
only love him and a young girl called
Mercedes. My father has not yet
forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone
knows if she loves me still; I shall
love you as I loved my father."

"It is well," returned the voice;
"to-morrow."

These few words were uttered with an
accent that left no doubt of his
sincerity; Dantes rose, dispersed the
fragments with the same precaution as
before, and pushed his bed back against
the wall. He then gave himself up to his
happiness. He would no longer be alone.
He was, perhaps, about to regain his
liberty; at the worst, he would have a
companion, and captivity that is shared
is but half captivity. Plaints made in
common are almost prayers, and prayers
where two or three are gathered together
invoke the mercy of heaven.

All day Dantes walked up and down his
cell. He sat down occasionally on his
bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At
the slightest noise he bounded towards
the door. Once or twice the thought
crossed his mind that he might be
separated from this unknown, whom he
loved already; and then his mind was
made up -- when the jailer moved his bed
and stooped to examine the opening, he
would kill him with his water jug. He
would be condemned to die, but he was
about to die of grief and despair when
this miraculous noise recalled him to
life.

The jailer came in the evening. Dantes
was on his bed. It seemed to him that
thus he better guarded the unfinished
opening. Doubtless there was a strange
expression in his eyes, for the jailer
said, "Come, are you going mad again?"

Dantes did not answer; he feared that
the emotion of his voice would betray
him. The jailer went away shaking his
head. Night came; Dantes hoped that his
neighbor would profit by the silence to
address him, but he was mistaken. The
next morning, however, just as he
removed his bed from the wall, he heard
three knocks; he threw himself on his
knees.

"Is it you?" said he; "I am here."

"Is your jailer gone?"

"Yes," said Dantes; "he will not return
until the evening; so that we have
twelve hours before us."

"I can work, then?" said the voice.

"Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat
you."

In a moment that part of the floor on
which Dantes was resting his two hands,
as he knelt with his head in the
opening, suddenly gave way; he drew back
smartly, while a mass of stones and
earth disappeared in a hole that opened
beneath the aperture he himself had
formed. Then from the bottom of this
passage, the depth of which it was
impossible to measure, he saw appear,
first the head, then the shoulders, and
lastly the body of a man, who sprang
lightly into his cell.



Chapter 16 A Learned Italian.

Seizing in his arms the friend so long
and ardently desired, Dantes almost
carried him towards the window, in order
to obtain a better view of his features
by the aid of the imperfect light that
struggled through the grating.

He was a man of small stature, with hair
blanched rather by suffering and sorrow
than by age. He had a deep-set,
penetrating eye, almost buried beneath
the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and
still black) beard reaching down to his
breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed
by care, and the bold outline of his
strongly marked features, betokened a
man more accustomed to exercise his
mental faculties than his physical
strength. Large drops of perspiration
were now standing on his brow, while the
garments that hung about him were so
ragged that one could only guess at the
pattern upon which they had originally
been fashioned.

The stranger might have numbered sixty
or sixty-five years; but a certain
briskness and appearance of vigor in his
movements made it probable that he was
aged more from captivity than the course
of time. He received the enthusiastic
greeting of his young acquaintance with
evident pleasure, as though his chilled
affections were rekindled and
invigorated by his contact with one so
warm and ardent. He thanked him with
grateful cordiality for his kindly
welcome, although he must at that moment
have been suffering bitterly to find
another dungeon where he had fondly
reckoned on discovering a means of
regaining his liberty.

"Let us first see," said he, "whether it
is possible to remove the traces of my
entrance here -- our future tranquillity
depends upon our jailers being entirely
ignorant of it." Advancing to the
opening, he stooped and raised the stone
easily in spite of its weight; then,
fitting it into its place, he said, --

"You removed this stone very carelessly;
but I suppose you had no tools to aid
you."

"Why," exclaimed Dantes, with
astonishment, "do you possess any?"

"I made myself some; and with the
exception of a file, I have all that are
necessary, -- a chisel, pincers, and
lever."

"Oh, how I should like to see these
products of your industry and patience."

"Well, in the first place, here is my
chisel." So saying, he displayed a sharp
strong blade, with a handle made of
beechwood.

"And with what did you contrive to make
that?" inquired Dantes.

"With one of the clamps of my bedstead;
and this very tool has sufficed me to
hollow out the road by which I came
hither, a distance of about fifty feet."

"Fifty feet!" responded Dantes, almost
terrified.

"Do not speak so loud, young man --
don't speak so loud. It frequently
occurs in a state prison like this, that
persons are stationed outside the doors
of the cells purposely to overhear the
conversation of the prisoners."

"But they believe I am shut up alone
here."

"That makes no difference."

"And you say that you dug your way a
distance of fifty feet to get here?"

"I do; that is about the distance that
separates your chamber from mine; only,
unfortunately, I did not curve aright;
for want of the necessary geometrical
instruments to calculate my scale of
proportion, instead of taking an
ellipsis of forty feet, I made it fifty.
I expected, as I told you, to reach the
outer wall, pierce through it, and throw
myself into the sea; I have, however,
kept along the corridor on which your
chamber opens, instead of going beneath
it. My labor is all in vain, for I find
that the corridor looks into a courtyard
filled with soldiers."

"That's true," said Dantes; "but the
corridor you speak of only bounds one
side of my cell; there are three
others -- do you know anything of their
situation?"

"This one is built against the solid
rock, and it would take ten experienced
miners, duly furnished with the
requisite tools, as many years to
perforate it. This adjoins the lower
part of the governor's apartments, and
were we to work our way through, we
should only get into some lock-up
cellars, where we must necessarily be
recaptured. The fourth and last side of
your cell faces on -- faces on -- stop a
minute, now where does it face?"

The wall of which he spoke was the one
in which was fixed the loophole by which
light was admitted to the chamber. This
loophole, which gradually diminished in
size as it approached the outside, to an
opening through which a child could not
have passed, was, for better security,
furnished with three iron bars, so as to
quiet all apprehensions even in the mind
of the most suspicious jailer as to the
possibility of a prisoner's escape. As
the stranger asked the question, he
dragged the table beneath the window.

"Climb up," said he to Dantes. The young
man obeyed, mounted on the table, and,
divining the wishes of his companion,
placed his back securely against the
wall and held out both hands. The
stranger, whom as yet Dantes knew only
by the number of his cell, sprang up
with an agility by no means to be
expected in a person of his years, and,
light and steady on his feet as a cat or
a lizard, climbed from the table to the
outstretched hands of Dantes, and from
them to his shoulders; then, bending
double, for the ceiling of the dungeon
prevented him from holding himself
erect, he managed to slip his head
between the upper bars of the window, so
as to be able to command a perfect view
from top to bottom.

An instant afterwards he hastily drew
back his head, saying, "I thought so!"
and sliding from the shoulders of Dantes
as dextrously as he had ascended, he
nimbly leaped from the table to the
ground.

"What was it that you thought?" asked
the young man anxiously, in his turn
descending from the table.

The elder prisoner pondered the matter.
"Yes," said he at length, "it is so.
This side of your chamber looks out upon
a kind of open gallery, where patrols
are continually passing, and sentries
keep watch day and night."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Certain. I saw the soldier's shape and
the top of his musket; that made me draw
in my head so quickly, for I was fearful
he might also see me."

"Well?" inquired Dantes.

"You perceive then the utter
impossibility of escaping through your
dungeon?"

"Then," pursued the young man eagerly --

"Then," answered the elder prisoner,
"the will of God be done!" and as the
old man slowly pronounced those words,
an air of profound resignation spread
itself over his careworn countenance.
Dantes gazed on the man who could thus
philosophically resign hopes so long and
ardently nourished with an astonishment
mingled with admiration.

"Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what
you are?" said he at length; "never have
I met with so remarkable a person as
yourself."

"Willingly," answered the stranger; "if,
indeed, you feel any curiosity
respecting one, now, alas, powerless to
aid you in any way."

"Say not so; you can console and support
me by the strength of your own powerful
mind. Pray let me know who you really
are?"

The stranger smiled a melancholy smile.
"Then listen," said he. "l am the Abbe
Faria, and have been imprisoned as you
know in this Chateau d'If since the year
1811; previously to which I had been
confined for three years in the fortress
of Fenestrelle. In the year 1811 I was
transferred to Piedmont in France. It
was at this period I learned that the
destiny which seemed subservient to
every wish formed by Napoleon, had
bestowed on him a son, named king of
Rome even in his cradle. I was very far
then from expecting the change you have
just informed me of; namely, that four
years afterwards, this colossus of power
would be overthrown. Then who reigns in
France at this moment -- Napoleon II.?"

"No, Louis XVIII."

"The brother of Louis XVII.! How
inscrutable are the ways of
providence -- for what great and
mysterious purpose has it pleased heaven
to abase the man once so elevated, and
raise up him who was so abased?"

Dantes, whole attention was riveted on a
man who could thus forget his own
misfortunes while occupying himself with
the destinies of others.

"Yes, yes," continued he, "'Twill be the
same as it was in England. After Charles
I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles
II., and then James II., and then some
son-in-law or relation, some Prince of
Orange, a stadtholder who becomes a
king. Then new concessions to the
people, then a constitution, then
liberty. Ah, my friend!" said the abbe,
turning towards Dantes, and surveying
him with the kindling gaze of a prophet,
"you are young, you will see all this
come to pass."

"Probably, if ever I get out of prison!"

"True," replied Faria, "we are
prisoners; but I forget this sometimes,
and there are even moments when my
mental vision transports me beyond these
walls, and I fancy myself at liberty."

"But wherefore are you here?"

"Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very
plan Napoleon tried to realize in 1811;
because, like Machiavelli, I desired to
alter the political face of Italy, and
instead of allowing it to be split up
into a quantity of petty principalities,
each held by some weak or tyrannical
ruler, I sought to form one large,
compact, and powerful empire; and,
lastly, because I fancied I had found my
Caesar Borgia in a crowned simpleton,
who feigned to enter into my views only
to betray me. It was the plan of
Alexander VI. and Clement VII., but it
will never succeed now, for they
attempted it fruitlessly, and Napoleon
was unable to complete his work. Italy
seems fated to misfortune." And the old
man bowed his head.

Dantes could not understand a man
risking his life for such matters.
Napoleon certainly he knew something of,
inasmuch as he had seen and spoken with
him; but of Clement VII. and Alexander
VI. he knew nothing.

"Are you not," he asked, "the priest who
here in the Chateau d'If is generally
thought to be -- ill?"

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

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

"Well, then," resumed Faria with a
bitter smile, "let me answer your
question in full, by acknowledging that
I am the poor mad prisoner of the
Chateau d'If, for many years permitted
to amuse the different visitors with
what is said to be my insanity; and, in
all probability, I should be promoted to
the honor of making sport for the
children, if such innocent beings could
be found in an abode devoted like this
to suffering and despair."

Dantes remained for a short time mute
and motionless; at length he said, --
"Then you abandon all hope of escape?"

"I perceive its utter impossibility; and
I consider it impious to attempt that
which the Almighty evidently does not
approve."

"Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not
be expecting too much to hope to succeed
at your first attempt? Why not try to
find an opening in another direction
from that which has so unfortunately
failed?"

"Alas, it shows how little notion you
can have of all it has cost me to effect
a purpose so unexpectedly frustrated,
that you talk of beginning over again.
In the first place, I was four years
making the tools I possess, and have
been two years scraping and digging out
earth, hard as granite itself; then what
toil and fatigue has it not been to
remove huge stones I should once have
deemed impossible to loosen. Whole days
have I passed in these Titanic efforts,
considering my labor well repaid if, by
night-time I had contrived to carry away
a square inch of this hard-bound cement,
changed by ages into a substance
unyielding as the stones themselves;
then to conceal the mass of earth and
rubbish I dug up, I was compelled to
break through a staircase, and throw the
fruits of my labor into the hollow part
of it; but the well is now so completely
choked up, that I scarcely think it
would be possible to add another handful
of dust without leading to discovery.
Consider also that I fully believed I
had accomplished the end and aim of my
undertaking, for which I had so exactly
husbanded my strength as to make it just
hold out to the termination of my
enterprise; and now, at the moment when
I reckoned upon success, my hopes are
forever dashed from me. No, I repeat
again, that nothing shall induce me to
renew attempts evidently at variance
with the Almighty's pleasure."

Dantes held down his head, that the
other might not see how joy at the
thought of having a companion outweighed
the sympathy he felt for the failure of
the abbe's plans.

The abbe sank upon Edmond's bed, while
Edmond himself remained standing. Escape
had never once occurred to him. There
are, indeed, some things which appear so
impossible that the mind does not dwell
on them for an instant. To undermine the
ground for fifty feet -- to devote three
years to a labor which, if successful,
would conduct you to a precipice
overhanging the sea -- to plunge into
the waves from the height of fifty,
sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the
risk of being dashed to pieces against
the rocks, should you have been
fortunate enough to have escaped the
fire of the sentinels; and even,
supposing all these perils past, then to
have to swim for your life a distance of
at least three miles ere you could reach
the shore -- were difficulties so
startling and formidable that Dantes had
never even dreamed of such a scheme,
resigning himself rather to death. But
the sight of an old man clinging to life
with so desperate a courage, gave a
fresh turn to his ideas, and inspired
him with new courage. Another, older and
less strong than he, had attempted what
he had not had sufficient resolution to
undertake, and had failed only because
of an error in calculation. This same
person, with almost incredible patience
and perseverance, had contrived to
provide himself with tools requisite for
so unparalleled an attempt. Another had
done all this; why, then, was it
impossible to Dantes? Faria had dug his
way through fifty feet, Dantes would dig
a hundred; Faria, at the age of fifty,
had devoted three years to the task; he,
who was but half as old, would sacrifice
six; Faria, a priest and savant, had not
shrunk from the idea of risking his life
by trying to swim a distance of three
miles to one of the islands -- Daume,
Rattonneau, or Lemaire; should a hardy
sailer, an experienced diver, like
himself, shrink from a similar task;
should he, who had so often for mere
amusement's sake plunged to the bottom
of the sea to fetch up the bright coral
branch, hesitate to entertain the same
project? He could do it in an hour, and
how many times had he, for pure pastime,
continued in the water for more than
twice as long! At once Dantes resolved
to follow the brave example of his
energetic companion, and to remember
that what has once been done may be done
again.

After continuing some time in profound
meditation, the young man suddenly
exclaimed, "I have found what you were
in search of!"

Faria started: "Have you, indeed?" cried
he, raising his head with quick anxiety;
"pray, let me know what it is you have
discovered?"

"The corridor through which you have
bored your way from the cell you occupy
here, extends in the same direction as
the outer gallery, does it not?"

"It does."

"And is not above fifteen feet from it?"

"About that."

"Well, then, I will tell you what we
must do. We must pierce through the
corridor by forming a side opening about
the middle, as it were the top part of a
cross. This time you will lay your plans
more accurately; we shall get out into
the gallery you have described; kill the
sentinel who guards it, and make our
escape. All we require to insure success
is courage, and that you possess, and
strength, which I am not deficient in;
as for patience, you have abundantly
proved yours -- you shall now see me
prove mine."

"One instant, my dear friend," replied
the abbe; "it is clear you do not
understand the nature of the courage
with which I am endowed, and what use I
intend making of my strength. As for
patience, I consider that I have
abundantly exercised that in beginning
every morning the task of the night
before, and every night renewing the
task of the day. But then, young man
(and I pray of you to give me your full
attention), then I thought I could not
be doing anything displeasing to the
Almighty in trying to set an innocent
being at liberty -- one who had
committed no offence, and merited not
condemnation."

"And have your notions changed?" asked
Dantes with much surprise; "do you think
yourself more guilty in making the
attempt since you have encountered me?"

"No; neither do I wish to incur guilt.
Hitherto I have fancied myself merely
waging war against circumstances, not
men. I have thought it no sin to bore
through a wall, or destroy a staircase;
but I cannot so easily persuade myself
to pierce a heart or take away a life."
A slight movement of surprise escaped
Dantes.

"Is it possible," said he, "that where
your liberty is at stake you can allow
any such scruple to deter you from
obtaining it?"

"Tell me," replied Faria, "what has
hindered you from knocking down your
jailer with a piece of wood torn from
your bedstead, dressing yourself in his
clothes, and endeavoring to escape?"

"Simply the fact that the idea never
occurred to me," answered Dantes.

"Because," said the old man, "the
natural repugnance to the commission of
such a crime prevented you from thinking
of it; and so it ever is because in
simple and allowable things our natural
instincts keep us from deviating from
the strict line of duty. The tiger,
whose nature teaches him to delight in
shedding blood, needs but the sense of
smell to show him when his prey is
within his reach, and by following this
instinct he is enabled to measure the
leap necessary to permit him to spring
on his victim; but man, on the contrary,
loathes the idea of blood -- it is not
alone that the laws of social life
inspire him with a shrinking dread of
taking life; his natural construction
and physiological formation" --

Dantes was confused and silent at this
explanation of the thoughts which had
unconsciously been working in his mind,
or rather soul; for there are two
distinct sorts of ideas, those that
proceed from the head and those that
emanate from the heart.

"Since my imprisonment," said Faria, "I
have thought over all the most
celebrated cases of escape on record.
They have rarely been successful. Those
that have been crowned with full success
have been long meditated upon, and
carefully arranged; such, for instance,
as the escape of the Duc de Beaufort
from the Chateau de Vincennes, that of
the Abbe Dubuquoi from For l'Eveque; of
Latude from the Bastille. Then there are
those for which chance sometimes affords
opportunity, and those are the best of
all. Let us, therefore, wait patiently
for some favorable moment, and when it
presents itself, profit by it."

"Ah," said Dantes, "you might well
endure the tedious delay; you were
constantly employed in the task you set
yourself, and when weary with toil, you
had your hopes to refresh and encourage
you."

"I assure you," replied the old man, "I
did not turn to that source for
recreation or support."

"What did you do then?"

"I wrote or studied."

"Were you then permitted the use of
pens, ink, and paper?"

"Oh, no," answered the abbe; "I had none
but what I made for myself."

"You made paper, pens and ink?"

"Yes."

Dantes gazed with admiration, but he had
some difficulty in believing. Faria saw
this.

"When you pay me a visit in my cell, my
young friend," said he, "I will show you
an entire work, the fruits of the
thoughts and reflections of my whole
life; many of them meditated over in the
shades of the Coloseum at Rome, at the
foot of St. Mark's column at Venice, and
on the borders of the Arno at Florence,
little imagining at the time that they
would be arranged in order within the
walls of the Chateau d'If. The work I
speak of is called `A Treatise on the
Possibility of a General Monarchy in
Italy,' and will make one large quarto
volume."

"And on what have you written all this?"

"On two of my shirts. I invented a
preparation that makes linen as smooth
and as easy to write on as parchment."

"You are, then, a chemist?"

"Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the
intimate friend of Cabanis."

"But for such a work you must have
needed books -- had you any?"

"I had nearly five thousand volumes in
my library at Rome; but after reading
them over many times, I found out that
with one hundred and fifty well-chosen
books a man possesses, if not a complete
summary of all human knowledge, at least
all that a man need really know. I
devoted three years of my life to
reading and studying these one hundred
and fifty volumes, till I knew them
nearly by heart; so that since I have
been in prison, a very slight effort of
memory has enabled me to recall their
contents as readily as though the pages
were open before me. I could recite you
the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon,
Plutarch, Titus Livius, Tacitus, Strada,
Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne, Shakspeare,
Spinoza, Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I
name only the most important."

"You are, doubtless, acquainted with a
variety of languages, so as to have been
able to read all these?"

"Yes, I speak five of the modern
tongues -- that is to say, German,
French, Italian, English, and Spanish;
by the aid of ancient Greek I learned
modern Greek -- I don't speak it so well
as I could wish, but I am still trying
to improve myself."

"Improve yourself!" repeated Dantes;
"why, how can you manage to do so?"

"Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I
knew; turned, returned, and arranged
them, so as to enable me to express my
thoughts through their medium. I know
nearly one thousand words, which is all
that is absolutely necessary, although I
believe there are nearly one hundred
thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot
hope to be very fluent, but I certainly
should have no difficulty in explaining
my wants and wishes; and that would be
quite as much as I should ever require."

Stronger grew the wonder of Dantes, who
almost fancied he had to do with one
gifted with supernatural powers; still
hoping to find some imperfection which
might bring him down to a level with
human beings, he added, "Then if you
were not furnished with pens, how did
you manage to write the work you speak
of?"

"I made myself some excellent ones,
which would be universally preferred to
all others if once known. You are aware
what huge whitings are served to us on
maigre days. Well, I selected the
cartilages of the heads of these fishes,
and you can scarcely imagine the delight
with which I welcomed the arrival of
each Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, as
affording me the means of increasing my
stock of pens; for I will freely confess
that my historical labors have been my
greatest solace and relief. While
retracing the past, I forget the
present; and traversing at will the path
of history I cease to remember that I am
myself a prisoner."

"But the ink," said Dantes; "of what did
you make your ink?"

"There was formerly a fireplace in my
dungeon," replied Faria, "but it was
closed up long ere I became an occupant
of this prison. Still, it must have been
many years in use, for it was thickly
covered with a coating of soot; this
soot I dissolved in a portion of the
wine brought to me every Sunday, and I
assure you a better ink cannot be
desired. For very important notes, for
which closer attention is required, I
pricked one of my fingers, and wrote
with my own blood."

"And when," asked Dantes, "may I see all
this?"

"Whenever you please," replied the abbe.

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

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



Chapter 17 The Abbe's Chamber.

After having passed with tolerable ease
through the subterranean passage, which,
however, did not admit of their holding
themselves erect, the two friends
reached the further end of the corridor,
into which the abbe's cell opened; from
that point the passage became much
narrower, and barely permitted one to
creep through on hands and knees. The
floor of the abbe's cell was paved, and
it had been by raising one of the stones
in the most obscure corner that Faria
had to been able to commence the
laborious task of which Dantes had
witnessed the completion.

As he entered the chamber of his friend,
Dantes cast around one eager and
searching glance in quest of the
expected marvels, but nothing more than
common met his view.

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

"Look at this ray of light which enters
by my window," said the abbe, "and then
observe the lines traced on the wall.
Well, by means of these lines, which are
in accordance with the double motion of
the earth, and the ellipse it describes
round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain
the precise hour with more minuteness
than if I possessed a watch; for that
might be broken or deranged in its
movements, while the sun and earth never
vary in their appointed paths."

This last explanation was wholly lost
upon Dantes, who had always imagined,
from seeing the sun rise from behind the
mountains and set in the Mediterranean,
that it moved, and not the earth. A
double movement of the globe he
inhabited, and of which he could feel
nothing, appeared to him perfectly
impossible. Each word that fell from his
companion's lips seemed fraught with the
mysteries of science, as worthy of
digging out as the gold and diamonds in
the mines of Guzerat and Golconda, which
he could just recollect having visited
during a voyage made in his earliest
youth.

"Come," said he to the abbe, "I am
anxious to see your treasures."

The abbe smiled, and, proceeding to the
disused fireplace, raised, by the help
of his chisel, a long stone, which had
doubtless been the hearth, beneath which
was a cavity of considerable depth,
serving as a safe depository of the
articles mentioned to Dantes.

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

"Oh, your great work on the monarchy of
Italy!"

Faria then drew forth from his
hiding-place three or four rolls of
linen, laid one over the other, like
folds of papyrus. These rolls consisted
of slips of cloth about four inches wide
and eighteen long; they were all
carefully numbered and closely covered
with writing, so legible that Dantes
could easily read it, as well as make
out the sense -- it being in Italian, a
language he, as a Provencal, perfectly
understood.

"There," said he, "there is the work
complete. I wrote the word finis at the
end of the sixty-eighth strip about a
week ago. I have torn up two of my
shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I
was master of, to complete the precious
pages. Should I ever get out of prison
and find in all Italy a printer
courageous enough to publish what I have
composed, my literary reputation is
forever secured."

"I see," answered Dantes. "Now let me
behold the curious pens with which you
have written your work."

"Look!" said Faria, showing to the young
man a slender stick about six inches
long, and much resembling the size of
the handle of a fine painting-brush, to
the end of which was tied, by a piece of
thread, one of those cartilages of which
the abbe had before spoken to Dantes; it
was pointed, and divided at the nib like
an ordinary pen. Dantes examined it with
intense admiration, then looked around
to see the instrument with which it had
been shaped so correctly into form.

"Ah, yes," said Faria; "the penknife.
That's my masterpiece. I made it, as
well as this larger knife, out of an old
iron candlestick." The penknife was
sharp and keen as a razor; as for the
other knife, it would serve a double
purpose, and with it one could cut and
thrust.

Dantes examined the various articles
shown to him with the same attention
that he had bestowed on the curiosities
and strange tools exhibited in the shops
at Marseilles as the works of the
savages in the South Seas from whence
they had been brought by the different
trading vessels.

"As for the ink," said Faria, "I told
you how I managed to obtain that -- and
I only just make it from time to time,
as I require it."

"One thing still puzzles me," observed
Dantes, "and that is how you managed to
do all this by daylight?"

"I worked at night also," replied Faria.

"Night! -- why, for heaven's sake, are
your eyes like cats', that you can see
to work in the dark?"

"Indeed they are not; but God has
supplied man with the intelligence that
enables him to overcome the limitations
of natural conditions. I furnished
myself with a light."

"You did? Pray tell me how."

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

"But light?"

"Here are two flints and a piece of
burnt linen."

"And matches?"

"I pretended that I had a disorder of
the skin, and asked for a little
sulphur, which was readily supplied."
Dantes laid the different things he had
been looking at on the table, and stood
with his head drooping on his breast, as
though overwhelmed by the perseverance
and strength of Faria's mind.

"You have not seen all yet," continued
Faria, "for I did not think it wise to
trust all my treasures in the same
hiding-place. Let us shut this one up."
They put the stone back in its place;
the abbe sprinkled a little dust over it
to conceal the traces of its having been
removed, rubbed his foot well on it to
make it assume the same appearance as
the other, and then, going towards his
bed, he removed it from the spot it
stood in. Behind the head of the bed,
and concealed by a stone fitting in so
closely as to defy all suspicion, was a
hollow space, and in this space a ladder
of cords between twenty-five and thirty
feet in length. Dantes closely and
eagerly examined it; he found it firm,
solid, and compact enough to bear any
weight.

"Who supplied you with the materials for
making this wonderful work?"

"I tore up several of my shirts, and
ripped out the seams in the sheets of my
bed, during my three years' imprisonment
at Fenestrelle; and when I was removed
to the Chateau d'If, I managed to bring
the ravellings with me, so that I have
been able to finish my work here."

"And was it not discovered that your
sheets were unhemmed?"

"Oh, no, for when I had taken out the
thread I required, I hemmed the edges
over again."

"With what?"

"With this needle," said the abbe, as,
opening his ragged vestments, he showed
Dantes a long, sharp fish-bone, with a
small perforated eye for the thread, a
small portion of which still remained in
it. "I once thought," continued Faria,
"of removing these iron bars, and
letting myself down from the window,
which, as you see, is somewhat wider
than yours, although I should have
enlarged it still more preparatory to my
flight; however, I discovered that I
should merely have dropped into a sort
of inner court, and I therefore
renounced the project altogether as too
full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I
carefully preserved my ladder against
one of those unforeseen opportunities of
which I spoke just now, and which sudden
chance frequently brings about." While
affecting to be deeply engaged in
examining the ladder, the mind of Dantes
was, in fact, busily occupied by the
idea that a person so intelligent,
ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbe
might probably be able to solve the dark
mystery of his own misfortunes, where he
himself could see nothing.

"What are you thinking of?" asked the
abbe smilingly, imputing the deep
abstraction in which his visitor was
plunged to the excess of his awe and
wonder.

"I was reflecting, in the first place,"
replied Dantes, "upon the enormous
degree of intelligence and ability you
must have employed to reach the high
perfection to which you have attained.
What would you not have accomplished if
you had been free?"

"Possibly nothing at all; the overflow
of my brain would probably, in a state
of freedom, have evaporated in a
thousand follies; misfortune is needed
to bring to light the treasures of the
human intellect. Compression is needed
to explode gunpowder. Captivity has
brought my mental faculties to a focus;
and you are well aware that from the
collision of clouds electricity is
produced -- from electricity, lightning,
from lightning, illumination."

"No," replied Dantes. "I know nothing.
Some of your words are to me quite empty
of meaning. You must be blessed indeed
to possess the knowledge you have."

The abbe smiled. "Well," said he, "but
you had another subject for your
thoughts; did you not say so just now?"

"I did!"

"You have told me as yet but one of
them -- let me hear the other."

"It was this, -- that while you had
related to me all the particulars of
your past life, you were perfectly
unacquainted with mine."

"Your life, my young friend, has not
been of sufficient length to admit of
your having passed through any very
important events."

"It has been long enough to inflict on
me a great and undeserved misfortune. I
would fain fix the source of it on man
that I may no longer vent reproaches
upon heaven."

"Then you profess ignorance of the crime
with which you are charged?"

"I do, indeed; and this I swear by the
two beings most dear to me upon
earth, -- my father and Mercedes."

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

Dantes obeyed, and commenced what he
called his history, but which consisted
only of the account of a voyage to
India, and two or three voyages to the
Levant until he arrived at the recital
of his last cruise, with the death of
Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a
packet to be delivered by himself to the
grand marshal; his interview with that
personage, and his receiving, in place
of the packet brought, a letter
addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier -- his
arrival at Marseilles, and interview
with his father -- his affection for
Mercedes, and their nuptual feast -- his
arrest and subsequent examination, his
temporary detention at the Palais de
Justice, and his final imprisonment in
the Chateau d'If. From this point
everything was a blank to Dantes -- he
knew nothing more, not even the length
of time he had been imprisoned. His
recital finished, the abbe reflected
long and earnestly.

"There is," said he, at the end of his
meditations, "a clever maxim, which
bears upon what I was saying to you some
little while ago, and that is, that
unless wicked ideas take root in a
naturally depraved mind, human nature,
in a right and wholesome state, revolts
at crime. Still, from an artificial
civilization have originated wants,
vices, and false tastes, which
occasionally become so powerful as to
stifle within us all good feelings, and
ultimately to lead us into guilt and
wickedness. From this view of things,
then, comes the axiom that if you visit
to discover the author of any bad
action, seek first to discover the
person to whom the perpetration of that
bad action could be in any way
advantageous. Now, to apply it in your
case, -- to whom could your
disappearance have been serviceable?"

"To no one, by heaven! I was a very
insignificant person."

"Do not speak thus, for your reply
evinces neither logic nor philosophy;
everything is relative, my dear young
friend, from the king who stands in the
way of his successor, to the employee
who keeps his rival out of a place. Now,
in the event of the king's death, his
successor inherits a crown, -- when the
employee dies, the supernumerary steps
into his shoes, and receives his salary
of twelve thousand livres. Well, these
twelve thousand livres are his civil
list, and are as essential to him as the
twelve millions of a king. Every one,
from the highest to the lowest degree,
has his place on the social ladder, and
is beset by stormy passions and
conflicting interests, as in Descartes'
theory of pressure and impulsion. But
these forces increase as we go higher,
so that we have a spiral which in
defiance of reason rests upon the apex
and not on the base. Now let us return
to your particular world. You say you
were on the point of being made captain
of the Pharaon?"

"Yes."

"And about to become the husband of a
young and lovely girl?"

"Yes."

"Now, could any one have had any
interest in preventing the
accomplishment of these two things? But
let us first settle the question as to
its being the interest of any one to
hinder you from being captain of the
Pharaon. What say you?"

"I cannot believe such was the case. I
was generally liked on board, and had
the sailors possessed the right of
selecting a captain themselves, I feel
convinced their choice would have fallen
on me. There was only one person among
the crew who had any feeling of ill-will
towards me. I had quarelled with him
some time previously, and had even
challenged him to fight me; but he
refused."

"Now we are getting on. And what was
this man's name?"

"Danglars."

"What rank did he hold on board?"

"He was supercargo."

"And had you been captain, should you
have retained him in his employment?"

"Not if the choice had remained with me,
for I had frequently observed
inaccuracies in his accounts."

"Good again! Now then, tell me, was any
person present during your last
conversation with Captain Leclere?"

"No; we were quite alone."

"Could your conversation have been
overheard by any one?"

"It might, for the cabin door was
open -- and -- stay; now I recollect, --
Danglars himself passed by just as
Captain Leclere was giving me the packet
for the grand marshal."

"That's better," cried the abbe; "now we
are on the right scent. Did you take
anybody with you when you put into the
port of Elba?"

"Nobody."

"Somebody there received your packet,
and gave you a letter in place of it, I
think?"

"Yes; the grand marshal did."

"And what did you do with that letter?"

"Put it into my portfolio."

"You had your portfolio with you, then?
Now, how could a sailor find room in his
pocket for a portfolio large enough to
contain an official letter?"

"You are right; it was left on board."

"Then it was not till your return to the
ship that you put the letter in the
portfolio?"

"No."

"And what did you do with this same
letter while returning from
Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?"

"I carried it in my hand."

"So that when you went on board the
Pharaon, everybody could see that you
held a letter in your hand?"

"Yes."

"Danglars, as well as the rest?"

"Danglars, as well as others."

"Now, listen to me, and try to recall
every circumstance attending your
arrest. Do you recollect the words in
which the information against you was
formulated?"

"Oh yes, I read it over three times, and
the words sank deeply into my memory."

"Repeat it to me."

Dantes paused a moment, then said, "This
is it, word for word: `The king's
attorney is informed by a friend to the
throne and religion, that one Edmond
Dantes, mate on board the Pharaon, this
day arrived from Smyrna, after having
touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has
been intrusted by Murat with a packet
for the usurper; again, by the usurper,
with a letter for the Bonapartist Club
in Paris. This proof of his guilt may be
procured by his immediate arrest, as the
letter will be found either about his
person, at his father's residence, or in
his cabin on board the Pharaon.'" The
abbe shrugged his shoulders. "The thing
is clear as day," said he; "and you must
have had a very confiding nature, as
well as a good heart, not to have
suspected the origin of the whole
affair."

"Do you really think so? Ah, that would
indeed be infamous."

"How did Danglars usually write?"

"In a handsome, running hand."

"And how was the anonymous letter
written?"

"Backhanded." Again the abbe smiled.
"Disguised."

"It was very boldly written, if
disguised."

"Stop a bit," said the abbe, taking up
what he called his pen, and, after
dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a
piece of prepared linen, with his left
hand, the first two or three words of
the accusation. Dantes drew back, and
gazed on the abbe with a sensation
almost amounting to terror.

"How very astonishing!" cried he at
length. "Why your writing exactly
resembles that of the accusation."

"Simply because that accusation had been
written with the left hand; and I have
noticed that" --

"What?"

"That while the writing of different
persons done with the right hand varies,
that performed with the left hand is
invariably uniform."

"You have evidently seen and observed
everything."

"Let us proceed."

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"Now as regards the second question."

"I am listening."

"Was there any person whose interest it
was to prevent your marriage with
Mercedes?"

"Yes; a young man who loved her."

"And his name was" --

"Fernand."

"That is a Spanish name, I think?"

"He was a Catalan."

"You imagine him capable of writing the
letter?"

"Oh, no; he would more likely have got
rid of me by sticking a knife into me."

"That is in strict accordance with the
Spanish character; an assassination they
will unhesitatingly commit, but an act
of cowardice, never."

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

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

"To no one."

"Not even to your mistress?"

"No, not even to my betrothed."

"Then it is Danglars."

"I feel quite sure of it now."

"Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars
acquainted with Fernand?"

"No -- yes, he was. Now I recollect" --

"What?"

"To have seen them both sitting at table
together under an arbor at Pere
Pamphile's the evening before the day
fixed for my wedding. They were in
earnest conversation. Danglars was
joking in a friendly way, but Fernand
looked pale and agitated."

"Were they alone?"

"There was a third person with them whom
I knew perfectly well, and who had, in
all probability made their acquaintance;
he was a tailor named Caderousse, but he
was very drunk. Stay! -- stay! -- How
strange that it should not have occurred
to me before! Now I remember quite well,
that on the table round which they were
sitting were pens, ink, and paper. Oh,
the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!"
exclaimed Dantes, pressing his hand to
his throbbing brows.

"Is there anything else I can assist you
in discovering, besides the villany of
your friends?" inquired the abbe with a
laugh.

"Yes, yes," replied Dantes eagerly; "I
would beg of you, who see so completely
to the depths of things, and to whom the
greatest mystery seems but an easy
riddle, to explain to me how it was that
I underwent no second examination, was
never brought to trial, and, above all,
was condemned without ever having had
sentence passed on me?"

"That is altogether a different and more
serious matter," responded the abbe.
"The ways of justice are frequently too
dark and mysterious to be easily
penetrated. All we have hitherto done in
the matter has been child's play. If you
wish me to enter upon the more difficult
part of the business, you must assist me
by the most minute information on every
point."

"Pray ask me whatever questions you
please; for, in good truth, you see more
clearly into my life than I do myself."

"In the first place, then, who examined
you, -- the king's attorney, his deputy,
or a magistrate?"

"The deputy."

"Was he young or old?"

"About six or seven and twenty years of
age, I should say."

"So," answered the abbe. "Old enough to
be ambitions, but too young to be
corrupt. And how did he treat you?"

"With more of mildness than severity."

"Did you tell him your whole story?"

"I did."

"And did his conduct change at all in
the course of your examination?"

"He did appear much disturbed when he
read the letter that had brought me into
this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by
my misfortune."

"By your misfortune?"

"Yes."

"Then you feel quite sure that it was
your misfortune he deplored?"

"He gave me one great proof of his
sympathy, at any rate."

"And that?"

"He burnt the sole evidence that could
at all have criminated me."

"What? the accusation?"

"No; the letter."

"Are you sure?"

"I saw it done."

"That alters the case. This man might,
after all, be a greater scoundrel than
you have thought possible."

"Upon my word," said Dantes, "you make
me shudder. Is the world filled with
tigers and crocodiles?"

"Yes; and remember that two-legged
tigers and crocodiles are more dangerous
than the others."

"Never mind; let us go on."

"With all my heart! You tell me he
burned the letter?"

"He did; saying at the same time, `You
see I thus destroy the only proof
existing against you.'"

"This action is somewhat too sublime to
be natural."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it. To whom was this
letter addressed?"

"To M. Noirtier, No. 13 Coq-Heron,
Paris."

"Now can you conceive of any interest
that your heroic deputy could possibly
have had in the destruction of that
letter?"

"Why, it is not altogether impossible he
might have had, for he made me promise
several times never to speak of that
letter to any one, assuring me he so
advised me for my own interest; and,
more than this, he insisted on my taking
a solemn oath never to utter the name
mentioned in the address."

"Noirtier!" repeated the abbe;
"Noirtier! -- I knew a person of that
name at the court of the Queen of
Etruria, -- a Noirtier, who had been a
Girondin during the Revolution! What was
your deputy called?"

"De Villefort!" The abbe burst into a
fit of laughter, while Dantes gazed on
him in utter astonishment.

"What ails you?" said he at length.

"Do you see that ray of sunlight?"

"I do."

"Well, the whole thing is more clear to
me than that sunbeam is to you. Poor
fellow! poor young man! And you tell me
this magistrate expressed great sympathy
and commiseration for you?"

"He did."

"And the worthy man destroyed your
compromising letter?"

"Yes."

"And then made you swear never to utter
the name of Noirtier?"

"Yes."

"Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton,
can you not guess who this Noirtier was,
whose very name he was so careful to
keep concealed? Noirtier was his
father."

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of
Dantes, or hell opened its yawning gulf
before him, he could not have been more
completely transfixed with horror than
he was at the sound of these unexpected
words. Starting up, he clasped his hands
around his head as though to prevent his
very brain from bursting, and exclaimed,
"His father! His father!"

"Yes, his father," replied the abbe;
"his right name was Noirtier de
Villefort." At this instant a bright
light shot through the mind of Dantes,
and cleared up all that had been dark
and obscure before. The change that had
come over Villefort during the
examination, the destruction of the
letter, the exacted promise, the almost
supplicating tones of the magistrate,
who seemed rather to implore mercy than
to pronounce punishment, -- all returned
with a stunning force to his memory. He
cried out, and staggered against the
wall like a drunken man, then he hurried
to the opening that led from the abbe's
cell to his own, and said, "I must be
alone, to think over all this."

When he regained his dungeon, he threw
himself on his bed, where the turnkey
found him in the evening visit, sitting
with fixed gaze and contracted features,
dumb and motionless as a statue. During
these hours of profound meditation,
which to him had seemed only minutes, he
had formed a fearful resolution, and
bound himself to its fulfilment by a
solemn oath.

Dantes was at length roused from his
revery by the voice of Faria, who,
having also been visited by his jailer,
had come to invite his fellow-sufferer
to share his supper. The reputation of
being out of his mind, though harmlessly
and even amusingly so, had procured for
the abbe unusual privileges. He was
supplied with bread of a finer, whiter
quality than the usual prison fare, and
even regaled each Sunday with a small
quantity of wine. Now this was a Sunday,
and the abbe had come to ask his young
companion to share the luxuries with
him. Dantes followed; his features were
no longer contracted, and now wore their
usual expression, but there was that in
his whole appearance that bespoke one
who had come to a fixed and desperate
resolve. Faria bent on him his
penetrating eye: "I regret now," said
he, "having helped you in your late
inquiries, or having given you the
information I did."

"Why so?" inquired Dantes.

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

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

Again the abbe looked at him, then
mournfully shook his head; but in
accordance with Dantes' request, he
began to speak of other matters. The
elder prisoner was one of those persons
whose conversation, like that of all who
have experienced many trials, contained
many useful and important hints as well
as sound information; but it was never
egotistical, for the unfortunate man
never alluded to his own sorrows. Dantes
listened with admiring attention to all
he said; some of his remarks
corresponded with what he already knew,
or applied to the sort of knowledge his
nautical life had enabled him to
acquire. A part of the good abbe's
words, however, were wholly
incomprehensible to him; but, like the
aurora which guides the navigator in
northern latitudes, opened new vistas to
the inquiring mind of the listener, and
gave fantastic glimpses of new horizons,
enabling him justly to estimate the
delight an intellectual mind would have
in following one so richly gifted as
Faria along the heights of truth, where
he was so much at home.

"You must teach me a small part of what
you know," said Dantes, "if only to
prevent your growing weary of me. I can
well believe that so learned a person as
yourself would prefer absolute solitude
to being tormented with the company of
one as ignorant and uninformed as
myself. If you will only agree to my
request, I promise you never to mention
another word about escaping." The abbe
smiled. "Alas, my boy," said he, "human
knowledge is confined within very narrow
limits; and when I have taught you
mathematics, physics, history, and the
three or four modern languages with
which I am acquainted, you will know as
much as I do myself. Now, it will
scarcely require two years for me to
communicate to you the stock of learning
I possess."

"Two years!" exclaimed Dantes; "do you
really believe I can acquire all these
things in so short a time?"

"Not their application, certainly, but
their principles you may; to learn is
not to know; there are the learners and
the learned. Memory makes the one,
philosophy the other."

"But cannot one learn philosophy?"

"Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the
application of the sciences to truth; it
is like the golden cloud in which the
Messiah went up into heaven."

"Well, then," said Dantes, "What shall
you teach me first? I am in a hurry to
begin. I want to learn."

"Everything," said the abbe. And that
very evening the prisoners sketched a
plan of education, to be entered upon
the following day. Dantes possessed a
prodigious memory, combined with an
astonishing quickness and readiness of
conception; the mathematical turn of his
mind rendered him apt at all kinds of
calculation, while his naturally
poetical feelings threw a light and
pleasing veil over the dry reality of
arithmetical computation, or the rigid
severity of geometry. He already knew
Italian, and had also picked up a little
of the Romaic dialect during voyages to
the East; and by the aid of these two
languages he easily comprehended the
construction of all the others, so that
at the end of six months he began to
speak Spanish, English, and German. In
strict accordance with the promise made
to the abbe, Dantes spoke no more of
escape. Perhaps the delight his studies
afforded him left no room for such
thoughts; perhaps the recollection that
he had pledged his word (on which his
sense of honor was keen) kept him from
referring in any way to the
possibilities of flight. Days, even
months, passed by unheeded in one rapid
and instructive course. At the end of a
year Dantes was a new man. Dantes
observed, however, that Faria, in spite
of the relief his society afforded,
daily grew sadder; one thought seemed
incessantly to harass and distract his
mind. Sometimes he would fall into long
reveries, sigh heavily and
involuntarily, then suddenly rise, and,
with folded arms, begin pacing the
confined space of his dungeon. One day
he stopped all at once, and exclaimed,
"Ah, if there were no sentinel!"

"There shall not be one a minute longer
than you please," said Dantes, who had
followed the working of his thoughts as
accurately as though his brain were
enclosed in crystal so clear as to
display its minutest operations.

"I have already told you," answered the
abbe, "that I loathe the idea of
shedding blood."

"And yet the murder, if you choose to
call it so, would be simply a measure of
self-preservation."

"No matter! I could never agree to it."

"Still, you have thought of it?"

"Incessantly, alas!" cried the abbe.

"And you have discovered a means of
regaining our freedom, have you not?"
asked Dantes eagerly.

"I have; if it were only possible to
place a deaf and blind sentinel in the
gallery beyond us."

"He shall be both blind and deaf,"
replied the young man, with an air of
determination that made his companion
shudder.

"No, no," cried the abbe; "impossible!"
Dantes endeavored to renew the subject;
the abbe shook his head in token of
disapproval, and refused to make any
further response. Three months passed
away.

"Are you strong?" the abbe asked one day
of Dantes. The young man, in reply, took
up the chisel, bent it into the form of
a horseshoe, and then as readily
straightened it.

"And will you engage not to do any harm
to the sentry, except as a last resort?"

"I promise on my honor."

"Then," said the abbe, "we may hope to
put our design into execution."

"And how long shall we be in
accomplishing the necessary work?"

"At least a year."

"And shall we begin at once?"

"At once."

"We have lost a year to no purpose!"
cried Dantes.

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

"Forgive me!" cried Edmond, blushing
deeply.

"Tut, tut!" answered the abbe, "man is
but man after all, and you are about the
best specimen of the genus I have ever
known. Come, let me show you my plan."
The abbe then showed Dantes the sketch
he had made for their escape. It
consisted of a plan of his own cell and
that of Dantes, with the passage which
united them. In this passage he proposed
to drive a level as they do in mines;
this level would bring the two prisoners
immediately beneath the gallery where
the sentry kept watch; once there, a
large excavation would be made, and one
of the flag-stones with which the
gallery was paved be so completely
loosened that at the desired moment it
would give way beneath the feet of the
soldier, who, stunned by his fall, would
be immediately bound and gagged by
Dantes before he had power to offer any
resistance. The prisoners were then to
make their way through one of the
gallery windows, and to let themselves
down from the outer walls by means of
the abbe's ladder of cords. Dantes' eyes
sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his
hands with delight at the idea of a plan
so simple, yet apparently so certain to
succeed.

That very day the miners began their
labors, with a vigor and alacrity
proportionate to their long rest from
fatigue and their hopes of ultimate
success. Nothing interrupted the
progress of the work except the
necessity that each was under of
returning to his cell in anticipation of
the turnkey's visits. They had learned
to distinguish the almost imperceptible
sound of his footsteps as he descended
towards their dungeons, and happily,
never failed of being prepared for his
coming. The fresh earth excavated during
their present work, and which would have
entirely blocked up the old passage, was
thrown, by degrees and with the utmost
precaution, out of the window in either
Faria's or Dantes' cell, the rubbish
being first pulverized so finely that
the night wind carried it far away
without permitting the smallest trace to
remain. More than a year had been
consumed in this undertaking, the only
tools for which had been a chisel, a
knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still
continuing to instruct Dantes by
conversing with him, sometimes in one
language, sometimes in another; at
others, relating to him the history of
nations and great men who from time to
time have risen to fame and trodden the
path of glory.

The abbe was a man of the world, and
had, moreover, mixed in the first
society of the day; he wore an air of
melancholy dignity which Dantes, thanks
to the imitative powers bestowed on him
by nature, easily acquired, as well as
that outward polish and politeness he
had before been wanting in, and which is
seldom possessed except by those who
have been placed in constant intercourse
with persons of high birth and breeding.
At the end of fifteen months the level
was finished, and the excavation
completed beneath the gallery, and the
two workmen could distinctly hear the
measured tread of the sentinel as he
paced to and fro over their heads.

Compelled, as they were, to await a
night sufficiently dark to favor their
flight, they were obliged to defer their
final attempt till that auspicious
moment should arrive; their greatest
dread now was lest the stone through
which the sentry was doomed to fall
should give way before its right time,
and this they had in some measure
provided against by propping it up with
a small beam which they had discovered
in the walls through which they had
worked their way. Dantes was occupied in
arranging this piece of wood when he
heard Faria, who had remained in
Edmond's cell for the purpose of cutting
a peg to secure their rope-ladder, call
to him in a tone indicative of great
suffering. Dantes hastened to his
dungeon, where he found him standing in
the middle of the room, pale as death,
his forehead streaming with
perspiration, and his hands clinched
tightly together.

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

"Quick! quick!" returned the abbe,
"listen to what I have to say." Dantes
looked in fear and wonder at the livid
countenance of Faria, whose eyes,
already dull and sunken, were surrounded
by purple circles, while his lips were
white as those of a corpse, and his very
hair seemed to stand on end.

"Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?"
cried Dantes, letting his chisel fall to
the floor.

"Alas," faltered out the abbe, "all is
over with me. I am seized with a
terrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can
feel that the paroxysm is fast
approaching. I had a similar attack the
year previous to my imprisonment. This
malady admits but of one remedy; I will
tell you what that is. Go into my cell
as quickly as you can; draw out one of
the feet that support the bed; you will
find it has been hollowed out for the
purpose of containing a small phial you
will see there half-filled with a
red-looking fluid. Bring it to me -- or
rather -- no, no! -- I may be found
here, therefore help me back to my room
while I have the strength to drag myself
along. Who knows what may happen, or how
long the attack may last?"

In spite of the magnitude of the
misfortune which thus suddenly
frustrated his hopes, Dantes did not
lose his presence of mind, but descended
into the passage, dragging his
unfortunate companion with him; then,
half-carrying, half-supporting him, he
managed to reach the abbe's chamber,
when he immediately laid the sufferer on
his bed.

"Thanks," said the poor abbe, shivering
as though his veins were filled with
ice. "I am about to be seized with a fit
of catalepsy; when it comes to its
height I shall probably lie still and
motionless as though dead, uttering
neither sigh nor groan. On the other
hand, the symptoms may be much more
violent, and cause me to fall into
fearful convulsions, foam at the mouth,
and cry out loudly. Take care my cries
are not heard, for if they are it is
more than probable I should be removed
to another part of the prison, and we be
separated forever. When I become quite
motionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse,
then, and not before, -- be careful
about this, -- force open my teeth with
the knife, pour from eight to ten drops
of the liquor containted in the phial
down my throat, and I may perhaps
revive."

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

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

So sudden and violent was the fit that
the unfortunate prisoner was unable to
complete the sentence; a violent
convulsion shook his whole frame, his
eyes started from their sockets, his
mouth was drawn on one side, his cheeks
became purple, he struggled, foamed,
dashed himself about, and uttered the
most dreadful cries, which, however,
Dantes prevented from being heard by
covering his head with the blanket. The
fit lasted two hours; then, more
helpless than an infant, and colder and
paler than marble, more crushed and
broken than a reed trampled under foot,
he fell back, doubled up in one last
convulsion, and became as rigid as a
corpse.

Edmond waited till life seemed extinct
in the body of his friend, then, taking
up the knife, he with difficulty forced
open the closely fixed jaws, carefully
administered the appointed number of
drops, and anxiously awaited the result.
An hour passed away and the old man gave
no sign of returning animation. Dantes
began to fear he had delayed too long
ere he administered the remedy, and,
thrusting his hands into his hair,
continued gazing on the lifeless
features of his friend. At length a
slight color tinged the livid cheeks,
consciousness returned to the dull, open
eyeballs, a faint sigh issued from the
lips, and the sufferer made a feeble
effort to move.

"He is saved! He is saved!" cried Dantes
in a paroxysm of delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak,
but he pointed with evident anxiety
towards the door. Dantes listened, and
plainly distinguished the approaching
steps of the jailer. It was therefore
near seven o'clock; but Edmond's anxiety
had put all thoughts of time out of his
head. The young man sprang to the
entrance, darted through it, carefully
drawing the stone over the opening, and
hurried to his cell. He had scarcely
done so before the door opened, and the
jailer saw the prisoner seated as usual
on the side of his bed. Almost before
the key had turned in the lock, and
before the departing steps of the jailer
had died away in the long corridor he
had to traverse, Dantes, whose restless
anxiety concerning his friend left him
no desire to touch the food brought him,
hurried back to the abbe's chamber, and
raising the stone by pressing his head
against it, was soon beside the sick
man's couch. Faria had now fully
regained his consciousness, but he still
lay helpless and exhausted.

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

"And why not?" asked the young man. "Did
you fancy yourself dying?"

"No, I had no such idea; but, knowing
that all was ready for flight, I thought
you might have made your escape." The
deep glow of indignation suffused the
cheeks of Dantes.

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

"At least," said the abbe, "I now see
how wrong such an opinion would have
been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully
exhausted and debilitated by this
attack."

"Be of good cheer," replied Dantes;
"your strength will return." And as he
spoke he seated himself near the bed
beside Faria, and took his hands. The
abbe shook his head.

"The last attack I had," said he,
"lasted but half an hour, and after it I
was hungry, and got up without help; now
I can move neither my right arm nor leg,
and my head seems uncomfortable, which
shows that there has been a suffusion of
blood on the brain. The third attack
will either carry me off, or leave me
paralyzed for life."

"No, no," cried Dantes; "you are
mistaken -- you will not die! And your
third attack (if, indeed, you should
have another) will find you at liberty.
We shall save you another time, as we
have done this, only with a better
chance of success, because we shall be
able to command every requisite
assistance."

"My good Edmond," answered the abbe, "be
not deceived. The attack which has just
passed away, condemns me forever to the
walls of a prison. None can fly from a
dungeon who cannot walk."

"Well, we will wait, -- a week, a month,
two months, if need be, -- and meanwhile
your strength will return. Everything is
in readiness for our flight, and we can
select any time we choose. As soon as
you feel able to swim we will go."

"I shall never swim again," replied
Faria. "This arm is paralyzed; not for a
time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if
I am mistaken." The young man raised the
arm, which fell back by its own weight,
perfectly inanimate and helpless. A sigh
escaped him.

"You are convinced now, Edmond, are you
not?" asked the abbe. "Depend upon it, I
know what I say. Since the first attack
I experienced of this malady, I have
continually reflected on it. Indeed, I
expected it, for it is a family
inheritance; both my father and
grandfather died of it in a third
attack. The physician who prepared for
me the remedy I have twice successfully
taken, was no other than the celebrated
Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end
for me."

"The physician may be mistaken!"
exclaimed Dantes. "And as for your poor
arm, what difference will that make? I
can take you on my shoulders, and swim
for both of us."

"My son," said the abbe, "you, who are a
sailor and a swimmer, must know as well
as I do that a man so loaded would sink
before he had done fifty strokes. Cease,
then, to allow yourself to be duped by
vain hopes, that even your own excellent
heart refuses to believe in. Here I
shall remain till the hour of my
deliverance arrives, and that, in all
human probability, will be the hour of
my death. As for you, who are young and
active, delay not on my account, but
fly -- go-I give you back your promise."

"It is well," said Dantes. "Then I shall
also remain." Then, rising and extending
his hand with an air of solemnity over
the old man's head, he slowly added, "By
the blood of Christ I swear never to
leave you while you live."

Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded,
single-hearted, high-principled young
friend, and read in his countenance
ample confirmation of the sincerity of
his devotion and the loyalty of his
purpose.

"Thanks," murmured the invalid,
extending one hand. "I accept. You may
one of these days reap the reward of
your disinterested devotion. But as I
cannot, and you will not, quit this
place, it becomes necessary to fill up
the excavation beneath the soldier's
gallery; he might, by chance, hear the
hollow sound of his footsteps, and call
the attention of his officer to the
circumstance. That would bring about a
discovery which would inevitably lead to
our being separated. Go, then, and set
about this work, in which, unhappily, I
can offer you no assistance; keep at it
all night, if necessary, and do not
return here to-morrow till after the
jailer has visited me. I shall have
something of the greatest importance to
communicate to you."

Dantes took the hand of the abbe in his,
and affectionately pressed it. Faria
smiled encouragingly on him, and the
young man retired to his task, in the
spirit of obedience and respect which he
had sworn to show towards his aged
friend.



Chapter 18 The Treasure.

When Dantes returned next morning to the
chamber of his companion in captivity,
he found Faria seated and looking
composed. In the ray of light which
entered by the narrow window of his
cell, he held open in his left hand, of
which alone, it will be recollected, he
retained the use, a sheet of paper,
which, from being constantly rolled into
a small compass, had the form of a
cylinder, and was not easily kept open.
He did not speak, but showed the paper
to Dantes.

"What is that?" he inquired.

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

"I have looked at it with all possible
attention," said Dantes, "and I only see
a half-burnt paper, on which are traces
of Gothic characters inscribed with a
peculiar kind of ink."

"This paper, my friend," said Faria, "I
may now avow to you, since I have the
proof of your fidelity -- this paper is
my treasure, of which, from this day
forth, one-half belongs to you."

The sweat started forth on Dantes brow.
Until this day and for how long a
time! -- he had refrained from talking
of the treasure, which had brought upon
the abbe the accusation of madness. With
his instinctive delicacy Edmond had
preferred avoiding any touch on this
painful chord, and Faria had been
equally silent. He had taken the silence
of the old man for a return to reason;
and now these few words uttered by
Faria, after so painful a crisis, seemed
to indicate a serious relapse into
mental alienation.

"Your treasure?" stammered Dantes. Faria
smiled.

"Yes," said he. "You have, indeed, a
noble nature, Edmond, and I see by your
paleness and agitation what is passing
in your heart at this moment. No, be
assured, I am not mad. This treasure
exists, Dantes, and if I have not been
allowed to possess it, you will. Yes --
you. No one would listen or believe me,
because everyone thought me mad; but
you, who must know that I am not, listen
to me, and believe me so afterwards if
you will."

"Alas," murmured Edmond to himself,
"this is a terrible relapse! There was
only this blow wanting." Then he said
aloud, "My dear friend, your attack has,
perhaps, fatigued you; had you not
better repose awhile? To-morrow, if you
will, I will hear your narrative; but
to-day I wish to nurse you carefully.
Besides," he said, "a treasure is not a
thing we need hurry about."

"On the contrary, it is a matter of the
utmost importance, Edmond!" replied the
old man. "Who knows if to-morrow, or the
next day after, the third attack may not
come on? and then must not all be over?
Yes, indeed, I have often thought with a
bitter joy that these riches, which
would make the wealth of a dozen
families, will be forever lost to those
men who persecute me. This idea was one
of vengeance to me, and I tasted it
slowly in the night of my dungeon and
the despair of my captivity. But now I
have forgiven the world for the love of
you; now that I see you, young and with
a promising future, -- now that I think
of all that may result to you in the
good fortune of such a disclosure, I
shudder at any delay, and tremble lest I
should not assure to one as worthy as
yourself the possession of so vast an
amount of hidden wealth." Edmond turned
away his head with a sigh.

"You persist in your incredulity,
Edmond," continued Faria. "My words have
not convinced you. I see you require
proofs. Well, then, read this paper,
which I have never shown to any one."

"To-morrow, my dear friend," said
Edmond, desirous of not yielding to the
old man's madness. "I thought it was
understood that we should not talk of
that until to-morrow."

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

"I will not irritate him," thought
Edmond, and taking the paper, of which
half was wanting, -- having been burnt,
no doubt, by some accident, -- he
read: --

"This treasure, which may amount to
two... of Roman crowns in the most
distant a... of the second opening wh...
declare to belong to him alo... heir.
"25th April, l49"

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

"Why," replied Dantes, "I see nothing
but broken lines and unconnected words,
which are rendered illegible by fire."

"Yes, to you, my friend, who read them
for the first time; but not for me, who
have grown pale over them by many
nights' study, and have reconstructed
every phrase, completed every thought."

"And do you believe you have discovered
the hidden meaning?"

"I am sure I have, and you shall judge
for yourself; but first listen to the
history of this paper."

"Silence!" exclaimed Dantes. "Steps
approach -- I go -- adieu."

And Dantes, happy to escape the history
and explanation which would be sure to
confirm his belief in his friend's
mental instability, glided like a snake
along the narrow passage; while Faria,
restored by his alarm to a certain
amount of activity, pushed the stone
into place with his foot, and covered it
with a mat in order the more effectually
to avoid discovery.

It was the governor, who, hearing of
Faria's illness from the jailer, had
come in person to see him.

Faria sat up to receive him, avoiding
all gestures in order that he might
conceal from the governor the paralysis
that had already half stricken him with
death. His fear was lest the governor,
touched with pity, might order him to be
removed to better quarters, and thus
separate him from his young companion.
But fortunately this was not the case,
and the governor left him, convinced
that the poor madman, for whom in his
heart he felt a kind of affection, was
only troubled with a slight
indisposition.

During this time, Edmond, seated on his
bed with his head in his hands, tried to
collect his scattered thoughts. Faria,
since their first acquaintance, had been
on all points so rational and logical,
so wonderfully sagacious, in fact, that
he could not understand how so much
wisdom on all points could be allied
with madness. Was Faria deceived as to
his treasure, or was all the world
deceived as to Faria?

Dantes remained in his cell all day, not
daring to return to his friend, thinking
thus to defer the moment when he should
be convinced, once for all, that the
abbe was mad -- such a conviction would
be so terrible!

But, towards the evening after the hour
for the customary visit had gone by,
Faria, not seeing the young man appear,
tried to move and get over the distance
which separated them. Edmond shuddered
when he heard the painful efforts which
the old man made to drag himself along;
his leg was inert, and he could no
longer make use of one arm. Edmond was
obliged to assist him, for otherwise he
would not have been able to enter by the
small aperture which led to Dantes'
chamber.

"Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly,"
he said with a benignant smile. "You
thought to escape my munificence, but it
is in vain. Listen to me."

Edmond saw there was no escape, and
placing the old man on his bed, he
seated himself on the stool beside him.

"You know," said the abbe, "that I was
the secretary and intimate friend of
Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes
of that name. I owe to this worthy lord
all the happiness I ever knew. He was
not rich, although the wealth of his
family had passed into a proverb, and I
heard the phrase very often, `As rich as
a Spada.' But he, like public rumor,
lived on this reputation for wealth; his
palace was my paradise. I was tutor to
his nephews, who are dead; and when he
was alone in the world, I tried by
absolute devotion to his will, to make
up to him all he had done for me during
ten years of unremitting kindness. The
cardinal's house had no secrets for me.
I had often seen my noble patron
annotating ancient volumes, and eagerly
searching amongst dusty family
manuscripts. One day when I was
reproaching him for his unavailing
searches, and deploring the prostration
of mind that followed them, he looked at
me, and, smiling bitterly, opened a
volume relating to the History of the
City of Rome. There, in the twentieth
chapter of the Life of Pope Alexander
VI., were the following lines, which I
can never forget: --

"`The great wars of Romagna had ended;
Caesar Borgia, who had completed his
conquest, had need of money to purchase
all Italy. The pope had also need of
money to bring matters to an end with
Louis XII. King of France, who was
formidable still in spite of his recent
reverses; and it was necessary,
therefore, to have recourse to some
profitable scheme, which was a matter of
great difficulty in the impoverished
condition of exhausted Italy. His
holiness had an idea. He determined to
make two cardinals.'

"By choosing two of the greatest
personages of Rome, especially rich
men -- this was the return the holy
father looked for. In the first place,
he could sell the great appointments and
splendid offices which the cardinals
already held; and then he had the two
hats to sell besides. There was a third
point in view, which will appear
hereafter. The pope and Caesar Borgia
first found the two future cardinals;
they were Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held
four of the highest dignities of the
Holy See, and Caesar Spada, one of the
noblest and richest of the Roman
nobility; both felt the high honor of
such a favor from the pope. They were
ambitious, and Caesar Borgia soon found
purchasers for their appointments. The
result was, that Rospigliosi and Spada
paid for being cardinals, and eight
other persons paid for the offices the
cardinals held before their elevation,
and thus eight hundred thousand crowns
entered into the coffers of the
speculators.

"It is time now to proceed to the last
part of the speculation. The pope heaped
attentions upon Rospigliosi and Spada,
conferred upon them the insignia of the
cardinalate, and induced them to arrange
their affairs and take up their
residence at Rome. Then the pope and
Caesar Borgia invited the two cardinals
to dinner. This was a matter of dispute
between the holy father and his son.
Caesar thought they could make use of
one of the means which he always had
ready for his friends, that is to say,
in the first place, the famous key which
was given to certain persons with the
request that they go and open a
designated cupboard. This key was
furnished with a small iron point, -- a
negligence on the part of the locksmith.
When this was pressed to effect the
opening of the cupboard, of which the
lock was difficult, the person was
pricked by this small point, and died
next day. Then there was the ring with
the lion's head, which Caesar wore when
he wanted to greet his friends with a
clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand
thus favored, and at the end of
twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal.
Caesar proposed to his father, that they
should either ask the cardinals to open
the cupboard, or shake hands with them;
but Alexander VI., replied: `Now as to
the worthy cardinals, Spada and
Rospigliosi, let us ask both of them to
dinner, something tells me that we shall
get that money back. Besides, you
forget, Caesar, an indigestion declares
itself immediately, while a prick or a
bite occasions a delay of a day or two.'
Caesar gave way before such cogent
reasoning, and the cardinals were
consequently invited to dinner.

"The table was laid in a vineyard
belonging to the pope, near San
Pierdarena, a charming retreat which the
cardinals knew very well by report.
Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new
dignities, went with a good appetite and
his most ingratiating manner. Spada, a
prudent man, and greatly attached to his
only nephew, a young captain of the
highest promise, took paper and pen, and
made his will. He then sent word to his
nephew to wait for him near the
vineyard; but it appeared the servant
did not find him.

"Spada knew what these invitations
meant; since Christianity, so eminently
civilizing, had made progress in Rome,
it was no longer a centurion who came
from the tyrant with a message, `Caesar
wills that you die.' but it was a legate
a latere, who came with a smile on his
lips to say from the pope, `His holiness
requests you to dine with him.'

"Spada set out about two o'clock to San
Pierdarena. The pope awaited him. The
first sight that attracted the eyes of
Spada was that of his nephew, in full
costume, and Caesar Borgia paying him
most marked attentions. Spada turned
pale, as Caesar looked at him with an
ironical air, which proved that he had
anticipated all, and that the snare was
well spread. They began dinner and Spada
was only able to inquire of his nephew
if he had received his message. The
nephew replied no; perfectly
comprehending the meaning of the
question. It was too late, for he had
already drunk a glass of excellent wine,
placed for him expressly by the pope's
butler. Spada at the same moment saw
another bottle approach him, which he
was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards
a physician declared they were both
poisoned through eating mushrooms. Spada
died on the threshold of the vineyard;
the nephew expired at his own door,
making signs which his wife could not
comprehend.

"Then Caesar and the pope hastened to
lay hands on the heritage, under
presence of seeking for the papers of
the dead man. But the inheritance
consisted in this only, a scrap of paper
on which Spada had written: -- `I
bequeath to my beloved nephew my
coffers, my books, and, amongst others,
my breviary with the gold corners, which
I beg he will preserve in remembrance of
his affectionate uncle.'

"The heirs sought everywhere, admired
the breviary, laid hands on the
furniture, and were greatly astonished
that Spada, the rich man, was really the
most miserable of uncles -- no
treasures -- unless they were those of
science, contained in the library and
laboratories. That was all. Caesar and
his father searched, examined,
scrutinized, but found nothing, or at
least very little; not exceeding a few
thousand crowns in plate, and about the
same in ready money; but the nephew had
time to say to his wife before he
expired: `Look well among my uncle's
papers; there is a will.'

"They sought even more thoroughly than
the august heirs had done, but it was
fruitless. There were two palaces and a
vineyard behind the Palatine Hill; but
in these days landed property had not
much value, and the two palaces and the
vineyard remained to the family since
they were beneath the rapacity of the
pope and his son. Months and years
rolled on. Alexander VI. died,
poisoned, -- you know by what mistake.
Caesar, poisoned at the same time,
escaped by shedding his skin like a
snake; but the new skin was spotted by
the poison till it looked like a
tiger's. Then, compelled to quit Rome,
he went and got himself obscurely killed
in a night skirmish, scarcely noticed in
history. After the pope's death and his
son's exile, it was supposed that the
Spada family would resume the splendid
position they had held before the
cardinal's time; but this was not the
case. The Spadas remained in doubtful
ease, a mystery hung over this dark
affair, and the public rumor was, that
Caesar, a better politician than his
father, had carried off from the pope
the fortune of the two cardinals. I say
the two, because Cardinal Rospigliosi,
who had not taken any precaution, was
completely despoiled.

"Up to this point," said Faria,
interrupting the thread of his
narrative, "this seems to you very
meaningless, no doubt, eh?"

"Oh, my friend," cried Dantes, "on the
contrary, it seems as if I were reading
a most interesting narrative; go on, I
beg of you."

"I will."

"The family began to get accustomed to
their obscurity. Years rolled on, and
amongst the descendants some were
soldiers, others diplomatists; some
churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich,
and some were ruined. I come now to the
last of the family, whose secretary I
was -- the Count of Spada. I had often
heard him complain of the disproportion
of his rank with his fortune; and I
advised him to invest all he had in an
annuity. He did so, and thus doubled his
income. The celebrated breviary remained
in the family, and was in the count's
possession. It had been handed down from
father to son; for the singular clause
of the only will that had been found,
had caused it to be regarded as a
genuine relic, preserved in the family
with superstitious veneration. It was an
illuminated book, with beautiful Gothic
characters, and so weighty with gold,
that a servant always carried it before
the cardinal on days of great solemnity.

"At the sight of papers of all sorts, --
titles, contracts, parchments, which
were kept in the archives of the family,
all descending from the poisoned
cardinal, I in my turn examined the
immense bundles of documents, like
twenty servitors, stewards, secretaries
before me; but in spite of the most
exhaustive researches, I found --
nothing. Yet I had read, I had even
written a precise history of the Borgia
family, for the sole purpose of assuring
myself whether any increase of fortune
had occurred to them on the death of the
Cardinal Caesar Spada; but could only
trace the acquisition of the property of
the Cardinal Rospigliosi, his companion
in misfortune.

" I was then almost assured that the
inheritance had neither profited the
Borgias nor the family, but had remained
unpossessed like the treasures of the
Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom
of the earth under the eyes of the
genie. I searched, ransacked, counted,
calculated a thousand and a thousand
times the income and expenditure of the
family for three hundred years. It was
useless. I remained in my ignorance, and
the Count of Spada in his poverty. My
patron died. He had reserved from his
annuity his family papers, his library,
composed of five thousand volumes, and
his famous breviary. All these he
bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman
crowns, which he had in ready money, on
condition that I would have anniversary
masses said for the repose of his soul,
and that I would draw up a genealogical
tree and history of his house. All this
I did scrupulously. Be easy, my dear
Edmond, we are near the conclusion.

"In 1807, a month before I was arrested,
and a fortnight after the death of the
Count of Spada, on the 25th of December
(you will see presently how the date
became fixed in my memory), I was
reading, for the thousandth time, the
papers I was arranging, for the palace
was sold to a stranger, and I was going
to leave Rome and settle at Florence,
intending to take with me twelve
thousand francs I possessed, my library,
and the famous breviary, when, tired
with my constant labor at the same
thing, and overcome by a heavy dinner I
had eaten, my head dropped on my hands,
and I fell asleep about three o'clock in
the afternoon. I awoke as the clock was
striking six. I raised my head; I was in
utter darkness. I rang for a light, but
as no one came, I determined to find one
for myself. It was indeed but
anticipating the simple manners which I
should soon be under the necessity of
adopting. I took a wax-candle in one
hand, and with the other groped about
for a piece of paper (my match-box being
empty), with which I proposed to get a
light from the small flame still playing
on the embers. Fearing, however, to make
use of any valuable piece of paper, I
hesitated for a moment, then recollected
that I had seen in the famous breviary,
which was on the table beside me, an old
paper quite yellow with age, and which
had served as a marker for centuries,
kept there by the request of the heirs.
I felt for it, found it, twisted it up
together, and putting it into the
expiring flame, set light to it.

"But beneath my fingers, as if by magic,
in proportion as the fire ascended, I
saw yellowish characters appear on the
paper. I grasped it in my hand, put out
the flame as quickly as I could, lighted
my taper in the fire itself, and opened
the crumpled paper with inexpressible
emotion, recognizing, when I had done
so, that these characters had been
traced in mysterious and sympathetic
ink, only appearing when exposed to the
fire; nearly one-third of the paper had
been consumed by the flame. It was that
paper you read this morning; read it
again, Dantes, and then I will complete
for you the incomplete words and
unconnected sense."

Faria, with an air of triumph, offered
the paper to Dantes, who this time read
the following words, traced with an ink
of a reddish color resembling rust: --

"This 25th day of April, 1498, be...
Alexander VI., and fearing that not...
he may desire to become my heir, and
re... and Bentivoglio, who were
poisoned,... my sole heir, that I have
bu... and has visited with me, that is,
in... Island of Monte Cristo, all I
poss... jewels, diamonds, gems; that I
alone... may amount to nearly two mil...
will find on raising the twentieth ro...
creek to the east in a right line. Two
open... in these caves; the treasure is
in the furthest a... which treasure I
bequeath and leave en... as my sole
heir. "25th April, 1498. "Caes...

"And now," said the abbe, "read this
other paper;" and he presented to Dantes
a second leaf with fragments of lines
written on it, which Edmond read as
follows: --

          "...ing invited to dine by his
        Holiness ...content with making
        me pay for my hat, ...serves for
        me the fate of Cardinals
        Caprara ...I declare to my
        nephew, Guido Spada ...ried in a
        place he knows ...the caves of
        the small ...essed of ingots,
        gold, money, ...know of the
        existence of this treasure,
        which ...lions of Roman crowns,
        and which he ...ck from the
        small ...ings have been
        made ...ngle in the
        second; ...tire to him ...ar
        Spada."

Faria followed him with an excited look.
"and now," he said, when he saw that
Dantes had read the last line, "put the
two fragments together, and judge for
yourself." Dantes obeyed, and the
conjointed pieces gave the following: --

"This 25th day of April, 1498, be...ing
invited to dine by his Holiness
Alexander VI., and fearing that
not...content with making me pay for my
hat, he may desire to become my heir,
and re...serves for me the fate of
Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who
were poisoned...I declare to my nephew,
Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I have
bu...ried in a place he knows and has
visited with me, that is, in...the caves
of the small Island of Monte Cristo all
I poss...ssed of ingots, gold, money,
jewels, diamonds, gems; that I
alone...know of the existence of this
treasure, which may amount to nearly two
mil...lions of Roman crowns, and which
he will find on raising the twentieth
ro...ck from the small creek to the east
in a right line. Two open...ings have
been made in these caves; the treasure
is in the furthest a...ngle in the
second; which treasure I bequeath and
leave en...tire to him as my sole heir.
"25th April, 1498. "Caes...ar Spada."

"Well, do you comprehend now?" inquired
Faria.

"It is the declaration of Cardinal
Spada, and the will so long sought for,"
replied Edmond, still incredulous.

"Yes; a thousand times, yes!"

"And who completed it as it now is?"

"I did. Aided by the remaining fragment,
I guessed the rest; measuring the length
of the lines by those of the paper, and
divining the hidden meaning by means of
what was in part revealed, as we are
guided in a cavern by the small ray of
light above us."

"And what did you do when you arrived at
this conclusion?"

"I resolved to set out, and did set out
at that very instant, carrying with me
the beginning of my great work, the
unity of the Italian kingdom; but for
some time the imperial police (who at
this period, quite contrary to what
Napoleon desired so soon as he had a son
born to him, wished for a partition of
provinces) had their eyes on me; and my
hasty departure, the cause of which they
were unable to guess, having aroused
their suspicions, I was arrested at the
very moment I was leaving Piombino.

"Now," continued Faria, addressing
Dantes with an almost paternal
expression, "now, my dear fellow, you
know as much as I do myself. If we ever
escape together, half this treasure is
yours; if I die here, and you escape
alone, the whole belongs to you."

"But," inquired Dantes hesitating, "has
this treasure no more legitimate
possessor in the world than ourselves?"

"No, no, be easy on that score; the
family is extinct. The last Count of
Spada, moreover, made me his heir,
bequeathing to me this symbolic
breviary, he bequeathed to me all it
contained; no, no, make your mind
satisfied on that point. If we lay hands
on this fortune, we may enjoy it without
remorse."

"And you say this treasure amounts
to" --

"Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly
thirteen millions of our money."*

* $2,600,000 in 1894.

"Impossible!" said Dantes, staggered at
the enormous amount.

"Impossible? and why?" asked the old
man. "The Spada family was one of the
oldest and most powerful families of the
fifteenth century; and in those times,
when other opportunities for investment
were wanting, such accumulations of gold
and jewels were by no means rare; there
are at this day Roman families perishing
of hunger, though possessed of nearly a
million in diamonds and jewels, handed
down by entail, and which they cannot
touch." Edmond thought he was in a
dream -- he wavered between incredulity
and joy.

"I have only kept this secret so long
from you," continued Faria, "that I
might test your character, and then
surprise you. Had we escaped before my
attack of catalepsy, I should have
conducted you to Monte Cristo; now," he
added, with a sigh, "it is you who will
conduct me thither. Well, Dantes, you do
not thank me?"

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

"You are my son, Dantes," exclaimed the
old man. "You are the child of my
captivity. My profession condemns me to
celibacy. God has sent you to me to
console, at one and the same time, the
man who could not be a father, and the
prisoner who could not get free." And
Faria extended the arm of which alone
the use remained to him to the young man
who threw himself upon his neck and
wept.



Chapter 19 The Third Attack.

Now that this treasure, which had so
long been the object of the abbe's
meditations, could insure the future
happiness of him whom Faria really loved
as a son, it had doubled its value in
his eyes, and every day he expatiated on
the amount, explaining to Dantes all the
good which, with thirteen or fourteen
millions of francs, a man could do in
these days to his friends; and then
Dantes' countenance became gloomy, for
the oath of vengeance he had taken
recurred to his memory, and he reflected
how much ill, in these times, a man with
thirteen or fourteen millions could do
to his enemies.

The abbe did not know the Island of
Monte Cristo; but Dantes knew it, and
had often passed it, situated
twenty-five miles from Pianosa, between
Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had
once touched there. This island was,
always had been, and still is,
completely deserted. It is a rock of
almost conical form, which looks as
though it had been thrust up by volcanic
force from the depth to the surface of
the ocean. Dantes drew a plan of the
island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantes
advice as to the means he should employ
to recover the treasure. But Dantes was
far from being as enthusiastic and
confident as the old man. It was past a
question now that Faria was not a
lunatic, and the way in which he had
achieved the discovery, which had given
rise to the suspicion of his madness,
increased Edmond's admiration of him;
but at the same time Dantes could not
believe that the deposit, supposing it
had ever existed, still existed; and
though he considered the treasure as by
no means chimerical, he yet believed it
was no longer there.

However, as if fate resolved on
depriving the prisoners of their last
chance, and making them understand that
they were condemned to perpetual
imprisonment, a new misfortune befell
them; the gallery on the sea side, which
had long been in ruins, was rebuilt.
They had repaired it completely, and
stopped up with vast masses of stone the
hole Dantes had partly filled in. But
for this precaution, which, it will be
remembered, the abbe had made to Edmond,
the misfortune would have been still
greater, for their attempt to escape
would have been detected, and they would
undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a
new, a stronger, and more inexorable
barrier was interposed to cut off the
realization of their hopes.

"You see," said the young man, with an
air of sorrowful resignation, to Faria,
"that God deems it right to take from me
any claim to merit for what you call my
devotion to you. I have promised to
remain forever with you, and now I could
not break my promise if I would. The
treasure will be no more mine than
yours, and neither of us will quit this
prison. But my real treasure is not
that, my dear friend, which awaits me
beneath the sombre rocks of Monte
Cristo, it is your presence, our living
together five or six hours a day, in
spite of our jailers; it is the rays of
intelligence you have elicited from my
brain, the languages you have implanted
in my memory, and which have taken root
there with all their philological
ramifications. These different sciences
that you have made so easy to me by the
depth of the knowledge you possess of
them, and the clearness of the
principles to which you have reduced
them -- this is my treasure, my beloved
friend, and with this you have made me
rich and happy. Believe me, and take
comfort, this is better for me than tons
of gold and cases of diamonds, even were
they not as problematical as the clouds
we see in the morning floating over the
sea, which we take for terra firma, and
which evaporate and vanish as we draw
near to them. To have you as long as
possible near me, to hear your eloquent
speech, -- which embellishes my mind,
strengthens my soul, and makes my whole
frame capable of great and terrible
things, if I should ever be free, -- so
fills my whole existence, that the
despair to which I was just on the point
of yielding when I knew you, has no
longer any hold over me; and this --
this is my fortune -- not chimerical,
but actual. I owe you my real good, my
present happiness; and all the
sovereigns of the earth, even Caesar
Borgia himself, could not deprive me of
this."

Thus, if not actually happy, yet the
days these two unfortunates passed
together went quickly. Faria, who for so
long a time had kept silence as to the
treasure, now perpetually talked of it.
As he had prophesied would be the case,
he remained paralyzed in the right arm
and the left leg, and had given up all
hope of ever enjoying it himself. But he
was continually thinking over some means
of escape for his young companion, and
anticipating the pleasure he would
enjoy. For fear the letter might be some
day lost or stolen, he compelled Dantes
to learn it by heart; and Dantes knew it
from the first to the last word. Then he
destroyed the second portion, assured
that if the first were seized, no one
would be able to discover its real
meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed
while Faria was giving instructions to
Dantes, -- instructions which were to
serve him when he was at liberty. Then,
once free, from the day and hour and
moment when he was so, he could have but
one only thought, which was, to gain
Monte Cristo by some means, and remain
there alone under some pretext which
would arouse no suspicions; and once
there, to endeavor to find the wonderful
caverns, and search in the appointed
spot, -- the appointed spot, be it
remembered, being the farthest angle in
the second opening.

In the meanwhile the hours passed, if
not rapidly, at least tolerably. Faria,
as we have said, without having
recovered the use of his hand and foot,
had regained all the clearness of his
understanding, and had gradually,
besides the moral instructions we have
detailed, taught his youthful companion
the patient and sublime duty of a
prisoner, who learns to make something
from nothing. They were thus perpetually
employed, -- Faria, that he might not
see himself grow old; Dantes, for fear
of recalling the almost extinct past
which now only floated in his memory
like a distant light wandering in the
night. So life went on for them as it
does for those who are not victims of
misfortune and whose activities glide
along mechanically and tranquilly
beneath the eye of providence.

But beneath this superficial calm there
were in the heart of the young man, and
perhaps in that of the old man, many
repressed desires, many stifled sighs,
which found vent when Faria was left
alone, and when Edmond returned to his
cell. One night Edmond awoke suddenly,
believing that he heard some one calling
him. He opened his eyes upon utter
darkness. His name, or rather a
plaintive voice which essayed to
pronounce his name, reached him. He sat
up in bed and a cold sweat broke out
upon his brow. Undoubtedly the call came
from Faria's dungeon. "Alas," murmured
Edmond; "can it be?"

He moved his bed, drew up the stone,
rushed into the passage, and reached the
opposite extremity; the secret entrance
was open. By the light of the wretched
and wavering lamp, of which we have
spoken, Dantes saw the old man, pale,
but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead.
His features were writhing with those
horrible symptoms which he already knew,
and which had so seriously alarmed him
when he saw them for the first time.

"Alas, my dear friend," said Faria in a
resigned tone, "you understand, do you
not, and I need not attempt to explain
to you?"

Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and,
quite out of his senses, rushed towards
the door, exclaiming, "Help, help!"
Faria had just sufficient strength to
restrain him.

"Silence," he said, "or you are lost. We
must now only think of you, my dear
friend, and so act as to render your
captivity supportable or your flight
possible. It would require years to do
again what I have done here, and the
results would be instantly destroyed if
our jailers knew we had communicated
with each other. Besides, be assured, my
dear Edmond, the dungeon I am about to
leave will not long remain empty; some
other unfortunate being will soon take
my place, and to him you will appear
like an angel of salvation. Perhaps he
will be young, strong, and enduring,
like yourself, and will aid you in your
escape, while I have been but a
hindrance. You will no longer have half
a dead body tied to you as a drag to all
your movements. At length providence has
done something for you; he restores to
you more than he takes away, and it was
time I should die."

Edmond could only clasp his hands and
exclaim, "Oh, my friend, my friend,
speak not thus!" and then resuming all
his presence of mind, which had for a
moment staggered under this blow, and
his strength, which had failed at the
words of the old man, he said, "Oh, I
have saved you once, and I will save you
a second time!" And raising the foot of
the bed, he drew out the phial, still a
third filled with the red liquor.

"See," he exclaimed, "there remains
still some of the magic draught. Quick,
quick! tell me what I must do this time;
are there any fresh instructions? Speak,
my friend; I listen."

"There is not a hope," replied Faria,
shaking his head, "but no matter; God
wills it that man whom he has created,
and in whose heart he has so profoundly
rooted the love of life, should do all
in his power to preserve that existence,
which, however painful it may be, is yet
always so dear."

"Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed Dantes; "and I
tell you that I will save you yet."

"Well, then, try. The cold gains upon
me. I feel the blood flowing towards my
brain. These horrible chills, which make
my teeth chatter and seem to dislocate
my bones, begin to pervade my whole
frame; in five minutes the malady will
reach its height, and in a quarter of an
hour there will be nothing left of me
but a corpse."

"Oh!" exclaimed Dantes, his heart wrung
with anguish.

"Do as you did before, only do not wait
so long, all the springs of life are now
exhausted in me, and death," he
continued, looking at his paralyzed arm
and leg, "has but half its work to do.
If, after having made me swallow twelve
drops instead of ten, you see that I do
not recover, then pour the rest down my
throat. Now lift me on my bed, for I can
no longer support myself."

Edmond took the old man in his arms, and
laid him on the bed.

"And now, my dear friend," said Faria,
"sole consolation of my wretched
existence, -- you whom heaven gave me
somewhat late, but still gave me, a
priceless gift, and for which I am most
grateful, -- at the moment of separating
from you forever, I wish you all the
happiness and all the prosperity you so
well deserve. My son, I bless thee!" The
young man cast himself on his knees,
leaning his head against the old man's
bed.

"Listen, now, to what I say in this my
dying moment. The treasure of the Spadas
exists. God grants me the boon of vision
unrestricted by time or space. I see it
in the depths of the inner cavern. My
eyes pierce the inmost recesses of the
earth, and are dazzled at the sight of
so much riches. If you do escape,
remember that the poor abbe, whom all
the world called mad, was not so. Hasten
to Monte Cristo -- avail yourself of the
fortune -- for you have indeed suffered
long enough." A violent convulsion
attacked the old man. Dantes raised his
head and saw Faria's eyes injected with
blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood
had ascended from the chest to the head.

"Adieu, adieu!" murmured the old man,
clasping Edmond's hand convulsively --
"adieu!"

"Oh, no, -- no, not yet," he cried; "do
not forsake me! Oh, succor him! Help --
help -- help!"

"Hush -- hush!" murmured the dying man,
"that they may not separate us if you
save me!"

"You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured
I shall save you! Besides, although you
suffer much, you do not seem to be in
such agony as you were before."

"Do not mistake. I suffer less because
there is in me less strength to endure.
At your age we have faith in life; it is
the privilege of youth to believe and
hope, but old men see death more
clearly. Oh, 'tis here -- 'tis here --
'tis over -- my sight is gone -- my
senses fail! Your hand, Dantes! Adieu --
adieu!" And raising himself by a final
effort, in which he summoned all his
faculties, he said, -- "Monte Cristo,
forget not Monte Cristo!" And he fell
back on the bed. The crisis was
terrible, and a rigid form with twisted
limbs, swollen eyelids, and lips flecked
with bloody foam, lay on the bed of
torture, in place of the intellectual
being who so lately rested there.

Dantes took the lamp, placed it on a
projecting stone above the bed, whence
its tremulous light fell with strange
and fantastic ray on the distorted
countenance and motionless, stiffened
body. With steady gaze he awaited
confidently the moment for administering
the restorative.

When he believed that the right moment
had arrived, he took the knife, pried
open the teeth, which offered less
resistance than before, counted one
after the other twelve drops, and
watched; the phial contained, perhaps,
twice as much more. He waited ten
minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an
hour, -- no change took place.
Trembling, his hair erect, his brow
bathed with perspiration, he counted the
seconds by the beating of his heart.
Then he thought it was time to make the
last trial, and he put the phial to the
purple lips of Faria, and without having
occasion to force open his jaws, which
had remained extended, he poured the
whole of the liquid down his throat.

The draught produced a galvanic effect,
a violent trembling pervaded the old
man's limbs, his eyes opened until it
was fearful to gaze upon them, he heaved
a sigh which resembled a shriek, and
then his convulsed body returned
gradually to its former immobility, the
eyes remaining open.

Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a
half elapsed, and during this period of
anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend,
his hand applied to his heart, and felt
the body gradually grow cold, and the
heart's pulsation become more and more
deep and dull, until at length it
stopped; the last movement of the heart
ceased, the face became livid, the eyes
remained open, but the eyeballs were
glazed. It was six o'clock in the
morning, the dawn was just breaking, and
its feeble ray came into the dungeon,
and paled the ineffectual light of the
lamp. Strange shadows passed over the
countenance of the dead man, and at
times gave it the appearance of life.
While the struggle between day and night
lasted, Dantes still doubted; but as
soon as the daylight gained the
pre-eminence, he saw that he was alone
with a corpse. Then an invincible and
extreme terror seized upon him, and he
dared not again press the hand that hung
out of bed, he dared no longer to gaze
on those fixed and vacant eyes, which he
tried many times to close, but in
vain -- they opened again as soon as
shut. He extinguished the lamp,
carefully concealed it, and then went
away, closing as well as he could the
entrance to the secret passage by the
large stone as he descended.

It was time, for the jailer was coming.
On this occasion he began his rounds at
Dantes' cell, and on leaving him he went
on to Faria's dungeon, taking thither
breakfast and some linen. Nothing
betokened that the man know anything of
what had occurred. He went on his way.

Dantes was then seized with an
indescribable desire to know what was
going on in the dungeon of his
unfortunate friend. He therefore
returned by the subterraneous gallery,
and arrived in time to hear the
exclamations of the turnkey, who called
out for help. Other turnkeys came, and
then was heard the regular tramp of
soldiers. Last of all came the governor.

Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as
they moved the corpse, heard the voice
of the governor, who asked them to throw
water on the dead man's face; and seeing
that, in spite of this application, the
prisoner did not recover, they sent for
the doctor. The governor then went out,
and words of pity fell on Dantes'
listening ears, mingled with brutal
laughter.

"Well, well," said one, "the madman has
gone to look after his treasure. Good
journey to him!"

"With all his millions, he will not have
enough to pay for his shroud!" said
another.

"Oh," added a third voice, "the shrouds
of the Chateau d'If are not dear!"

"Perhaps," said one of the previous
speakers, "as he was a churchman, they
may go to some expense in his behalf."

"They may give him the honors of the
sack."

Edmond did not lose a word, but
comprehended very little of what was
said. The voices soon ceased, and it
seemed to him as if every one had left
the cell. Still he dared not to enter,
as they might have left some turnkey to
watch the dead. He remained, therefore,
mute and motionless, hardly venturing to
breathe. At the end of an hour, he heard
a faint noise, which increased. It was
the governor who returned, followed by
the doctor and other attendants. There
was a moment's silence, -- it was
evident that the doctor was examining
the dead body. The inquiries soon
commenced.

The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the
malady to which the prisoner had
succumbed, and declared that he was
dead. Questions and answers followed in
a nonchalant manner that made Dantes
indignant, for he felt that all the
world should have for the poor abbe a
love and respect equal to his own.

"I am very sorry for what you tell me,"
said the governor, replying to the
assurance of the doctor, "that the old
man is really dead; for he was a quiet,
inoffensive prisoner, happy in his
folly, and required no watching."

"Ah," added the turnkey, "there was no
occasion for watching him: he would have
stayed here fifty years, I'll answer for
it, without any attempt to escape."

"Still," said the governor, "I believe
it will be requisite, notwithstanding
your certainty, and not that I doubt
your science, but in discharge of my
official duty, that we should be
perfectly assured that the prisoner is
dead." There was a moment of complete
silence, during which Dantes, still
listening, knew that the doctor was
examining the corpse a second time.

"You may make your mind easy," said the
doctor; "he is dead. I will answer for
that."

"You know, sir," said the governor,
persisting, "that we are not content in
such cases as this with such a simple
examination. In spite of all
appearances, be so kind, therefore, as
to finish your duty by fulfilling the
formalities described by law."

"Let the irons be heated," said the
doctor; "but really it is a useless
precaution." This order to heat the
irons made Dantes shudder. He heard
hasty steps, the creaking of a door,
people going and coming, and some
minutes afterwards a turnkey entered,
saying, --

"Here is the brazier, lighted." There
was a moment's silence, and then was
heard the crackling of burning flesh, of
which the peculiar and nauseous smell
penetrated even behind the wall where
Dantes was listening in horror. The
perspiration poured forth upon the young
man's brow, and he felt as if he should
faint.

"You see, sir, he is really dead," said
the doctor; "this burn in the heel is
decisive. The poor fool is cured of his
folly, and delivered from his
captivity."

"Wasn't his name Faria?" inquired one of
the officers who accompanied the
governor.

"Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an
ancient name. He was, too, very learned,
and rational enough on all points which
did not relate to his treasure; but on
that, indeed, he was intractable."

"It is the sort of malady which we call
monomania," said the doctor.

"You had never anything to complain of?"
said the governor to the jailer who had
charge of the abbe.

"Never, sir," replied the jailer,
"never; on the contrary, he sometimes
amused me very much by telling me
stories. One day, too, when my wife was
ill, he gave me a prescription which
cured her."

"Ah, ah!" said the doctor, "I did not
know that I had a rival; but I hope,
governor, that you will show him all
proper respect."

"Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall
be decently interred in the newest sack
we can find. Will that satisfy you?"

"Must this last formality take place in
your presence, sir?" inquired a turnkey.

"Certainly. But make haste -- I cannot
stay here all day." Other footsteps,
going and coming, were now heard, and a
moment afterwards the noise of rustling
canvas reached Dantes' ears, the bed
creaked, and the heavy footfall of a man
who lifts a weight sounded on the floor;
then the bed again creaked under the
weight deposited upon it.

"This evening," said the governor.

"Will there be any mass?" asked one of
the attendants.

"That is impossible," replied the
governor. "The chaplain of the chateau
came to me yesterday to beg for leave of
absence, in order to take a trip to
Hyeres for a week. I told him I would
attend to the prisoners in his absence.
If the poor abbe had not been in such a
hurry, he might have had his requiem."

"Pooh, pooh;" said the doctor, with the
impiety usual in persons of his
profession; "he is a churchman. God will
respect his profession, and not give the
devil the wicked delight of sending him
a priest." A shout of laughter followed
this brutal jest. Meanwhile the
operation of putting the body in the
sack was going on.

"This evening," said the governor, when
the task was ended.

"At what hour?" inquired a turnkey.

"Why, about ten or eleven o'clock."

"Shall we watch by the corpse?"

"Of what use would it be? Shut the
dungeon as if he were alive -- that is
all." Then the steps retreated, and the
voices died away in the distance; the
noise of the door, with its creaking
hinges and bolts ceased, and a silence
more sombre than that of solitude
ensued, -- the silence of death, which
was all-pervasive, and struck its icy
chill to the very soul of Dantes. Then
he raised the flag-stone cautiously with
his head, and looked carefully around
the chamber. It was empty, and Dantes
emerged from the tunnel.



Chapter 20 The Cemetery of the Chateau
D'If.

On the bed, at full length, and faintly
illuminated by the pale light that came
from the window, lay a sack of canvas,
and under its rude folds was stretched a
long and stiffened form; it was Faria's
last winding-sheet, -- a winding-sheet
which, as the turnkey said, cost so
little. Everything was in readiness. A
barrier had been placed between Dantes
and his old friend. No longer could
Edmond look into those wide-open eyes
which had seemed to be penetrating the
mysteries of death; no longer could he
clasp the hand which had done so much to
make his existence blessed. Faria, the
beneficent and cheerful companion, with
whom he was accustomed to live so
intimately, no longer breathed. He
seated himself on the edge of that
terrible bed, and fell into melancholy
and gloomy revery.

Alone -- he was alone again -- again
condemned to silence -- again face to
face with nothingness! Alone! -- never
again to see the face, never again to
hear the voice of the only human being
who united him to earth! Was not Faria's
fate the better, after all -- to solve
the problem of life at its source, even
at the risk of horrible suffering? The
idea of suicide, which his friend had
driven away and kept away by his
cheerful presence, now hovered like a
phantom over the abbe's dead body.

"If I could die," he said, "I should go
where he goes, and should assuredly find
him again. But how to die? It is very
easy," he went on with a smile; "I will
remain here, rush on the first person
that opens the door, strangle him, and
then they will guillotine me." But
excessive grief is like a storm at sea,
where the frail bark is tossed from the
depths to the top of the wave. Dantes
recoiled from the idea of so infamous a
death, and passed suddenly from despair
to an ardent desire for life and
liberty.

"Die? oh, no," he exclaimed -- "not die
now, after having lived and suffered so
long and so much! Die? yes, had I died
years ago; but now to die would be,
indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of
destiny. No, I want to live; I shall
struggle to the very last; I will yet
win back the happiness of which I have
been deprived. Before I die I must not
forget that I have my executioners to
punish, and perhaps, too, who knows,
some friends to reward. Yet they will
forget me here, and I shall die in my
dungeon like Faria." As he said this, he
became silent and gazed straight before
him like one overwhelmed with a strange
and amazing thought. Suddenly he arose,
lifted his hand to his brow as if his
brain wore giddy, paced twice or thrice
round the dungeon, and then paused
abruptly by the bed.

"Just God!" he muttered, "whence comes
this thought? Is it from thee? Since
none but the dead pass freely from this
dungeon, let me take the place of the
dead!" Without giving himself time to
reconsider his decision, and, indeed,
that he might not allow his thoughts to
be distracted from his desperate
resolution, he bent over the appalling
shroud, opened it with the knife which
Faria had made, drew the corpse from the
sack, and bore it along the tunnel to
his own chamber, laid it on his couch,
tied around its head the rag he wore at
night around his own, covered it with
his counterpane, once again kissed the
ice-cold brow, and tried vainly to close
the resisting eyes, which glared
horribly, turned the head towards the
wall, so that the jailer might, when he
brought the evening meal, believe that
he was asleep, as was his frequent
custom; entered the tunnel again, drew
the bed against the wall, returned to
the other cell, took from the
hiding-place the needle and thread,
flung off his rags, that they might feel
only naked flesh beneath the coarse
canvas, and getting inside the sack,
placed himself in the posture in which
the dead body had been laid, and sewed
up the mouth of the sack from the
inside.

He would have been discovered by the
beating of his heart, if by any
mischance the jailers had entered at
that moment. Dantes might have waited
until the evening visit was over, but he
was afraid that the governor would
change his mind, and order the dead body
to be removed earlier. In that case his
last hope would have been destroyed. Now
his plans were fully made, and this is
what he intended to do. If while he was
being carried out the grave-diggers
should discover that they were bearing a
live instead of a dead body, Dantes did
not intend to give them time to
recognize him, but with a sudden cut of
the knife, he meant to open the sack
from top to bottom, and, profiting by
their alarm, escape; if they tried to
catch him, he would use his knife to
better purpose.

If they took him to the cemetery and
laid him in a grave, he would allow
himself to be covered with earth, and
then, as it was night, the grave-diggers
could scarcely have turned their backs
before he would have worked his way
through the yielding soil and escaped.
He hoped that the weight of earth would
not be so great that he could not
overcome it. If he was detected in this
and the earth proved too heavy, he would
be stifled, and then -- so much the
better, all would be over. Dantes had
not eaten since the preceding evening,
but he had not thought of hunger, nor
did he think of it now. His situation
was too precarious to allow him even
time to reflect on any thought but one.

The first risk that Dantes ran was, that
the jailer, when he brought him his
supper at seven o'clock, might perceive
the change that had been made;
fortunately, twenty times at least, from
misanthropy or fatigue, Dantes had
received his jailer in bed, and then the
man placed his bread and soup on the
table, and went away without saying a
word. This time the jailer might not be
as silent as usual, but speak to Dantes,
and seeing that he received no reply, go
to the bed, and thus discover all.

When seven o'clock came, Dantes' agony
really began. His hand placed upon his
heart was unable to redress its
throbbings, while, with the other he
wiped the perspiration from his temples.
From time to time chills ran through his
whole body, and clutched his heart in a
grasp of ice. Then he thought he was
going to die. Yet the hours passed on
without any unusual disturbance, and
Dantes knew that he had escaped the
first peril. It was a good augury. At
length, about the hour the governor had
appointed, footsteps were heard on the
stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had
arrived, summoned up all his courage,
held his breath, and would have been
happy if at the same time he could have
repressed the throbbing of his veins.
The footsteps -- they were double --
paused at the door -- and Dantes guessed
that the two grave-diggers had come to
seek him -- this idea was soon converted
into certainty, when he heard the noise
they made in putting down the hand-bier.
The door opened, and a dim light reached
Dantes' eyes through the coarse sack
that covered him; he saw two shadows
approach his bed, a third remaining at
the door with a torch in its hand. The
two men, approaching the ends of the
bed, took the sack by its extremities.

"He's heavy though for an old and thin
man," said one, as he raised the head.

"They say every year adds half a pound
to the weight of the bones," said
another, lifting the feet.

"Have you tied the knot?" inquired the
first speaker.

"What would be the use of carrying so
much more weight?" was the reply, "I can
do that when we get there."

"Yes, you're right," replied the
companion.

"What's the knot for?" thought Dantes.

They deposited the supposed corpse on
the bier. Edmond stiffened himself in
order to play the part of a dead man,
and then the party, lighted by the man
with the torch, who went first, ascended
the stairs. Suddenly he felt the fresh
and sharp night air, and Dantes knew
that the mistral was blowing. It was a
sensation in which pleasure and pain
were strangely mingled. The bearers went
on for twenty paces, then stopped,
putting the bier down on the ground. One
of them went away, and Dantes heard his
shoes striking on the pavement.

"Where am I?" he asked himself.

"Really, he is by no means a light
load!" said the other bearer, sitting on
the edge of the hand-barrow. Dantes'
first impulse was to escape, but
fortunately he did not attempt it.

"Give us a light," said the other
bearer, "or I shall never find what I am
looking for." The man with the torch
complied, although not asked in the most
polite terms.

"What can he be looking for?" thought
Edmond. "The spade, perhaps." An
exclamation of satisfaction indicated
that the grave-digger had found the
object of his search. "Here it is at
last," he said, "not without some
trouble though."

"Yes," was the answer, "but it has lost
nothing by waiting."

As he said this, the man came towards
Edmond, who heard a heavy metallic
substance laid down beside him, and at
the same moment a cord was fastened
round his feet with sudden and painful
violence.

"Well, have you tied the knot?" inquired
the grave-digger, who was looking on.

"Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell
you," was the answer.

"Move on, then." And the bier was lifted
once more, and they proceeded.

They advanced fifty paces farther, and
then stopped to open a door, then went
forward again. The noise of the waves
dashing against the rocks on which the
chateau is built, reached Dantes' ear
distinctly as they went forward.

"Bad weather!" observed one of the
bearers; "not a pleasant night for a dip
in the sea."

"Why, yes, the abbe runs a chance of
being wet," said the other; and then
there was a burst of brutal laughter.
Dantes did not comprehend the jest, but
his hair stood erect on his head.

"Well, here we are at last," said one of
them. "A little farther -- a little
farther," said the other. "You know very
well that the last was stopped on his
way, dashed on the rocks, and the
governor told us next day that we were
careless fellows."

They ascended five or six more steps,
and then Dantes felt that they took him,
one by the head and the other by the
heels, and swung him to and fro. "One!"
said the grave-diggers, "two! three!"
And at the same instant Dantes felt
himself flung into the air like a
wounded bird, falling, falling, with a
rapidity that made his blood curdle.
Although drawn downwards by the heavy
weight which hastened his rapid descent,
it seemed to him as if the fall lasted
for a century.

At last, with a horrible splash, he
darted like an arrow into the ice-cold
water, and as he did so he uttered a
shrill cry, stifled in a moment by his
immersion beneath the waves.

Dantes had been flung into the sea, and
was dragged into its depths by a
thirty-six pound shot tied to his feet.
The sea is the cemetery of the Chateau
d'If.



Chapter 21 The Island of Tiboulen.

Dantes, although stunned and almost
suffocated, had sufficient presence of
mind to hold his breath, and as his
right hand (prepared as he was for every
chance) held his knife open, he rapidly
ripped up the sack, extricated his arm,
and then his body; but in spite of all
his efforts to free himself from the
shot, he felt it dragging him down still
lower. He then bent his body, and by a
desperate effort severed the cord that
bound his legs, at the moment when it
seemed as if he were actually strangled.
With a mighty leap he rose to the
surface of the sea, while the shot
dragged down to the depths the sack that
had so nearly become his shroud.

Dantes waited only to get breath, and
then dived, in order to avoid being
seen. When he arose a second time, he
was fifty paces from where he had first
sunk. He saw overhead a black and
tempestuous sky, across which the wind
was driving clouds that occasionally
suffered a twinkling star to appear;
before him was the vast expanse of
waters, sombre and terrible, whose waves
foamed and roared as if before the
approach of a storm. Behind him, blacker
than the sea, blacker than the sky, rose
phantom-like the vast stone structure,
whose projecting crags seemed like arms
extended to seize their prey, and on the
highest rock was a torch lighting two
figures. He fancied that these two forms
were looking at the sea; doubtless these
strange grave-diggers had heard his cry.
Dantes dived again, and remained a long
time beneath the water. This was an easy
feat to him, for he usually attracted a
crowd of spectators in the bay before
the lighthouse at Marseilles when he
swam there, and was unanimously declared
to be the best swimmer in the port. When
he came up again the light had
disappeared.

He must now get his bearings. Ratonneau
and Pomegue are the nearest islands of
all those that surround the Chateau
d'If, but Ratonneau and Pomegue are
inhabited, as is also the islet of
Daume, Tiboulen and Lemaire were
therefore the safest for Dantes'
venture. The islands of Tiboulen and
Lemaire are a league from the Chateau
d'If; Dantes, nevertheless, determined
to make for them. But how could he find
his way in the darkness of the night? At
this moment he saw the light of Planier,
gleaming in front of him like a star. By
leaving this light on the right, he kept
the Island of Tiboulen a little on the
left; by turning to the left, therefore,
he would find it. But, as we have said,
it was at least a league from the
Chateau d'If to this island. Often in
prison Faria had said to him, when he
saw him idle and inactive, "Dantes, you
must not give way to this listlessness;
you will be drowned if you seek to
escape, and your strength has not been
properly exercised and prepared for
exertion." These words rang in Dantes'
ears, even beneath the waves; he
hastened to cleave his way through them
to see if he had not lost his strength.
He found with pleasure that his
captivity had taken away nothing of his
power, and that he was still master of
that element on whose bosom he had so
often sported as a boy.

Fear, that relentless pursuer, clogged
Dantes' efforts. He listened for any
sound that might be audible, and every
time that he rose to the top of a wave
he scanned the horizon, and strove to
penetrate the darkness. He fancied that
every wave behind him was a pursuing
boat, and he redoubled his exertions,
increasing rapidly his distance from the
chateau, but exhausting his strength. He
swam on still, and already the terrible
chateau had disappeared in the darkness.
He could not see it, but he felt its
presence. An hour passed, during which
Dantes, excited by the feeling of
freedom, continued to cleave the waves.
"Let us see," said he, "I have swum
above an hour, but as the wind is
against me, that has retarded my speed;
however, if I am not mistaken, I must be
close to Tiboulen. But what if I were
mistaken?" A shudder passed over him. He
sought to tread water, in order to rest
himself; but the sea was too violent,
and he felt that he could not make use
of this means of recuperation.

"Well," said he, "I will swim on until I
am worn out, or the cramp seizes me, and
then I shall sink;" and he struck out
with the energy of despair.

Suddenly the sky seemed to him to become
still darker and more dense, and heavy
clouds seemed to sweep down towards him;
at the same time he felt a sharp pain in
his knee. He fancied for a moment that
he had been shot, and listened for the
report; but he heard nothing. Then he
put out his hand, and encountered an
obstacle and with another stroke knew
that he had gained the shore.

Before him rose a grotesque mass of
rocks, that resembled nothing so much as
a vast fire petrified at the moment of
its most fervent combustion. It was the
Island of Tiboulen. Dantes rose,
advanced a few steps, and, with a
fervent prayer of gratitude, stretched
himself on the granite. which seemed to
him softer than down. Then, in spite of
the wind and rain, he fell into the
deep, sweet sleep of utter exhaustion.
At the expiration of an hour Edmond was
awakened by the roar of thunder. The
tempest was let loose and beating the
atmosphere with its mighty wings; from
time to time a flash of lightning
stretched across the heavens like a
fiery serpent, lighting up the clouds
that rolled on in vast chaotic waves.

Dantes had not been deceived -- he had
reached the first of the two islands,
which was, in fact, Tiboulen. He knew
that it was barren and without shelter;
but when the sea became more calm, he
resolved to plunge into its waves again,
and swim to Lemaire, equally arid, but
larger, and consequently better adapted
for concealment.

An overhanging rock offered him a
temporary shelter, and scarcely had he
availed himself of it when the tempest
burst forth in all its fury. Edmond felt
the trembling of the rock beneath which
he lay; the waves, dashing themselves
against it, wetted him with their spray.
He was safely sheltered, and yet he felt
dizzy in the midst of the warring of the
elements and the dazzling brightness of
the lightning. It seemed to him that the
island trembled to its base, and that it
would, like a vessel at anchor, break
moorings, and bear him off into the
centre of the storm. He then recollected
that he had not eaten or drunk for
four-and-twenty hours. He extended his
hands, and drank greedily of the
rainwater that had lodged in a hollow of
the rock.

As he rose, a flash of lightning, that
seemed to rive the remotest heights of
heaven, illumined the darkness. By its
light, between the Island of Lemaire and
Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a league
distant, Dantes saw a fishing-boat
driven rapidly like a spectre before the
power of winds and waves. A second
after, he saw it again, approaching with
frightful rapidity. Dantes cried at the
top of his voice to warn them of their
danger, but they saw it themselves.
Another flash showed him four men
clinging to the shattered mast and the
rigging, while a fifth clung to the
broken rudder.

The men he beheld saw him undoubtedly,
for their cries were carried to his ears
by the wind. Above the splintered mast a
sail rent to tatters was waving;
suddenly the ropes that still held it
gave way, and it disappeared in the
darkness of the night like a vast
sea-bird. At the same moment a violent
crash was heard, and cries of distress.
Dantes from his rocky perch saw the
shattered vessel, and among the
fragments the floating forms of the
hapless sailors. Then all was dark
again.

Dantes ran down the rocks at the risk of
being himself dashed to pieces; he
listened, he groped about, but he heard
and saw nothing -- the cries had ceased,
and the tempest continued to rage. By
degrees the wind abated, vast gray
clouds rolled towards the west, and the
blue firmament appeared studded with
bright stars. Soon a red streak became
visible in the horizon, the waves
whitened, a light played over them, and
gilded their foaming crests with gold.
It was day.

Dantes stood mute and motionless before
this majestic spectacle, as if he now
beheld it for the first time; and indeed
since his captivity in the Chateau d'If
he had forgotten that such scenes were
ever to be witnessed. He turned towards
the fortress, and looked at both sea and
land. The gloomy building rose from the
bosom of the ocean with imposing majesty
and seemed to dominate the scene. It was
about five o'clock. The sea continued to
get calmer.

"In two or three hours," thought Dantes,
"the turnkey will enter my chamber, find
the body of my poor friend, recognize
it, seek for me in vain, and give the
alarm. Then the tunnel will be
discovered; the men who cast me into the
sea and who must have heard the cry I
uttered, will be questioned. Then boats
filled with armed soldiers will pursue
the wretched fugitive. The cannon will
warn every one to refuse shelter to a
man wandering about naked and famished.
The police of Marseilles will be on the
alert by land, whilst the governor
pursues me by sea. I am cold, I am
hungry. I have lost even the knife that
saved me. O my God, I have suffered
enough surely! Have pity on me, and do
for me what I am unable to do for
myself."

As Dantes (his eyes turned in the
direction of the Chateau d'If) uttered
this prayer, he saw off the farther
point of the Island of Pomegue a small
vessel with lateen sail skimming the sea
like a gull in search of prey; and with
his sailor's eye he knew it to be a
Genoese tartan. She was coming out of
Marseilles harbor, and was standing out
to sea rapidly, her sharp prow cleaving
through the waves. "Oh," cried Edmond,
"to think that in half an hour I could
join her, did I not fear being
questioned, detected, and conveyed back
to Marseilles! What can I do? What story
can I invent? under pretext of trading
along the coast, these men, who are in
reality smugglers, will prefer selling
me to doing a good action. I must wait.
But I cannot ---I am starving. In a few
hours my strength will be utterly
exhausted; besides, perhaps I have not
been missed at the fortress. I can pass
as one of the sailors wrecked last
night. My story will be accepted, for
there is no one left to contradict me."

As he spoke, Dantes looked toward the
spot where the fishing-vessel had been
wrecked, and started. The red cap of one
of the sailors hung to a point of the
rock and some timbers that had formed
part of the vessel's keel, floated at
the foot of the crag. It an instant
Dantes' plan was formed. he swam to the
cap, placed it on his head, seized one
of the timbers, and struck out so as to
cut across the course the vessel was
taking.

"I am saved!" murmured he. And this
conviction restored his strength.

He soon saw that the vessel, with the
wind dead ahead, was tacking between the
Chateau d'If and the tower of Planier.
For an instant he feared lest, instead
of keeping in shore, she should stand
out to sea; but he soon saw that she
would pass, like most vessels bound for
Italy, between the islands of Jaros and
Calaseraigne. However, the vessel and
the swimmer insensibly neared one
another, and in one of its tacks the
tartan bore down within a quarter of a
mile of him. He rose on the waves,
making signs of distress; but no one on
board saw him, and the vessel stood on
another tack. Dantes would have shouted,
but he knew that the wind would drown
his voice.

It was then he rejoiced at his
precaution in taking the timber, for
without it he would have been unable,
perhaps, to reach the vessel --
certainly to return to shore, should he
be unsuccessful in attracting attention.

Dantes, though almost sure as to what
course the vessel would take, had yet
watched it anxiously until it tacked and
stood towards him. Then he advanced; but
before they could meet, the vessel again
changed her course. By a violent effort
he rose half out of the water, waving
his cap, and uttering a loud shout
peculiar to sailers. This time he was
both seen and heard, and the tartan
instantly steered towards him. At the
same time, he saw they were about to
lower the boat.

An instant after, the boat, rowed by two
men, advanced rapidly towards him.
Dantes let go of the timber, which he
now thought to be useless, and swam
vigorously to meet them. But he had
reckoned too much upon his strength, and
then he realized how serviceable the
timber had been to him. His arms became
stiff, his legs lost their flexibility,
and he was almost breathless.

He shouted again. The two sailors
redoubled their efforts, and one of them
cried in Italian, "Courage!"

The word reached his ear as a wave which
he no longer had the strength to
surmount passed over his head. He rose
again to the surface, struggled with the
last desperate effort of a drowning man,
uttered a third cry, and felt himself
sinking, as if the fatal cannon shot
were again tied to his feet. The water
passed over his head, and the sky turned
gray. A convulsive movement again
brought him to the surface. He felt
himself seized by the hair, then he saw
and heard nothing. He had fainted.

When he opened his eyes Dantes found
himself on the deck of the tartan. His
first care was to see what course they
were taking. They were rapidly leaving
the Chateau d'If behind. Dantes was so
exhausted that the exclamation of joy he
uttered was mistaken for a sigh.

As we have said, he was lying on the
deck. A sailor was rubbing his limbs
with a woollen cloth; another, whom he
recognized as the one who had cried out
"Courage!" held a gourd full of rum to
his mouth; while the third, an old
sailer, at once the pilot and captain,
looked on with that egotistical pity men
feel for a misfortune that they have
escaped yesterday, and which may
overtake them to-morrow.

A few drops of the rum restored
suspended animation, while the friction
of his limbs restored their elasticity.

"Who are you?" said the pilot in bad
French.

"I am," replied Dantes, in bad Italian,
"a Maltese sailor. We were coming from
Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of
last night overtook us at Cape Morgion,
and we were wrecked on these rocks."

"Where do you come from?"

"From these rocks that I had the good
luck to cling to while our captain and
the rest of the crew were all lost. I
saw your vessel, and fearful of being
left to perish on the desolate island, I
swam off on a piece of wreckage to try
and intercept your course. You have
saved my life, and I thank you,"
continued Dantes. "I was lost when one
of your sailors caught hold of my hair."

"It was I," said a sailor of a frank and
manly appearance; "and it was time, for
you were sinking."

"Yes," returned Dantes, holding out his
hand, "I thank you again."

"I almost hesitated, though," replied
the sailor; "you looked more like a
brigand than an honest man, with your
beard six inches, and your hair a foot
long." Dantes recollected that his hair
and beard had not been cut all the time
he was at the Chateau d'If.

"Yes," said he, "I made a vow, to our
Lady of the Grotto not to cut my hair or
beard for ten years if I were saved in a
moment of danger; but to-day the vow
expires."

"Now what are we to do with you?" said
the captain.

"Alas, anything you please. My captain
is dead; I have barely escaped; but I am
a good sailor. Leave me at the first
port you make; I shall be sure to find
employment."

"Do you know the Mediterranean?"

"I have sailed over it since my
childhood."

"You know the best harbors?"

"There are few ports that I could not
enter or leave with a bandage over my
eyes."

"I say, captain," said the sailor who
had cried "Courage!" to Dantes, "if what
he says is true, what hinders his
staying with us?"

"If he says true," said the captain
doubtingly. "But in his present
condition he will promise anything, and
take his chance of keeping it
afterwards."

"I will do more than I promise," said
Dantes.

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

"Where are you going?" asked Dantes.

"To Leghorn."

"Then why, instead of tacking so
frequently, do you not sail nearer the
wind?"

"Because we should run straight on to
the Island of Rion."

"You shall pass it by twenty fathoms."

"Take the helm, and let us see what you
know." The young man took the helm, felt
to see if the vessel answered the rudder
promptly and seeing that, without being
a first-rate sailer, she yet was
tolerably obedient, --

"To the sheets," said he. The four
seamen, who composed the crew, obeyed,
while the pilot looked on. "Haul
taut." -- They obeyed.

"Belay." This order was also executed;
and the vessel passed, as Dantes had
predicted, twenty fathoms to windward.

"Bravo!" said the captain.

"Bravo!" repeated the sailors. And they
all looked with astonishment at this man
whose eye now disclosed an intelligence
and his body a vigor they had not
thought him capable of showing.

"You see," said Dantes, quitting the
helm, "I shall be of some use to you, at
least during the voyage. If you do not
want me at Leghorn, you can leave me
there, and I will pay you out of the
first wages I get, for my food and the
clothes you lend me."

"Ah," said the captain, "we can agree
very well, if you are reasonable."

"Give me what you give the others, and
it will be all right," returned Dantes.

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

"What is that to you, Jacopo?" returned
the Captain. "Every one is free to ask
what he pleases."

"That's true," replied Jacopo; "I only
make a remark."

"Well, you would do much better to find
him a jacket and a pair of trousers, if
you have them."

"No," said Jacopo; "but I have a shirt
and a pair of trousers."

"That is all I want," interrupted
Dantes. Jacopo dived into the hold and
soon returned with what Edmond wanted.

"Now, then, do you wish for anything
else?" said the patron.

"A piece of bread and another glass of
the capital rum I tasted, for I have not
eaten or drunk for a long time." He had
not tasted food for forty hours. A piece
of bread was brought, and Jacopo offered
him the gourd.

"Larboard your helm," cried the captain
to the steersman. Dantes glanced that
way as he lifted the gourd to his mouth;
then paused with hand in mid-air.

"Hollo! what's the matter at the Chateau
d'If?" said the captain.

A small white cloud, which had attracted
Dantes' attention, crowned the summit of
the bastion of the Chateau d'If. At the
same moment the faint report of a gun
was heard. The sailors looked at one
another.

"What is this?" asked the captain.

"A prisoner has escaped from the Chateau
d'If, and they are firing the alarm
gun," replied Dantes. The captain
glanced at him, but he had lifted the
rum to his lips and was drinking it with
so much composure, that suspicions, if
the captain had any, died away.

"At any rate," murmured he, "if it be,
so much the better, for I have made a
rare acquisition." Under pretence of
being fatigued, Dantes asked to take the
helm; the steersman, glad to be
relieved, looked at the captain, and the
latter by a sign indicated that he might
abandon it to his new comrade. Dantes
could thus keep his eyes on Marseilles.

"What is the day of the month?" asked he
of Jacopo, who sat down beside him.

"The 28th of February."

"In what year?"

"In what year -- you ask me in what
year?"

"Yes," replied the young man, "I ask you
in what year!"

"You have forgotten then?"

"I got such a fright last night,"
replied Dantes, smiling, "that I have
almost lost my memory. I ask you what
year is it?"

"The year 1829," returned Jacopo. It was
fourteen years day for day since Dantes'
arrest. He was nineteen when he entered
the Chateau d'If; he was thirty-three
when he escaped. A sorrowful smile
passed over his face; he asked himself
what had become of Mercedes, who must
believe him dead. Then his eyes lighted
up with hatred as he thought of the
three men who had caused him so long and
wretched a captivity. He renewed against
Danglars, Fernand, and Villefort the
oath of implacable vengeance he had made
in his dungeon. This oath was no longer
a vain menace; for the fastest sailer in
the Mediterranean would have been unable
to overtake the little tartan, that with
every stitch of canvas set was flying
before the wind to Leghorn.



Chapter 22 The Smugglers.

Dantes had not been a day on board
before he had a very clear idea of the
men with whom his lot had been cast.
Without having been in the school of the
Abbe Faria, the worthy master of The
Young Amelia (the name of the Genoese
tartan) knew a smattering of all the
tongues spoken on the shores of that
large lake called the Mediterranean,
from the Arabic to the Provencal, and
this, while it spared him interpreters,
persons always troublesome and
frequently indiscreet, gave him great
facilities of communication, either with
the vessels he met at sea, with the
small boats sailing along the coast, or
with the people without name, country,
or occupation, who are always seen on
the quays of seaports, and who live by
hidden and mysterious means which we
must suppose to be a direct gift of
providence, as they have no visible
means of support. It is fair to assume
that Dantes was on board a smuggler.

At first the captain had received Dantes
on board with a certain degree of
distrust. He was very well known to the
customs officers of the coast; and as
there was between these worthies and
himself a perpetual battle of wits, he
had at first thought that Dantes might
be an emissary of these industrious
guardians of rights and duties, who
perhaps employed this ingenious means of
learning some of the secrets of his
trade. But the skilful manner in which
Dantes had handled the lugger had
entirely reassured him; and then, when
he saw the light plume of smoke floating
above the bastion of the Chateau d'If,
and heard the distant report, he was
instantly struck with the idea that he
had on board his vessel one whose coming
and going, like that of kings, was
accompanied with salutes of artillery.
This made him less uneasy, it must be
owned, than if the new-comer had proved
to be a customs officer; but this
supposition also disappeared like the
first, when he beheld the perfect
tranquillity of his recruit.

Edmond thus had the advantage of knowing
what the owner was, without the owner
knowing who he was; and however the old
sailor and his crew tried to "pump" him,
they extracted nothing more from him; he
gave accurate descriptions of Naples and
Malta, which he knew as well as
Marseilles, and held stoutly to his
first story. Thus the Genoese, subtle as
he was, was duped by Edmond, in whose
favor his mild demeanor, his nautical
skill, and his admirable dissimulation,
pleaded. Moreover, it is possible that
the Genoese was one of those shrewd
persons who know nothing but what they
should know, and believe nothing but
what they should believe.

In this state of mutual understanding,
they reached Leghorn. Here Edmond was to
undergo another trial; he was to find
out whether he could recognize himself,
as he had not seen his own face for
fourteen years. He had preserved a
tolerably good remembrance of what the
youth had been, and was now to find out
what the man had become. His comrades
believed that his vow was fulfilled. As
he had twenty times touched at Leghorn,
he remembered a barber in St. Ferdinand
Street; he went there to have his beard
and hair cut. The barber gazed in
amazement at this man with the long,
thick and black hair and beard, which
gave his head the appearance of one of
Titian's portraits. At this period it
was not the fashion to wear so large a
beard and hair so long; now a barber
would only be surprised if a man gifted
with such advantages should consent
voluntarily to deprive himself of them.
The Leghorn barber said nothing and went
to work.

When the operation was concluded, and
Edmond felt that his chin was completely
smooth, and his hair reduced to its
usual length, he asked for a hand-glass.
He was now, as we have said,
three-and-thirty years of age, and his
fourteen years' imprisonment had
produced a great transformation in his
appearance. Dantes had entered the
Chateau d'If with the round, open,
smiling face of a young and happy man,
with whom the early paths of life have
been smooth, and who anticipates a
future corresponding with his past. This
was now all changed. The oval face was
lengthened, his smiling mouth had
assumed the firm and marked lines which
betoken resolution; his eyebrows were
arched beneath a brow furrowed with
thought; his eyes were full of
melancholy, and from their depths
occasionally sparkled gloomy fires of
misanthropy and hatred; his complexion,
so long kept from the sun, had now that
pale color which produces, when the
features are encircled with black hair,
the aristocratic beauty of the man of
the north; the profound learning he had
acquired had besides diffused over his
features a refined intellectual
expression; and he had also acquired,
being naturally of a goodly stature,
that vigor which a frame possesses which
has so long concentrated all its force
within itself.

To the elegance of a nervous and slight
form had succeeded the solidity of a
rounded and muscular figure. As to his
voice, prayers, sobs, and imprecations
had changed it so that at times it was
of a singularly penetrating sweetness,
and at others rough and almost hoarse.
Moreover, from being so long in twilight
or darkness, his eyes had acquired the
faculty of distinguishing objects in the
night, common to the hyena and the wolf.
Edmond smiled when he beheld himself: it
was impossible that his best friend --
if, indeed, he had any friend left --
could recognize him; he could not
recognize himself.

The master of The Young Amelia, who was
very desirous of retaining amongst his
crew a man of Edmond's value, had
offered to advance him funds out of his
future profits, which Edmond had
accepted. His next care on leaving the
barber's who had achieved his first
metamorphosis was to enter a shop and
buy a complete sailor's suit -- a garb,
as we all know, very simple, and
consisting of white trousers, a striped
shirt, and a cap. It was in this
costume, and bringing back to Jacopo the
shirt and trousers he had lent him, that
Edmond reappeared before the captain of
the lugger, who had made him tell his
story over and over again before he
could believe him, or recognize in the
neat and trim sailor the man with thick
and matted beard, hair tangled with
seaweed, and body soaking in seabrine,
whom he had picked up naked and nearly
drowned. Attracted by his prepossessing
appearance, he renewed his offers of an
engagement to Dantes; but Dantes, who
had his own projects, would not agree
for a longer time than three months.

The Young Amelia had a very active crew,
very obedient to their captain, who lost
as little time as possible. He had
scarcely been a week at Leghorn before
the hold of his vessel was filled with
printed muslins, contraband cottons,
English powder, and tobacco on which the
excise had forgotten to put its mark.
The master was to get all this out of
Leghorn free of duties, and land it on
the shores of Corsica, where certain
speculators undertook to forward the
cargo to France. They sailed; Edmond was
again cleaving the azure sea which had
been the first horizon of his youth, and
which he had so often dreamed of in
prison. He left Gorgone on his right and
La Pianosa on his left, and went towards
the country of Paoli and Napoleon. The
next morning going on deck, as he always
did at an early hour, the patron found
Dantes leaning against the bulwarks
gazing with intense earnestness at a
pile of granite rocks, which the rising
sun tinged with rosy light. It was the
Island of Monte Cristo. The Young Amelia
left it three-quarters of a league to
the larboard, and kept on for Corsica.

Dantes thought, as they passed so
closely to the island whose name was so
interesting to him, that he had only to
leap into the sea and in half an hour be
at the promised land. But then what
could he do without instruments to
discover his treasure, without arms to
defend himself? Besides, what would the
sailors say? What would the patron
think? He must wait.

Fortunately, Dantes had learned how to
wait; he had waited fourteen years for
his liberty, and now he was free he
could wait at least six months or a year
for wealth. Would he not have accepted
liberty without riches if it had been
offered to him? Besides, were not those
riches chimerical? -- offspring of the
brain of the poor Abbe Faria, had they
not died with him? It is true, the
letter of the Cardinal Spada was
singularly circumstantial, and Dantes
repeated it to himself, from one end to
the other, for he had not forgotten a
word.

Evening came, and Edmond saw the island
tinged with the shades of twilight, and
then disappear in the darkness from all
eyes but his own, for he, with vision
accustomed to the gloom of a prison,
continued to behold it last of all, for
he remained alone upon deck. The next
morn broke off the coast of Aleria; all
day they coasted, and in the evening saw
fires lighted on land; the position of
these was no doubt a signal for landing,
for a ship's lantern was hung up at the
mast-head instead of the streamer, and
they came to within a gunshot of the
shore. Dantes noticed that the captain
of The Young Amelia had, as he neared
the land, mounted two small culverins,
which, without making much noise, can
throw a four ounce ball a thousand paces
or so.

But on this occasion the precaution was
superfluous, and everything proceeded
with the utmost smoothness and
politeness. Four shallops came off with
very little noise alongside the lugger,
which, no doubt, in acknowledgement of
the compliment, lowered her own shallop
into the sea, and the five boats worked
so well that by two o'clock in the
morning all the cargo was out of The
Young Amelia and on terra firma. The
same night, such a man of regularity was
the patron of The Young Amelia, the
profits were divided, and each man had a
hundred Tuscan livres, or about eighty
francs. But the voyage was not ended.
They turned the bowsprit towards
Sardinia, where they intended to take in
a cargo, which was to replace what had
been discharged. The second operation
was as successful as the first, The
Young Amelia was in luck. This new cargo
was destined for the coast of the Duchy
of Lucca, and consisted almost entirely
of Havana cigars, sherry, and Malaga
wines.

There they had a bit of a skirmish in
getting rid of the duties; the excise
was, in truth, the everlasting enemy of
the patron of The Young Amelia. A
customs officer was laid low, and two
sailors wounded; Dantes was one of the
latter, a ball having touched him in the
left shoulder. Dantes was almost glad of
this affray, and almost pleased at being
wounded, for they were rude lessons
which taught him with what eye he could
view danger, and with what endurance he
could bear suffering. He had
contemplated danger with a smile, and
when wounded had exclaimed with the
great philosopher, "Pain, thou art not
an evil." He had, moreover, looked upon
the customs officer wounded to death,
and, whether from heat of blood produced
by the encounter, or the chill of human
sentiment, this sight had made but
slight impression upon him. Dantes was
on the way he desired to follow, and was
moving towards the end he wished to
achieve; his heart was in a fair way of
petrifying in his bosom. Jacopo, seeing
him fall, had believed him killed, and
rushing towards him raised him up, and
then attended to him with all the
kindness of a devoted comrade.

This world was not then so good as
Doctor Pangloss believed it, neither was
it so wicked as Dantes thought it, since
this man, who had nothing to expect from
his comrade but the inheritance of his
share of the prize-money, manifested so
much sorrow when he saw him fall.
Fortunately, as we have said, Edmond was
only wounded, and with certain herbs
gathered at certain seasons, and sold to
the smugglers by the old Sardinian
women, the wound soon closed. Edmond
then resolved to try Jacopo, and offered
him in return for his attention a share
of his prize-money, but Jacopo refused
it indignantly.

As a result of the sympathetic devotion
which Jacopo had from the first bestowed
on Edmond, the latter was moved to a
certain degree of affection. But this
sufficed for Jacopo, who instinctively
felt that Edmond had a right to
superiority of position -- a superiority
which Edmond had concealed from all
others. And from this time the kindness
which Edmond showed him was enough for
the brave seaman.

Then in the long days on board ship,
when the vessel, gliding on with
security over the azure sea, required no
care but the hand of the helmsman,
thanks to the favorable winds that
swelled her sails, Edmond, with a chart
in his hand, became the instructor of
Jacopo, as the poor Abbe Faria had been
his tutor. He pointed out to him the
bearings of the coast, explained to him
the variations of the compass, and
taught him to read in that vast book
opened over our heads which they call
heaven, and where God writes in azure
with letters of diamonds. And when
Jacopo inquired of him, "What is the use
of teaching all these things to a poor
sailor like me?" Edmond replied, "Who
knows? You may one day be the captain of
a vessel. Your fellow-countryman,
Bonaparte, became emperor." We had
forgotten to say that Jacopo was a
Corsican.

Two months and a half elapsed in these
trips, and Edmond had become as skilful
a coaster as he had been a hardy seaman;
he had formed an acquaintance with all
the smugglers on the coast, and learned
all the Masonic signs by which these
half pirates recognize each other. He
had passed and re-passed his Island of
Monte Cristo twenty times, but not once
had he found an opportunity of landing
there. He then formed a resolution. As
soon as his engagement with the patron
of The Young Amelia ended, he would hire
a small vessel on his own account -- for
in his several voyages he had amassed a
hundred piastres -- and under some
pretext land at the Island of Monte
Cristo. Then he would be free to make
his researches, not perhaps entirely at
liberty, for he would be doubtless
watched by those who accompanied him.
But in this world we must risk
something. Prison had made Edmond
prudent, and he was desirous of running
no risk whatever. But in vain did he
rack his imagination; fertile as it was,
he could not devise any plan for
reaching the island without
companionship.

Dantes was tossed about on these doubts
and wishes, when the patron, who had
great confidence in him, and was very
desirous of retaining him in his
service, took him by the arm one evening
and led him to a tavern on the Via del'
Oglio, where the leading smugglers of
Leghorn used to congregate and discuss
affairs connected with their trade.
Already Dantes had visited this maritime
Bourse two or three times, and seeing
all these hardy free-traders, who
supplied the whole coast for nearly two
hundred leagues in extent, he had asked
himself what power might not that man
attain who should give the impulse of
his will to all these contrary and
diverging minds. This time it was a
great matter that was under discussion,
connected with a vessel laden with
Turkey carpets, stuffs of the Levant,
and cashmeres. It was necessary to find
some neutral ground on which an exchange
could be made, and then to try and land
these goods on the coast of France. If
the venture was successful the profit
would be enormous, there would be a gain
of fifty or sixty piastres each for the
crew.

The patron of The Young Amelia proposed
as a place of landing the Island of
Monte Cristo, which being completely
deserted, and having neither soldiers
nor revenue officers, seemed to have
been placed in the midst of the ocean
since the time of the heathen Olympus by
Mercury, the god of merchants and
robbers, classes of mankind which we in
modern times have separated if not made
distinct, but which antiquity appears to
have included in the same category. At
the mention of Monte Cristo Dantes
started with joy; he rose to conceal his
emotion, and took a turn around the
smoky tavern, where all the languages of
the known world were jumbled in a lingua
franca. When he again joined the two
persons who had been discussing the
matter, it had been decided that they
should touch at Monte Cristo and set out
on the following night. Edmond, being
consulted, was of opinion that the
island afforded every possible security,
and that great enterprises to be well
done should be done quickly. Nothing
then was altered in the plan, and orders
were given to get under weigh next
night, and, wind and weather permitting,
to make the neutral island by the
following day.



Chapter 23 The Island of Monte Cristo.

Thus, at length, by one of the
unexpected strokes of fortune which
sometimes befall those who have for a
long time been the victims of an evil
destiny, Dantes was about to secure the
opportunity he wished for, by simple and
natural means, and land on the island
without incurring any suspicion. One
night more and he would be on his way.

The night was one of feverish
distraction, and in its progress visions
good and evil passed through Dantes'
mind. If he closed his eyes, he saw
Cardinal Spada's letter written on the
wall in characters of flame -- if he
slept for a moment the wildest dreams
haunted his brain. He ascended into
grottos paved with emeralds, with panels
of rubies, and the roof glowing with
diamond stalactites. Pearls fell drop by
drop, as subterranean waters filter in
their caves. Edmond, amazed,
wonderstruck, filled his pockets with
the radiant gems and then returned to
daylight, when he discovered that his
prizes had all changed into common
pebbles. He then endeavored to re-enter
the marvellous grottos, but they had
suddenly receded, and now the path
became a labyrinth, and then the
entrance vanished, and in vain did he
tax his memory for the magic and
mysterious word which opened the
splendid caverns of Ali Baba to the
Arabian fisherman. All was useless, the
treasure disappeared, and had again
reverted to the genii from whom for a
moment he had hoped to carry it off. The
day came at length, and was almost as
feverish as the night had been, but it
brought reason to the aid of
imagination, and Dantes was then enabled
to arrange a plan which had hitherto
been vague and unsettled in his brain.
Night came, and with it the preparation
for departure, and these preparations
served to conceal Dantes' agitation. He
had by degrees assumed such authority
over his companions that he was almost
like a commander on board; and as his
orders were always clear, distinct, and
easy of execution, his comrades obeyed
him with celerity and pleasure.

The old patron did not interfere, for he
too had recognized the superiority of
Dantes over the crew and himself. He saw
in the young man his natural successor,
and regretted that he had not a
daughter, that he might have bound
Edmond to him by a more secure alliance.
At seven o'clock in the evening all was
ready, and at ten minutes past seven
they doubled the lighthouse just as the
beacon was kindled. The sea was calm,
and, with a fresh breeze from the
south-east, they sailed beneath a bright
blue sky, in which God also lighted up
in turn his beacon lights, each of which
is a world. Dantes told them that all
hands might turn in, and he would take
the helm. When the Maltese (for so they
called Dantes) had said this, it was
sufficient, and all went to their bunks
contentedly. This frequently happened.
Dantes, cast from solitude into the
world, frequently experienced an
imperious desire for solitude; and what
solitude is more complete, or more
poetical, then that of a ship floating
in isolation on the sea during the
obscurity of the night, in the silence
of immensity, and under the eye of
heaven?

Now this solitude was peopled with his
thoughts, the night lighted up by his
illusions, and the silence animated by
his anticipations. When the patron
awoke, the vessel was hurrying on with
every sail set, and every sail full with
the breeze. They were making nearly ten
knots an hour. The Island of Monte
Cristo loomed large in the horizon.
Edmond resigned the lugger to the
master's care, and went and lay down in
his hammock; but, in spite of a
sleepless night, he could not close his
eyes for a moment. Two hours afterwards
he came on deck, as the boat was about
to double the Island of Elba. They were
just abreast of Mareciana, and beyond
the flat but verdant Island of La
Pianosa. The peak of Monte Cristo
reddened by the burning sun, was seen
against the azure sky. Dantes ordered
the helmsman to put down his helm, in
order to leave La Pianosa to starboard,
as he knew that he should shorten his
course by two or three knots. About five
o'clock in the evening the island was
distinct, and everything on it was
plainly perceptible, owing to that
clearness of the atmosphere peculiar to
the light which the rays of the sun cast
at its setting.

Edmond gazed very earnestly at the mass
of rocks which gave out all the variety
of twilight colors, from the brightest
pink to the deepest blue; and from time
to time his cheeks flushed, his brow
darkened, and a mist passed over his
eyes. Never did gamester, whose whole
fortune is staked on one cast of the
die, experience the anguish which Edmond
felt in his paroxysms of hope. Night
came, and at ten o'clock they anchored.
The Young Amelia was first at the
rendezvous. In spite of his usual
command over himself, Dantes could not
restrain his impetuosity. He was the
first to jump on shore; and had he
dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus,
have "kissed his mother earth." It was
dark, but at eleven o'clock the moon
rose in the midst of the ocean, whose
every wave she silvered, and then,
"ascending high," played in floods of
pale light on the rocky hills of this
second Pelion.

The island was familiar to the crew of
The Young Amelia, -- it was one of her
regular haunts. As to Dantes, he had
passed it on his voyage to and from the
Levant, but never touched at it. He
questioned Jacopo. "Where shall we pass
the night?" he inquired.

"Why, on board the tartan," replied the
sailor.

"Should we not do better in the
grottos?"

"What grottos?"

"Why, the grottos -- caves of the
island."

"I do not know of any grottos," replied
Jacopo. The cold sweat sprang forth on
Dantes' brow.

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

"None."

For a moment Dantes was speechless; then
he remembered that these caves might
have been filled up by some accident, or
even stopped up, for the sake of greater
security, by Cardinal Spada. The point
was, then, to discover the hidden
entrance. It was useless to search at
night, and Dantes therefore delayed all
investigation until the morning.
Besides, a signal made half a league out
at sea, and to which The Young Amelia
replied by a similar signal, indicated
that the moment for business had come.
The boat that now arrived, assured by
the answering signal that all was well,
soon came in sight, white and silent as
a phantom, and cast anchor within a
cable's length of shore.

Then the landing began. Dantes
reflected, as he worked, on the shout of
joy which, with a single word, he could
evoke from all these men, if he gave
utterance to the one unchanging thought
that pervaded his heart; but, far from
disclosing this precious secret, he
almost feared that he had already said
too much, and by his restlessness and
continual questions, his minute
observations and evident pre-occupation,
aroused suspicions. Fortunately, as
regarded this circumstance at least, his
painful past gave to his countenance an
indelible sadness, and the glimmerings
of gayety seen beneath this cloud were
indeed but transitory.

No one had the slightest suspicion; and
when next day, taking a fowling-piece,
powder, and shot, Dantes declared his
intention to go and kill some of the
wild goats that were seen springing from
rock to rock, his wish was construed
into a love of sport, or a desire for
solitude. However, Jacopo insisted on
following him, and Dantes did not oppose
this, fearing if he did so that he might
incur distrust. Scarcely, however, had
they gone a quarter of a league when,
having killed a kid, he begged Jacopo to
take it to his comrades, and request
them to cook it, and when ready to let
him know by firing a gun. This and some
dried fruits and a flask of Monte
Pulciano, was the bill of fare. Dantes
went on, looking from time to time
behind and around about him. Having
reached the summit of a rock, he saw, a
thousand feet beneath him, his
companions, whom Jacopo had rejoined,
and who were all busy preparing the
repast which Edmond's skill as a
marksman had augmented with a capital
dish.

Edmond looked at them for a moment with
the sad and gentle smile of a man
superior to his fellows. "In two hours'
time," said he, "these persons will
depart richer by fifty piastres each, to
go and risk their lives again by
endeavoring to gain fifty more; then
they will return with a fortune of six
hundred francs, and waste this treasure
in some city with the pride of sultans
and the insolence of nabobs. At this
moment hope makes me despise their
riches, which seem to me contemptible.
Yet perchance to-morrow deception will
so act on me, that I shall, on
compulsion, consider such a contemptible
possession as the utmost happiness. Oh,
no!" exclaimed Edmond, "that will not
be. The wise, unerring Faria could not
be mistaken in this one thing. Besides,
it were better to die than to continue
to lead this low and wretched life."
Thus Dantes, who but three months before
had no desire but liberty had now not
liberty enough, and panted for wealth.
The cause was not in Dantes, but in
providence, who, while limiting the
power of man, has filled him with
boundless desires.

Meanwhile, by a cleft between two walls
of rock, following a path worn by a
torrent, and which, in all human
probability, human foot had never before
trod, Dantes approached the spot where
he supposed the grottos must have
existed. Keeping along the shore, and
examining the smallest object with
serious attention, he thought he could
trace, on certain rocks, marks made by
the hand of man.

Time, which encrusts all physical
substances with its mossy mantle, as it
invests all things of the mind with
forgetfulness, seemed to have respected
these signs, which apparently had been
made with some degree of regularity, and
probably with a definite purpose.
Occasionally the marks were hidden under
tufts of myrtle, which spread into large
bushes laden with blossoms, or beneath
parasitical lichen. So Edmond had to
separate the branches or brush away the
moss to know where the guide-marks were.
The sight of marks renewed Edmond
fondest hopes. Might it not have been
the cardinal himself who had first
traced them, in order that they might
serve as a guide for his nephew in the
event of a catastrophe, which he could
not foresee would have been so complete.
This solitary place was precisely suited
to the requirements of a man desirous of
burying treasure. Only, might not these
betraying marks have attracted other
eyes than those for whom they were made?
and had the dark and wondrous island
indeed faithfully guarded its precious
secret?

It seemed, however, to Edmond, who was
hidden from his comrades by the
inequalities of the ground, that at
sixty paces from the harbor the marks
ceased; nor did they terminate at any
grotto. A large round rock, placed
solidly on its base, was the only spot
to which they seemed to lead. Edmond
concluded that perhaps instead of having
reached the end of the route he had only
explored its beginning, and he therefore
turned round and retraced his steps.

Meanwhile his comrades had prepared the
repast, had got some water from a
spring, spread out the fruit and bread,
and cooked the kid. Just at the moment
when they were taking the dainty animal
from the spit, they saw Edmond springing
with the boldness of a chamois from rock
to rock, and they fired the signal
agreed upon. The sportsman instantly
changed his direction, and ran quickly
towards them. But even while they
watched his daring progress, Edmond's
foot slipped, and they saw him stagger
on the edge of a rock and disappear.
They all rushed towards him, for all
loved Edmond in spite of his
superiority; yet Jacopo reached him
first.

He found Edmond lying prone, bleeding,
and almost senseless. He had rolled down
a declivity of twelve or fifteen feet.
They poured a little rum down his
throat, and this remedy which had before
been so beneficial to him, produced the
same effect as formerly. Edmond opened
his eyes, complained of great pain in
his knee, a feeling of heaviness in his
head, and severe pains in his loins.
They wished to carry him to the shore;
but when they touched him, although
under Jacopo's directions, he declared,
with heavy groans, that he could not
bear to be moved.

It may be supposed that Dantes did not
now think of his dinner, but he insisted
that his comrades, who had not his
reasons for fasting, should have their
meal. As for himself, he declared that
he had only need of a little rest, and
that when they returned he should be
easier. The sailors did not require much
urging. They were hungry, and the smell
of the roasted kid was very savory, and
your tars are not very ceremonious. An
hour afterwards they returned. All that
Edmond had been able to do was to drag
himself about a dozen paces forward to
lean against a moss-grown rock.

But, instead of growing easier, Dantes'
pains appeared to increase in violence.
The old patron, who was obliged to sail
in the morning in order to land his
cargo on the frontiers of Piedmont and
France, between Nice and Frejus, urged
Dantes to try and rise. Edmond made
great exertions in order to comply; but
at each effort he fell back, moaning and
turning pale.

"He has broken his ribs," said the
commander, in a low voice. "No matter;
he is an excellent fellow, and we must
not leave him. We will try and carry him
on board the tartan." Dantes declared,
however, that he would rather die where
he was than undergo the agony which the
slightest movement cost him. "Well,"
said the patron, "let what may happen,
it shall never be said that we deserted
a good comrade like you. We will not go
till evening." This very much astonished
the sailors, although, not one opposed
it. The patron was so strict that this
was the first time they had ever seen
him give up an enterprise, or even delay
in its execution. Dantes would not allow
that any such infraction of regular and
proper rules should be made in his
favor. "No, no," he said to the patron,
"I was awkward, and it is just that I
pay the penalty of my clumsiness. Leave
me a small supply of biscuit, a gun,
powder, and balls, to kill the kids or
defend myself at need, and a pickaxe,
that I may build a shelter if you delay
in coming back for me."

"But you'll die of hunger," said the
patron.

"I would rather do so," was Edmond
reply, "than suffer the inexpressible
agonies which the slightest movement
causes me." The patron turned towards
his vessel, which was rolling on the
swell in the little harbor, and, with
sails partly set, would be ready for sea
when her toilet should be completed.

"What are we to do, Maltese?" asked the
captain. "We cannot leave you here so,
and yet we cannot stay."

"Go, go!" exclaimed Dantes.

"We shall be absent at least a week,"
said the patron, "and then we must run
out of our course to come here and take
you up again."

"Why," said Dantes, "if in two or three
days you hail any fishing-boat, desire
them to come here to me. I will pay
twenty-five piastres for my passage back
to Leghorn. If you do not come across
one, return for me." The patron shook
his head.

"Listen, Captain Baldi; there's one way
of settling this," said Jacopo. "Do you
go, and I will stay and take care of the
wounded man."

"And give up your share of the venture,"
said Edmond, "to remain with me?"

"Yes," said Jacopo, "and without any
hesitation."

"You are a good fellow and a
kind-hearted messmate," replied Edmond,
"and heaven will recompense you for your
generous intentions; but I do not wish
any one to stay with me. A day or two of
rest will set me up, and I hope I shall
find among the rocks certain herbs most
excellent for bruises."

A peculiar smile passed over Dantes'
lips; he squeezed Jacopo's hand warmly,
but nothing could shake his
determination to remain -- and remain
alone. The smugglers left with Edmond
what he had requested and set sail, but
not without turning about several times,
and each time making signs of a cordial
farewell, to which Edmond replied with
his hand only, as if he could not move
the rest of his body. Then, when they
had disappeared, he said with a
smile, -- "'Tis strange that it should
be among such men that we find proofs of
friendship and devotion." Then he
dragged himself cautiously to the top of
a rock, from which he had a full view of
the sea, and thence he saw the tartan
complete her preparations for sailing,
weigh anchor, and, balancing herself as
gracefully as a water-fowl ere it takes
to the wing, set sail. At the end of an
hour she was completely out of sight; at
least, it was impossible for the wounded
man to see her any longer from the spot
where he was. Then Dantes rose more
agile and light than the kid among the
myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks,
took his gun in one hand, his pickaxe in
the other, and hastened towards the rock
on which the marks he had noted
terminated. "And now," he exclaimed,
remembering the tale of the Arabian
fisherman, which Faria had related to
him, "now, open sesame!"



Chapter 24 The Secret Cave.

The sun had nearly reached the meridian,
and his scorching rays fell full on the
rocks, which seemed themselves sensible
of the heat. Thousands of grasshoppers,
hidden in the bushes, chirped with a
monotonous and dull note; the leaves of
the myrtle and olive trees waved and
rustled in the wind. At every step that
Edmond took he disturbed the lizards
glittering with the hues of the emerald;
afar off he saw the wild goats bounding
from crag to crag. In a word, the island
was inhabited, yet Edmond felt himself
alone, guided by the hand of God. He
felt an indescribable sensation somewhat
akin to dread -- that dread of the
daylight which even in the desert makes
us fear we are watched and observed.
This feeling was so strong that at the
moment when Edmond was about to begin
his labor, he stopped, laid down his
pickaxe, seized his gun, mounted to the
summit of the highest rock, and from
thence gazed round in every direction.

But it was not upon Corsica, the very
houses of which he could distinguish; or
on Sardinia; or on the Island of Elba,
with its historical associations; or
upon the almost imperceptible line that
to the experienced eye of a sailor alone
revealed the coast of Genoa the proud,
and Leghorn the commercial, that he
gazed. It was at the brigantine that had
left in the morning, and the tartan that
had just set sail, that Edmond fixed his
eyes. The first was just disappearing in
the straits of Bonifacio; the other,
following an opposite direction, was
about to round the Island of Corsica.
This sight reassured him. He then looked
at the objects near him. He saw that he
was on the highest point of the
island, -- a statue on this vast
pedestal of granite, nothing human
appearing in sight, while the blue ocean
beat against the base of the island, and
covered it with a fringe of foam. Then
he descended with cautious and slow
step, for he dreaded lest an accident
similar to that he had so adroitly
feigned should happen in reality.

Dantes, as we have said, had traced the
marks along the rocks, and he had
noticed that they led to a small creek.
which was hidden like the bath of some
ancient nymph. This creek was
sufficiently wide at its mouth, and deep
in the centre, to admit of the entrance
of a small vessel of the lugger class,
which would be perfectly concealed from
observation.

Then following the clew that, in the
hands of the Abbe Faria, had been so
skilfully used to guide him through the
Daedalian labyrinth of probabilities, he
thought that the Cardinal Spada, anxious
not to be watched, had entered the
creek, concealed his little barque,
followed the line marked by the notches
in the rock, and at the end of it had
buried his treasure. It was this idea
that had brought Dantes back to the
circular rock. One thing only perplexed
Edmond, and destroyed his theory. How
could this rock, which weighed several
tons, have been lifted to this spot,
without the aid of many men? Suddenly an
idea flashed across his mind. Instead of
raising it, thought he, they have
lowered it. And he sprang from the rock
in order to inspect the base on which it
had formerly stood. He soon perceived
that a slope had been formed, and the
rock had slid along this until it
stopped at the spot it now occupied. A
large stone had served as a wedge;
flints and pebbles had been inserted
around it, so as to conceal the orifice;
this species of masonry had been covered
with earth, and grass and weeds had
grown there, moss had clung to the
stones, myrtle-bushes had taken root,
and the old rock seemed fixed to the
earth.

Dantes dug away the earth carefully, and
detected, or fancied he detected, the
ingenious artifice. He attacked this
wall, cemented by the hand of time, with
his pickaxe. After ten minutes' labor
the wall gave way, and a hole large
enough to insert the arm was opened.
Dantes went and cut the strongest
olive-tree he could find, stripped off
its branches, inserted it in the hole,
and used it as a lever. But the rock was
too heavy, and too firmly wedged, to be
moved by any one man, were he Hercules
himself. Dantes saw that he must attack
the wedge. But how? He cast his eyes
around, and saw the horn full of powder
which his friend Jacopo had left him. He
smiled; the infernal invention would
serve him for this purpose. With the aid
of his pickaxe, Dantes, after the manner
of a labor-saving pioneer, dug a mine
between the upper rock and the one that
supported it, filled it with powder,
then made a match by rolling his
handkerchief in saltpetre. He lighted it
and retired. The explosion soon
followed; the upper rock was lifted from
its base by the terrific force of the
powder; the lower one flew into pieces;
thousands of insects escaped from the
aperture Dantes had previously formed,
and a huge snake, like the guardian
demon of the treasure, rolled himself
along in darkening coils, and
disappeared.

Dantes approached the upper rock, which
now, without any support, leaned towards
the sea. The intrepid treasure-seeker
walked round it, and, selecting the spot
from whence it appeared most susceptible
to attack, placed his lever in one of
the crevices, and strained every nerve
to move the mass. The rock, already
shaken by the explosion, tottered on its
base. Dantes redoubled his efforts; he
seemed like one of the ancient Titans,
who uprooted the mountains to hurl
against the father of the gods. The rock
yielded, rolled over, bounded from point
to point, and finally disappeared in the
ocean.

On the spot it had occupied was a
circular space, exposing an iron ring
let into a square flag-stone. Dantes
uttered a cry of joy and surprise; never
had a first attempt been crowned with
more perfect success. He would fain have
continued, but his knees trembled, and
his heart beat so violently, and his
sight became so dim, that he was forced
to pause. This feeling lasted but for a
moment. Edmond inserted his lever in the
ring and exerted all his strength; the
flag-stone yielded, and disclosed steps
that descended until they were lost in
the obscurity of a subterraneous grotto.
Any one else would have rushed on with a
cry of joy. Dantes turned pale,
hesitated, and reflected. "Come," said
he to himself, "be a man. I am
accustomed to adversity. I must not be
cast down by the discovery that I have
been deceived. What, then, would be the
use of all I have suffered? The heart
breaks when, after having been elated by
flattering hopes, it sees all its
illusions destroyed. Faria has dreamed
this; the Cardinal Spada buried no
treasure here; perhaps he never came
here, or if he did, Caesar Borgia, the
intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and
indefatigable plunderer, has followed
him, discovered his traces, pursued them
as I have done, raised the stone, and
descending before me, has left me
nothing." He remained motionless and
pensive, his eyes fixed on the gloomy
aperture that was open at his feet.

"Now that I expect nothing, now that I
no longer entertain the slightest hopes,
the end of this adventure becomes simply
a matter of curiosity." And he remained
again motionless and thoughtful.

"Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a
place in the varied career of that royal
bandit. This fabulous event formed but a
link in a long chain of marvels. Yes,
Borgia has been here, a torch in one
hand, a sword in the other, and within
twenty paces, at the foot of this rock,
perhaps two guards kept watch on land
and sea, while their master descended,
as I am about to descend, dispelling the
darkness before his awe-inspiring
progress."

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

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

"Yet, had he come," thought Dantes, "he
would have found the treasure, and
Borgia, he who compared Italy to an
artichoke, which he could devour leaf by
leaf, knew too well the value of time to
waste it in replacing this rock. I will
go down."

Then he descended, a smile on his lips,
and murmuring that last word of human
philosophy, "Perhaps!" But instead of
the darkness, and the thick and mephitic
atmosphere he had expected to find,
Dantes saw a dim and bluish light,
which, as well as the air, entered, not
merely by the aperture he had just
formed, but by the interstices and
crevices of the rock which were visible
from without, and through which he could
distinguish the blue sky and the waving
branches of the evergreen oaks, and the
tendrils of the creepers that grew from
the rocks. After having stood a few
minutes in the cavern, the atmosphere of
which was rather warm than damp, Dantes'
eye, habituated as it was to darkness,
could pierce even to the remotest angles
of the cavern, which was of granite that
sparkled like diamonds. "Alas," said
Edmond, smiling, "these are the
treasures the cardinal has left; and the
good abbe, seeing in a dream these
glittering walls, has indulged in
fallacious hopes."

But he called to mind the words of the
will, which he knew by heart. "In the
farthest angle of the second opening,"
said the cardinal's will. He had only
found the first grotto; he had now to
seek the second. Dantes continued his
search. He reflected that this second
grotto must penetrate deeper into the
island; he examined the stones, and
sounded one part of the wall where he
fancied the opening existed, masked for
precaution's sake. The pickaxe struck
for a moment with a dull sound that drew
out of Dantes' forehead large drops of
perspiration. At last it seemed to him
that one part of the wall gave forth a
more hollow and deeper echo; he eagerly
advanced, and with the quickness of
perception that no one but a prisoner
possesses, saw that there, in all
probability, the opening must be.

However, he, like Caesar Borgia, knew
the value of time; and, in order to
avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all the
other walls with his pickaxe, struck the
earth with the butt of his gun, and
finding nothing that appeared
suspicious, returned to that part of the
wall whence issued the consoling sound
he had before heard. He again struck it,
and with greater force. Then a singular
thing occurred. As he struck the wall,
pieces of stucco similar to that used in
the ground work of arabesques broke off,
and fell to the ground in flakes,
exposing a large white stone. The
aperture of the rock had been closed
with stones, then this stucco had been
applied, and painted to imitate granite.
Dantes struck with the sharp end of his
pickaxe, which entered someway between
the interstices. It was there he must
dig. But by some strange play of
emotion, in proportion as the proofs
that Faria, had not been deceived became
stronger, so did his heart give way, and
a feeling of discouragement stole over
him. This last proof, instead of giving
him fresh strength, deprived him of it;
the pickaxe descended, or rather fell;
he placed it on the ground, passed his
hand over his brow, and remounted the
stairs, alleging to himself, as an
excuse, a desire to be assured that no
one was watching him, but in reality
because he felt that he was about to
faint. The island was deserted, and the
sun seemed to cover it with its fiery
glance; afar off, a few small fishing
boats studded the bosom of the blue
ocean.

Dantes had tasted nothing, but he
thought not of hunger at such a moment;
he hastily swallowed a few drops of rum,
and again entered the cavern. The
pickaxe that had seemed so heavy, was
now like a feather in his grasp; he
seized it, and attacked the wall. After
several blows he perceived that the
stones were not cemented, but had been
merely placed one upon the other, and
covered with stucco; he inserted the
point of his pickaxe, and using the
handle as a lever, with joy soon saw the
stone turn as if on hinges, and fall at
his feet. He had nothing more to do now,
but with the iron tooth of the pickaxe
to draw the stones towards him one by
one. The aperture was already
sufficiently large for him to enter, but
by waiting, he could still cling to
hope, and retard the certainty of
deception. At last, after renewed
hesitation, Dantes entered the second
grotto. The second grotto was lower and
more gloomy than the first; the air that
could only enter by the newly formed
opening had the mephitic smell Dantes
was surprised not to find in the outer
cavern. He waited in order to allow pure
air to displace the foul atmosphere, and
then went on. At the left of the opening
was a dark and deep angle. But to
Dantes' eye there was no darkness. He
glanced around this second grotto; it
was, like the first, empty.

The treasure, if it existed, was buried
in this corner. The time had at length
arrived; two feet of earth removed, and
Dantes' fate would be decided. He
advanced towards the angle, and
summoning all his resolution, attacked
the ground with the pickaxe. At the
fifth or sixth blow the pickaxe struck
against an iron substance. Never did
funeral knell, never did alarm-bell,
produce a greater effect on the hearer.
Had Dantes found nothing he could not
have become more ghastly pale. He again
struck his pickaxe into the earth, and
encountered the same resistance, but not
the same sound. "It is a casket of wood
bound with iron," thought he. At this
moment a shadow passed rapidly before
the opening; Dantes seized his gun,
sprang through the opening, and mounted
the stair. A wild goat had passed before
the mouth of the cave, and was feeding
at a little distance. This would have
been a favorable occasion to secure his
dinner; but Dantes feared lest the
report of his gun should attract
attention.

He thought a moment, cut a branch of a
resinous tree, lighted it at the fire at
which the smugglers had prepared their
breakfast, and descended with this
torch. He wished to see everything. He
approached the hole he had dug. and now,
with the aid of the torch, saw that his
pickaxe had in reality struck against
iron and wood. He planted his torch in
the ground and resumed his labor. In an
instant a space three feet long by two
feet broad was cleared, and Dantes could
see an oaken coffer, bound with cut
steel; in the middle of the lid he saw
engraved on a silver plate, which was
still untarnished, the arms of the Spada
family -- viz., a sword, pale, on an
oval shield, like all the Italian
armorial bearings, and surmounted by a
cardinal's hat; Dantes easily recognized
them, Faria had so often drawn them for
him. There was no longer any doubt: the
treasure was there -- no one would have
been at such pains to conceal an empty
casket. In an instant he had cleared
every obstacle away, and he saw
successively the lock, placed between
two padlocks, and the two handles at
each end, all carved as things were
carved at that epoch, when art rendered
the commonest metals precious. Dantes
seized the handles, and strove to lift
the coffer; it was impossible. He sought
to open it; lock and padlock were
fastened; these faithful guardians
seemed unwilling to surrender their
trust. Dantes inserted the sharp end of
the pickaxe between the coffer and the
lid, and pressing with all his force on
the handle, burst open the fastenings.
The hinges yielded in their turn and
fell, still holding in their grasp
fragments of the wood, and the chest was
open.

Edmond was seized with vertigo; he
cocked his gun and laid it beside him.
He then closed his eyes as children do
in order that they may see in the
resplendent night of their own
imagination more stars than are visible
in the firmament; then he re-opened
them, and stood motionless with
amazement. Three compartments divided
the coffer. In the first, blazed piles
of golden coin; in the second, were
ranged bars of unpolished gold, which
possessed nothing attractive save their
value; in the third, Edmond grasped
handfuls of diamonds, pearls, and
rubies, which, as they fell on one
another, sounded like hail against
glass. After having touched, felt,
examined these treasures, Edmond rushed
through the caverns like a man seized
with frenzy; he leaped on a rock, from
whence he could behold the sea. He was
alone -- alone with these countless,
these unheard-of treasures! Was he
awake, or was it but a dream?

He would fain have gazed upon his gold,
and yet he had not strength enough; for
an instant he leaned his head in his
hands as if to prevent his senses from
leaving him, and then rushed madly about
the rocks of Monte Cristo, terrifying
the wild goats and scaring the sea-fowls
with his wild cries and gestures; then
he returned, and, still unable to
believe the evidence of his senses,
rushed into the grotto, and found
himself before this mine of gold and
jewels. This time he fell on his knees,
and, clasping his hands convulsively,
uttered a prayer intelligible to God
alone. He soon became calmer and more
happy, for only now did he begin to
realize his felicity. He then set
himself to work to count his fortune.
There were a thousand ingots of gold,
each weighing from two to three pounds;
then he piled up twenty-five thousand
crowns, each worth about eighty francs
of our money, and bearing the effigies
of Alexander VI. and his predecessors;
and he saw that the complement was not
half empty. And he measured ten double
handfuls of pearls, diamonds, and other
gems, many of which, mounted by the most
famous workmen, were valuable beyond
their intrinsic worth. Dantes saw the
light gradually disappear, and fearing
to be surprised in the cavern, left it,
his gun in his hand. A piece of biscuit
and a small quantity of rum formed his
supper, and he snatched a few hours'
sleep, lying over the mouth of the cave.

It was a night of joy and terror, such
as this man of stupendous emotions had
already experienced twice or thrice in
his lifetime.



Chapter 25 The Unknown.

Day, for which Dantes had so eagerly and
impatiently waited with open eyes, again
dawned. With the first light Dantes
resumed his search. Again he climbed the
rocky height he had ascended the
previous evening, and strained his view
to catch every peculiarity of the
landscape; but it wore the same wild,
barren aspect when seen by the rays of
the morning sun which it had done when
surveyed by the fading glimmer of eve.
Descending into the grotto, he lifted
the stone, filled his pockets with gems,
put the box together as well and
securely as he could, sprinkled fresh
sand over the spot from which it had
been taken, and then carefully trod down
the earth to give it everywhere a
uniform appearance; then, quitting the
grotto, he replaced the stone, heaping
on it broken masses of rocks and rough
fragments of crumbling granite, filling
the interstices with earth, into which
he deftly inserted rapidly growing
plants, such as the wild myrtle and
flowering thorn, then carefully watering
these new plantations, he scrupulously
effaced every trace of footsteps,
leaving the approach to the cavern as
savage-looking and untrodden as he had
found it. This done, he impatiently
awaited the return of his companions. To
wait at Monte Cristo for the purpose of
watching like a dragon over the almost
incalculable richs that had thus fallen
into his possession satisfied not the
cravings of his heart, which yearned to
return to dwell among mankind, and to
assume the rank, power, and influence
which are always accorded to wealth --
that first and greatest of all the
forces within the grasp of man.

On the sixth day, the smugglers
returned. From a distance Dantes
recognized the rig and handling of The
Young Amelia, and dragging himself with
affected difficulty towards the
landing-place, he met his companions
with an assurance that, although
considerably better than when they
quitted him, he still suffered acutely
from his late accident. He then inquired
how they had fared in their trip. To
this question the smugglers replied
that, although successful in landing
their cargo in safety, they had scarcely
done so when they received intelligence
that a guard-ship had just quitted the
port of Toulon and was crowding all sail
towards them. This obliged them to make
all the speed they could to evade the
enemy, when they could but lament the
absence of Dantes, whose superior skill
in the management of a vessel would have
availed them so materially. In fact, the
pursuing vessel had almost overtaken
them when, fortunately, night came on,
and enabled them to double the Cape of
Corsica, and so elude all further
pursuit. Upon the whole, however, the
trip had been sufficiently successful to
satisfy all concerned; while the crew,
and particularly Jacopo, expressed great
regrets that Dantes had not been an
equal sharer with themselves in the
profits, which amounted to no less a sum
than fifty piastres each.

Edmond preserved the most admirable
self-command, not suffering the faintest
indication of a smile to escape him at
the enumeration of all the benefits he
would have reaped had he been able to
quit the island; but as The Young Amelia
had merely come to Monte Cristo to fetch
him away, he embarked that same evening,
and proceeded with the captain to
Leghorn. Arrived at Leghorn, he repaired
to the house of a Jew, a dealer in
precious stones, to whom he disposed of
four of his smallest diamonds for five
thousand francs each. Dantes half feared
that such valuable jewels in the hands
of a poor sailor like himself might
excite suspicion; but the cunning
purchaser asked no troublesome questions
concerning a bargain by which he gained
a round profit of at least eighty per
cent.

The following day Dantes presented
Jacopo with an entirely new vessel,
accompanying the gift by a donation of
one hundred piastres, that he might
provide himself with a suitable crew and
other requisites for his outfit, upon
condition that he would go at once to
Marseilles for the purpose of inquiring
after an old man named Louis Dantes,
residing in the Allees de Meillan, and
also a young woman called Mercedes, an
inhabitant of the Catalan village.
Jacopo could scarcely believe his senses
at receiving this magnificent present,
which Dantes hastened to account for by
saying that he had merely been a sailor
from whim and a desire to spite his
family, who did not allow him as much
money as he liked to spend; but that on
his arrival at Leghorn he had come into
possession of a large fortune, left him
by an uncle, whose sole heir he was. The
superior education of Dantes gave an air
of such extreme probability to this
statement that it never once occurred to
Jacopo to doubt its accuracy. The term
for which Edmond had engaged to serve on
board The Young Amelia having expired,
Dantes took leave of the captain, who at
first tried all his powers of persuasion
to induce him to remain as one of the
crew, but having been told the history
of the legacy, he ceased to importune
him further. The following morning
Jacopo set sail for Marseilles, with
directions from Dantes to join him at
the Island of Monte Cristo.

Having seen Jacopo fairly out of the
harbor, Dantes proceeded to make his
final adieus on board The Young Amelia,
distributing so liberal a gratuity among
her crew as to secure for him the good
wishes of all, and expressions of
cordial interest in all that concerned
him. To the captain he promised to write
when he had made up his mind as to his
future plans. Then Dantes departed for
Genoa. At the moment of his arrival a
small yacht was under trial in the bay;
this yacht had been built by order of an
Englishman, who, having heard that the
Genoese excelled all other builders
along the shores of the Mediterranean in
the construction of fast-sailing
vessels, was desirous of possessing a
specimen of their skill; the price
agreed upon between the Englishman and
the Genoese builder was forty thousand
francs. Dantes, struck with the beauty
and capability of the little vessel,
applied to its owner to transfer it to
him, offering sixty thousand francs,
upon condition that he should be allowed
to take immediate possession. The
proposal was too advantageous to be
refused, the more so as the person for
whom the yacht was intended had gone
upon a tour through Switzerland, and was
not expected back in less than three
weeks or a month, by which time the
builder reckoned upon being able to
complete another. A bargain was
therefore struck. Dantes led the owner
of the yacht to the dwelling of a Jew;
retired with the latter for a few
minutes to a small back parlor, and upon
their return the Jew counted out to the
shipbuilder the sum of sixty thousand
francs in bright gold pieces.

The delighted builder then offered his
services in providing a suitable crew
for the little vessel, but this Dantes
declined with many thanks, saying he was
accustomed to cruise about quite alone,
and his principal pleasure consisted in
managing his yacht himself; the only
thing the builder could oblige him in
would be to contrive a sort of secret
closet in the cabin at his bed's head,
the closet to contain three divisions,
so constructed as to be concealed from
all but himself. The builder cheerfully
undertook the commission, and promised
to have these secret places completed by
the next day, Dantes furnishing the
dimensions and plan in accordance with
which they were to be constructed.

The following day Dantes sailed with his
yacht from Genoa, under the inspection
of an immense crowd drawn together by
curiosity to see the rich Spanish
nobleman who preferred managing his own
yacht. But their wonder was soon changed
to admiration at seeing the perfect
skill with which Dantes handled the
helm. The boat, indeed, seemed to be
animated with almost human intelligence,
so promptly did it obey the slightest
touch; and Dantes required but a short
trial of his beautiful craft to
acknowledge that the Genoese had not
without reason attained their high
reputation in the art of shipbuilding.
The spectators followed the little
vessel with their eyes as long as it
remained visible; they then turned their
conjectures upon her probable
destination. Some insisted she was
making for Corsica, others the Island of
Elba; bets were offered to any amount
that she was bound for Spain; while
Africa was positively reported by many
persons as her intended course; but no
one thought of Monte Cristo. Yet thither
it was that Dantes guided his vessel,
and at Monte Cristo he arrived at the
close of the second day; his boat had
proved herself a first-class sailer, and
had come the distance from Genoa in
thirty-five hours. Dantes had carefully
noted the general appearance of the
shore, and, instead of landing at the
usual place, he dropped anchor in the
little creek. The island was utterly
deserted, and bore no evidence of having
been visited since he went away; his
treasure was just as he had left it.
Early on the following morning he
commenced the removal of his riches, and
ere nightfall the whole of his immense
wealth was safely deposited in the
compartments of the secret locker.

A week passed by. Dantes employed it in
manoeuvring his yacht round the island,
studying it as a skilful horseman would
the animal he destined for some
important service, till at the end of
that time he was perfectly conversant
with its good and bad qualities. The
former Dantes proposed to augment, the
latter to remedy.

Upon the eighth day he discerned a small
vessel under full sail approaching Monte
Cristo. As it drew near, he recognized
it as the boat he had given to Jacopo.
He immediately signalled it. His signal
was returned, and in two hours
afterwards the newcomer lay at anchor
beside the yacht. A mournful answer
awaited each of Edmond's eager inquiries
as to the information Jacopo had
obtained. Old Dantes was dead, and
Mercedes had disappeared. Dantes
listened to these melancholy tidings
with outward calmness; but, leaping
lightly ashore, he signified his desire
to be quite alone. In a couple of hours
he returned. Two of the men from
Jacopo's boat came on board the yacht to
assist in navigating it, and he gave
orders that she should be steered direct
to Marseilles. For his father's death he
was in some manner prepared; but he knew
not how to account for the mysterious
disappearance of Mercedes.

Without divulging his secret, Dantes
could not give sufficiently clear
instructions to an agent. There were,
besides, other particulars he was
desirous of ascertaining, and those were
of a nature he alone could investigate
in a manner satisfactory to himself. His
looking-glass had assured him, during
his stay at Leghorn, that he ran no risk
of recognition; moreover, he had now the
means of adopting any disguise he
thought proper. One fine morning, then,
his yacht, followed by the little
fishing-boat, boldly entered the port of
Marseilles, and anchored exactly
opposite the spot from whence, on the
never-to-be-forgotten night of his
departure for the Chateau d'If, he had
been put on board the boat destined to
convey him thither. Still Dantes could
not view without a shudder the approach
of a gendarme who accompanied the
officers deputed to demand his bill of
health ere the yacht was permitted to
hold communication with the shore; but
with that perfect self-possession he had
acquired during his acquaintance with
Faria, Dantes coolly presented an
English passport he had obtained from
Leghorn, and as this gave him a standing
which a French passport would not have
afforded, he was informed that there
existed no obstacle to his immediate
debarkation.

The first person to attract the
attention of Dantes, as he landed on the
Canebiere, was one of the crew belonging
to the Pharaon. Edmond welcomed the
meeting with this fellow -- who had been
one of his own sailors -- as a sure
means of testing the extent of the
change which time had worked in his own
appearance. Going straight towards him,
he propounded a variety of questions on
different subjects, carefully watching
the man's countenance as he did so; but
not a word or look implied that he had
the slightest idea of ever having seen
before the person with whom he was then
conversing. Giving the sailor a piece of
money in return for his civility, Dantes
proceeded onwards; but ere he had gone
many steps he heard the man loudly
calling him to stop. Dantes instantly
turned to meet him. "I beg your pardon,
sir," said the honest fellow, in almost
breathless haste, "but I believe you
made a mistake; you intended to give me
a two-franc piece, and see, you gave me
a double Napoleon."

"Thank you, my good friend. I see that I
have made a trifling mistake, as you
say; but by way of rewarding your
honesty I give you another double
Napoleon, that you may drink to my
health, and be able to ask your
messmates to join you."

So extreme was the surprise of the
sailor, that he was unable even to thank
Edmond, whose receding figure he
continued to gaze after in speechless
astonishment. "Some nabob from India,"
was his comment.

Dantes, meanwhile, went on his way. Each
step he trod oppressed his heart with
fresh emotion; his first and most
indelible recollections were there; not
a tree, not a street, that he passed but
seemed filled with dear and cherished
memories. And thus he proceeded onwards
till he arrived at the end of the Rue de
Noailles, from whence a full view of the
Allees de Meillan was obtained. At this
spot, so pregnant with fond and filial
remembrances, his heart beat almost to
bursting, his knees tottered under him,
a mist floated over his sight, and had
he not clung for support to one of the
trees, he would inevitably have fallen
to the ground and been crushed beneath
the many vehicles continually passing
there. Recovering himself, however, he
wiped the perspiration from his brows,
and stopped not again till he found
himself at the door of the house in
which his father had lived.

The nasturtiums and other plants, which
his father had delighted to train before
his window, had all disappeared from the
upper part of the house. Leaning against
the tree, he gazed thoughtfully for a
time at the upper stories of the shabby
little house. Then he advanced to the
door, and asked whether there were any
rooms to be let. Though answered in the
negative, he begged so earnestly to be
permitted to visit those on the fifth
floor, that, in spite of the
oft-repeated assurance of the concierge
that they were occupied, Dantes
succeeded in inducing the man to go up
to the tenants, and ask permission for a
gentleman to be allowed to look at them.

The tenants of the humble lodging were a
young couple who had been scarcely
married a week; and seeing them, Dantes
sighed heavily. Nothing in the two small
chambers forming the apartments remained
as it had been in the time of the elder
Dantes; the very paper was different,
while the articles of antiquated
furniture with which the rooms had been
filled in Edmond's time had all
disappeared; the four walls alone
remained as he had left them. The bed
belonging to the present occupants was
placed as the former owner of the
chamber had been accustomed to have his;
and, in spite of his efforts to prevent
it, the eyes of Edmond were suffused in
tears as he reflected that on that spot
the old man had breathed his last,
vainly calling for his son. The young
couple gazed with astonishment at the
sight of their visitor's emotion, and
wondered to see the large tears silently
chasing each other down his otherwise
stern and immovable features; but they
felt the sacredness of his grief, and
kindly refrained from questioning him as
to its cause, while, with instinctive
delicacy, they left him to indulge his
sorrow alone. When he withdrew from the
scene of his painful recollections, they
both accompanied him downstairs,
reiterating their hope that he would
come again whenever he pleased, and
assuring him that their poor dwelling
would ever be open to him. As Edmond
passed the door on the fourth floor, he
paused to inquire whether Caderousse the
tailor still dwelt there; but he
received, for reply, that the person in
question had got into difficulties, and
at the present time kept a small inn on
the route from Bellegarde to Beaucaire.

Having obtained the address of the
person to whom the house in the Allees
de Meillan belonged, Dantes next
proceeded thither, and, under the name
of Lord Wilmore (the name and title
inscribed on his passport), purchased
the small dwelling for the sum of
twenty-five thousand francs, at least
ten thousand more than it was worth; but
had its owner asked half a million, it
would unhesitatingly have been given.
The very same day the occupants of the
apartments on the fifth floor of the
house, now become the property of
Dantes, were duly informed by the notary
who had arranged the necessary transfer
of deeds, etc., that the new landlord
gave them their choice of any of the
rooms in the house, without the least
augmentation of rent, upon condition of
their giving instant possession of the
two small chambers they at present
inhabited.

This strange event aroused great wonder
and curiosity in the neighborhood of the
Allees de Meillan, and a multitude of
theories were afloat, none of which was
anywhere near the truth. But what raised
public astonishment to a climax, and set
all conjecture at defiance, was the
knowledge that the same stranger who had
in the morning visited the Allees de
Meillan had been seen in the evening
walking in the little village of the
Catalans, and afterwards observed to
enter a poor fisherman's hut, and to
pass more than an hour in inquiring
after persons who had either been dead
or gone away for more than fifteen or
sixteen years. But on the following day
the family from whom all these
particulars had been asked received a
handsome present, consisting of an
entirely new fishing-boat, with two
seines and a tender. The delighted
recipients of these munificent gifts
would gladly have poured out their
thanks to their generous benefactor, but
they had seen him, upon quitting the
hut, merely give some orders to a
sailor, and then springing lightly on
horseback, leave Marseilles by the Porte
d'Aix.



Chapter 26 The Pont du Gard Inn.

Such of my readers as have made a
pedestrian excursion to the south of
France may perchance have noticed, about
midway between the town of Beaucaire and
the village of Bellegarde, -- a little
nearer to the former than to the
latter, -- a small roadside inn, from
the front of which hung, creaking and
flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin
covered with a grotesque representation
of the Pont du Gard. This modern place
of entertainment stood on the left-hand
side of the post road, and backed upon
the Rhone. It also boasted of what in
Languedoc is styled a garden, consisting
of a small plot of ground, on the side
opposite to the main entrance reserved
for the reception of guests. A few dingy
olives and stunted fig-trees struggled
hard for existence, but their withered
dusty foliage abundantly proved how
unequal was the conflict. Between these
sickly shrubs grew a scanty supply of
garlic, tomatoes, and eschalots; while,
lone and solitary, like a forgotten
sentinel, a tall pine raised its
melancholy head in one of the corners of
this unattractive spot, and displayed
its flexible stem and fan-shaped summit
dried and cracked by the fierce heat of
the sub-tropical sun.

In the surrounding plain, which more
resembled a dusty lake than solid
ground, were scattered a few miserable
stalks of wheat, the effect, no doubt,
of a curious desire on the part of the
agriculturists of the country to see
whether such a thing as the raising of
grain in those parched regions was
practicable. Each stalk served as a
perch for a grasshopper, which regaled
the passers by through this Egyptian
scene with its strident, monotonous
note.

For about seven or eight years the
little tavern had been kept by a man and
his wife, with two servants, -- a
chambermaid named Trinette, and a
hostler called Pecaud. This small staff
was quite equal to all the requirements,
for a canal between Beaucaire and
Aiguemortes had revolutionized
transportation by substituting boats for
the cart and the stagecoach. And, as
though to add to the daily misery which
this prosperous canal inflicted on the
unfortunate inn-keeper, whose utter ruin
it was fast accomplishing, it was
situated between the Rhone from which it
had its source and the post-road it had
depleted, not a hundred steps from the
inn, of which we have given a brief but
faithful description.

The inn-keeper himself was a man of from
forty to fifty-five years of age, tall,
strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of
the natives of those southern latitudes;
he had dark, sparkling, and deep-set
eyes, hooked nose, and teeth white as
those of a carnivorous animal; his hair,
like his beard, which he wore under his
chin, was thick and curly, and in spite
of his age but slightly interspersed
with a few silvery threads. His
naturally dark complexion had assumed a
still further shade of brown from the
habit the unfortunate man had acquired
of stationing himself from morning till
eve at the threshold of his door, on the
lookout for guests who seldom came, yet
there he stood, day after day, exposed
to the meridional rays of a burning sun,
with no other protection for his head
than a red handkerchief twisted around
it, after the manner of the Spanish
muleteers. This man was our old
acquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse. His
wife, on the contrary, whose maiden name
had been Madeleine Radelle, was pale,
meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in the
neighborhood of Arles, she had shared in
the beauty for which its women are
proverbial; but that beauty had
gradually withered beneath the
devastating influence of the slow fever
so prevalent among dwellers by the ponds
of Aiguemortes and the marshes of
Camargue. She remained nearly always in
her second-floor chamber, shivering in
her chair, or stretched languid and
feeble on her bed, while her husband
kept his daily watch at the door -- a
duty he performed with so much the
greater willingness, as it saved him the
necessity of listening to the endless
plaints and murmurs of his helpmate, who
never saw him without breaking out into
bitter invectives against fate; to all
of which her husband would calmly return
an unvarying reply, in these philosophic
words: --

"Hush, La Carconte. It is God's pleasure
that things should be so."

The sobriquet of La Carconte had been
bestowed on Madeleine Radelle from the
fact that she had been born in a
village, so called, situated between
Salon and Lambesc; and as a custom
existed among the inhabitants of that
part of France where Caderousse lived of
styling every person by some particular
and distinctive appellation, her husband
had bestowed on her the name of La
Carconte in place of her sweet and
euphonious name of Madeleine, which, in
all probability, his rude gutteral
language would not have enabled him to
pronounce. Still, let it not be supposed
that amid this affected resignation to
the will of Providence, the unfortunate
inn-keeper did not writhe under the
double misery of seeing the hateful
canal carry off his customers and his
profits, and the daily infliction of his
peevish partner's murmurs and
lamentations.

Like other dwellers in the south, he was
a man of sober habits and moderate
desires, but fond of external show,
vain, and addicted to display. During
the days of his prosperity, not a
festivity took place without himself and
wife being among the spectators. He
dressed in the picturesque costume worn
upon grand occasions by the inhabitants
of the south of France, bearing equal
resemblance to the style adopted both by
the Catalans and Andalusians; while La
Carconte displayed the charming fashion
prevalent among the women of Arles, a
mode of attire borrowed equally from
Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees,
watch-chains, necklaces, parti-colored
scarfs, embroidered bodices, velvet
vests, elegantly worked stockings,
striped gaiters, and silver buckles for
the shoes, all disappeared; and Gaspard
Caderousse, unable to appear abroad in
his pristine splendor, had given up any
further participation in the pomps and
vanities, both for himself and wife,
although a bitter feeling of envious
discontent filled his mind as the sound
of mirth and merry music from the joyous
revellers reached even the miserable
hostelry to which he still clung, more
for the shelter than the profit it
afforded.

Caderousse, then, was, as usual, at his
place of observation before the door,
his eyes glancing listlessly from a
piece of closely shaven grass -- on
which some fowls were industriously,
though fruitlessly, endeavoring to turn
up some grain or insect suited to their
palate -- to the deserted road, which
led away to the north and south, when he
was aroused by the shrill voice of his
wife, and grumbling to himself as he
went, he mounted to her chamber, first
taking care, however, to set the
entrance door wide open, as an
invitation to any chance traveller who
might be passing.

At the moment Caderousse quitted his
sentry-like watch before the door, the
road on which he so eagerly strained his
sight was void and lonely as a desert at
mid-day. There it lay stretching out
into one interminable line of dust and
sand, with its sides bordered by tall,
meagre trees, altogether presenting so
uninviting an appearance, that no one in
his senses could have imagined that any
traveller, at liberty to regulate his
hours for journeying, would choose to
expose himself in such a formidable
Sahara. Nevertheless, had Caderousse but
retained his post a few minutes longer,
he might have caught a dim outline of
something approaching from the direction
of Bellegarde; as the moving object drew
nearer, he would easily have perceived
that it consisted of a man and horse,
between whom the kindest and most
amiable understanding appeared to exist.
The horse was of Hungarian breed, and
ambled along at an easy pace. His rider
was a priest, dressed in black, and
wearing a three-cornered hat; and, spite
of the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the
pair came on with a fair degree of
rapidity.

Having arrived before the Pont du Gard,
the horse stopped, but whether for his
own pleasure or that of his rider would
have been difficult to say. However that
might have been, the priest,
dismounting, led his steed by the bridle
in search of some place to which he
could secure him. Availing himself of a
handle that projected from a half-fallen
door, he tied the animal safely and
having drawn a red cotton handkerchief,
from his pocket, wiped away the
perspiration that streamed from his
brow, then, advancing to the door,
struck thrice with the end of his
iron-shod stick. At this unusual sound,
a huge black dog came rushing to meet
the daring assailant of his ordinarily
tranquil abode, snarling and displaying
his sharp white teeth with a determined
hostility that abundantly proved how
little he was accustomed to society. At
that moment a heavy footstep was heard
descending the wooden staircase that led
from the upper floor, and, with many
bows and courteous smiles, mine host of
the Pont du Gard besought his guest to
enter.

"You are welcome, sir, most welcome!"
repeated the astonished Caderousse.
"Now, then, Margotin," cried he,
speaking to the dog, "will you be quiet?
Pray don't heed him, sir! -- he only
barks, he never bites. I make no doubt a
glass of good wine would be acceptable
this dreadfully hot day." Then
perceiving for the first time the garb
of the traveller he had to entertain,
Caderousse hastily exclaimed: "A
thousand pardons! I really did not
observe whom I had the honor to receive
under my poor roof. What would the abbe
please to have? What refreshment can I
offer? All I have is at his service."

The priest gazed on the person
addressing him with a long and searching
gaze -- there even seemed a disposition
on his part to court a similar scrutiny
on the part of the inn-keeper; then,
observing in the countenance of the
latter no other expression than extreme
surprise at his own want of attention to
an inquiry so courteously worded, he
deemed it as well to terminate this dumb
show, and therefore said, speaking with
a strong Italian accent, "You are, I
presume, M. Caderousse?"

"Yes, sir," answered the host, even more
surprised at the question than he had
been by the silence which had preceded
it; "I am Gaspard Caderousse, at your
service."

"Gaspard Caderousse," rejoined the
priest. "Yes, -- Christian and surname
are the same. You formerly lived, I
believe in the Allees de Meillan, on the
fourth floor?"

"I did."

"And you followed the business of a
tailor?"

"True, I was a tailor, till the trade
fell off. It is so hot at Marseilles,
that really I believe that the
respectable inhabitants will in time go
without any clothing whatever. But
talking of heat, is there nothing I can
offer you by way of refreshment?"

"Yes; let me have a bottle of your best
wine, and then, with your permission, we
will resume our conversation from where
we left off."

"As you please, sir," said Caderousse,
who, anxious not to lose the present
opportunity of finding a customer for
one of the few bottles of Cahors still
remaining in his possession, hastily
raised a trap-door in the floor of the
apartment they were in, which served
both as parlor and kitchen. Upon issuing
forth from his subterranean retreat at
the expiration of five minutes, he found
the abbe seated upon a wooden stool,
leaning his elbow on a table, while
Margotin, whose animosity seemed
appeased by the unusual command of the
traveller for refreshments, had crept up
to him, and had established himself very
comfortably between his knees, his long,
skinny neck resting on his lap, while
his dim eye was fixed earnestly on the
traveller's face.

"Are you quite alone?" inquired the
guest, as Caderousse placed before him
the bottle of wine and a glass.

"Quite, quite alone," replied the man --
"or, at least, practically so, for my
poor wife, who is the only person in the
house besides myself, is laid up with
illness, and unable to render me the
least assistance, poor thing!"

"You are married, then?" said the
priest, with a show of interest,
glancing round as he spoke at the scanty
furnishings of the apartment.

"Ah, sir," said Caderousse with a sigh,
"it is easy to perceive I am not a rich
man; but in this world a man does not
thrive the better for being honest." The
abbe fixed on him a searching,
penetrating glance.

"Yes, honest -- I can certainly say that
much for myself," continued the
inn-keeper, fairly sustaining the
scrutiny of the abbe's gaze; "I can
boast with truth of being an honest man;
and," continued he significantly, with a
hand on his breast and shaking his head,
"that is more than every one can say
nowadays."

"So much the better for you, if what you
assert be true," said the abbe; "for I
am firmly persuaded that, sooner or
later, the good will be rewarded, and
the wicked punished."

"Such words as those belong to your
profession," answered Caderousse, "and
you do well to repeat them; but," added
he, with a bitter expression of
countenance, "one is free to believe
them or not, as one pleases."

"You are wrong to speak thus," said the
abbe; "and perhaps I may, in my own
person, be able to prove to you how
completely you are in error."

"What mean you?" inquired Caderousse
with a look of surprise.

"In the first place, I must be satisfied
that you are the person I am in search
of."

"What proofs do you require?"

"Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know
anything of a young sailor named
Dantes?"

"Dantes? Did I know poor dear Edmond?
Why, Edmond Dantes and myself were
intimate friends!" exclaimed Caderousse,
whose countenance flushed darkly as he
caught the penetrating gaze of the abbe
fixed on him, while the clear, calm eye
of the questioner seemed to dilate with
feverish scrutiny.

"You remind me," said the priest, "that
the young man concerning whom I asked
you was said to bear the name of
Edmond."

"Said to bear the name!" repeated
Caderousse, becoming excited and eager.
"Why, he was so called as truly as I
myself bore the appellation of Gaspard
Caderousse; but tell me, I pray, what
has become of poor Edmond? Did you know
him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he
prosperous and happy?"

"He died a more wretched, hopeless,
heart-broken prisoner than the felons
who pay the penalty of their crimes at
the galleys of Toulon."

A deadly pallor followed the flush on
the countenance of Caderousse, who
turned away, and the priest saw him
wiping the tears from his eyes with the
corner of the red handkerchief twisted
round his head.

"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" murmured
Caderousse. "Well, there, sir, is
another proof that good people are never
rewarded on this earth, and that none
but the wicked prosper. Ah," continued
Caderousse, speaking in the highly
colored language of the south, "the
world grows worse and worse. Why does
not God, if he really hates the wicked,
as he is said to do, send down brimstone
and fire, and consume them altogether?"

"You speak as though you had loved this
young Dantes," observed the abbe,
without taking any notice of his
companion's vehemence.

"And so I did," replied Caderousse;
"though once, I confess, I envied him
his good fortune. But I swear to you,
sir, I swear to you, by everything a man
holds dear, I have, since then, deeply
and sincerely lamented his unhappy
fate." There was a brief silence, during
which the fixed, searching eye of the
abbe was employed in scrutinizing the
agitated features of the inn-keeper.

"You knew the poor lad, then?" continued
Caderousse.

"I was called to see him on his dying
bed, that I might administer to him the
consolations of religion."

"And of what did he die?" asked
Caderousse in a choking voice.

"Of what, think you, do young and strong
men die in prison, when they have
scarcely numbered their thirtieth year,
unless it be of imprisonment?"
Caderousse wiped away the large beads of
perspiration that gathered on his brow.

"But the strangest part of the story
is," resumed the abbe, "that Dantes,
even in his dying moments, swore by his
crucified Redeemer, that he was utterly
ignorant of the cause of his detention."

"And so he was," murmured Caderousse.
"How should he have been otherwise? Ah,
sir, the poor fellow told you the
truth."

"And for that reason, he besought me to
try and clear up a mystery he had never
been able to penetrate, and to clear his
memory should any foul spot or stain
have fallen on it."

And here the look of the abbe, becoming
more and more fixed, seemed to rest with
ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomy
depression which was rapidly spreading
over the countenance of Caderousse.

"A rich Englishman," continued the abbe,
"who had been his companion in
misfortune, but had been released from
prison during the second restoration,
was possessed of a diamond of immense
value; this jewel he bestowed on Dantes
upon himself quitting the prison, as a
mark of his gratitude for the kindness
and brotherly care with which Dantes had
nursed him in a severe illness he
underwent during his confinement.
Instead of employing this diamond in
attempting to bribe his jailers, who
might only have taken it and then
betrayed him to the governor, Dantes
carefully preserved it, that in the
event of his getting out of prison he
might have wherewithal to live, for the
sale of such a diamond would have quite
sufficed to make his fortune."

"Then, I suppose," asked Caderousse,
with eager, glowing looks, "that it was
a stone of immense value?"

"Why, everything is relative," answered
the abbe. "To one in Edmond's position
the diamond certainly was of great
value. It was estimated at fifty
thousand francs."

"Bless me!" exclaimed Caderousse, "fifty
thousand francs! Surely the diamond was
as large as a nut to be worth all that."

"No," replied the abbe, "it was not of
such a size as that; but you shall judge
for yourself. I have it with me."

The sharp gaze of Caderousse was
instantly directed towards the priest's
garments, as though hoping to discover
the location of the treasure. Calmly
drawing forth from his pocket a small
box covered with black shagreen, the
abbe opened it, and displayed to the
dazzled eyes of Caderousse the sparkling
jewel it contained, set in a ring of
admirable workmanship. "And that
diamond," cried Caderousse, almost
breathless with eager admiration, "you
say, is worth fifty thousand francs?"

"It is, without the setting, which is
also valuable," replied the abbe, as he
closed the box, and returned it to his
pocket, while its brilliant hues seemed
still to dance before the eyes of the
fascinated inn-keeper.

"But how comes the diamond in your
possession, sir? Did Edmond make you his
heir?"

"No, merely his testamentary executor.
`I once possessed four dear and faithful
friends, besides the maiden to whom I
was betrothed' he said; `and I feel
convinced they have all unfeignedly
grieved over my loss. The name of one of
the four friends is Caderousse.'" The
inn-keeper shivered.

"`Another of the number,'" continued the
abbe, without seeming to notice the
emotion of Caderousse, "`is called
Danglars; and the third, in spite of
being my rival, entertained a very
sincere affection for me.'" A fiendish
smile played over the features of
Caderousse, who was about to break in
upon the abbe's speech, when the latter,
waving his hand, said, "Allow me to
finish first, and then if you have any
observations to make, you can do so
afterwards. `The third of my friends,
although my rival, was much attached to
me, -- his name was Fernand; that of my
betrothed was' -- Stay, stay," continued
the abbe, "I have forgotten what he
called her."

"Mercedes," said Caderousse eagerly.

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

"Go on," urged Caderousse.

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

Caderousse quickly performed the
stranger's bidding; and after pouring
some into a glass, and slowly swallowing
its contents, the abbe, resuming his
usual placidity of manner, said, as he
placed his empty glass on the table, --
"Where did we leave off?"

"The name of Edmond's betrothed was
Mercedes."

"To be sure. `You will go to
Marseilles,' said Dantes, -- for you
understand, I repeat his words just as
he uttered them. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"`You will sell this diamond; you will
divide the money into five equal parts,
and give an equal portion to these good
friends, the only persons who have loved
me upon earth.'"

"But why into five parts?" asked
Caderousse; "you only mentioned four
persons."

"Because the fifth is dead, as I hear.
The fifth sharer in Edmond's bequest,
was his own father."

"Too true, too true!" ejaculated
Caderousse, almost suffocated by the
contending passions which assailed him,
"the poor old man did die."

"I learned so much at Marseilles,"
replied the abbe, making a strong effort
to appear indifferent; "but from the
length of time that has elapsed since
the death of the elder Dantes, I was
unable to obtain any particulars of his
end. Can you enlighten me on that
point?"

"I do not know who could if I could
not," said Caderousse. "Why, I lived
almost on the same floor with the poor
old man. Ah, yes, about a year after the
disappearance of his son the poor old
man died."

"Of what did he die?"

"Why, the doctors called his complaint
gastro-enteritis, I believe; his
acquaintances say he died of grief; but
I, who saw him in his dying moments, I
say he died of" -- Caderousse paused.

"Of what?" asked the priest, anxiously
and eagerly.

"Why, of downright starvation."

"Starvation!" exclaimed the abbe,
springing from his seat. "Why, the
vilest animals are not suffered to die
by such a death as that. The very dogs
that wander houseless and homeless in
the streets find some pitying hand to
cast them a mouthful of bread; and that
a man, a Christian, should be allowed to
perish of hunger in the midst of other
men who call themselves Christians, is
too horrible for belief. Oh, it is
impossible -- utterly impossible!"

"What I have said, I have said,"
answered Caderousse.

"And you are a fool for having said
anything about it," said a voice from
the top of the stairs. "Why should you
meddle with what does not concern you?"

The two men turned quickly, and saw the
sickly countenance of La Carconte
peering between the baluster rails;
attracted by the sound of voices, she
had feebly dragged herself down the
stairs, and, seated on the lower step,
head on knees, she had listened to the
foregoing conversation. "Mind your own
business, wife," replied Caderousse
sharply. "This gentleman asks me for
information, which common politeness
will not permit me to refuse."

"Politeness, you simpleton!" retorted La
Carconte. "What have you to do with
politeness, I should like to know?
Better study a little common prudence.
How do you know the motives that person
may have for trying to extract all he
can from you?"

"I pledge you my word, madam," said the
abbe, "that my intentions are good; and
that your husband can incur no risk,
provided he answers me candidly."

"Ah, that's all very fine," retorted the
woman. "Nothing is easier than to begin
with fair promises and assurances of
nothing to fear; but when poor, silly
folks, like my husband there, have been
persuaded to tell all they know, the
promises and assurances of safety are
quickly forgotten; and at some moment
when nobody is expecting it, behold
trouble and misery, and all sorts of
persecutions, are heaped on the
unfortunate wretches, who cannot even
see whence all their afflictions come."

"Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself
perfectly easy, I beg of you. Whatever
evils may befall you, they will not be
occasioned by my instrumentality, that I
solemnly promise you."

La Carconte muttered a few inarticulate
words, then let her head again drop upon
her knees, and went into a fit of ague,
leaving the two speakers to resume the
conversation, but remaining so as to be
able to hear every word they uttered.
Again the abbe had been obliged to
swallow a draught of water to calm the
emotions that threatened to overpower
him. When he had sufficiently recovered
himself, he said, "It appears, then,
that the miserable old man you were
telling me of was forsaken by every one.
Surely, had not such been the case, he
would not have perished by so dreadful a
death."

"Why, he was not altogether forsaken,"
continued Caderousse, "for Mercedes the
Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very
kind to him; but somehow the poor old
man had contracted a profound hatred for
Fernand -- the very person," added
Caderousse with a bitter smile, "that
you named just now as being one of
Dantes' faithful and attached friends."

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

"Gaspard, Gaspard!" murmured the woman,
from her seat on the stairs, "mind what
you are saying!" Caderousse made no
reply to these words, though evidently
irritated and annoyed by the
interruption, but, addressing the abbe,
said, "Can a man be faithful to another
whose wife he covets and desires for
himself? But Dantes was so honorable and
true in his own nature, that he believed
everybody's professions of friendship.
Poor Edmond, he was cruelly deceived;
but it was fortunate that he never knew,
or he might have found it more
difficult, when on his deathbed, to
pardon his enemies. And, whatever people
may say," continued Caderousse, in his
native language, which was not
altogether devoid of rude poetry, "I
cannot help being more frightened at the
idea of the malediction of the dead than
the hatred of the living."

"Imbecile!" exclaimed La Carconte.

"Do you, then, know in what manner
Fernand injured Dantes?" inquired the
abbe of Caderousse.

"Do I? No one better."

"Speak out then, say what it was!"

"Gaspard!" cried La Carconte, "do as you
will; you are master -- but if you take
my advice you'll hold your tongue."

"Well, wife," replied Caderousse, "I
don't know but what you're right!"

"So you will say nothing?" asked the
abbe.

"Why, what good would it do?" asked
Caderousse. "If the poor lad were
living, and came to me and begged that I
would candidly tell which were his true
and which his false friends, why,
perhaps, I should not hesitate. But you
tell me he is no more, and therefore can
have nothing to do with hatred or
revenge, so let all such feeling be
buried with him."

"You prefer, then," said the abbe, "that
I should bestow on men you say are false
and treacherous, the reward intended for
faithful friendship?"

"That is true enough," returned
Caderousse. "You say truly, the gift of
poor Edmond was not meant for such
traitors as Fernand and Danglars;
besides, what would it be to them? no
more than a drop of water in the ocean."

"Remember," chimed in La Carconte,
"those two could crush you at a single
blow!"

"How so?" inquired the abbe. "Are these
persons, then, so rich and powerful?"

"Do you not know their history?"

"I do not. Pray relate it to me!"
Caderousse seemed to reflect for a few
moments, then said, "No, truly, it would
take up too much time."

"Well, my good friend," returned the
abbe, in a tone that indicated utter
indifference on his part, "you are at
liberty, either to speak or be silent,
just as you please; for my own part, I
respect your scruples and admire your
sentiments; so let the matter end. I
shall do my duty as conscientiously as I
can, and fulfil my promise to the dying
man. My first business will be to
dispose of this diamond." So saying, the
abbe again drew the small box from his
pocket, opened it, and contrived to hold
it in such a light, that a bright flash
of brilliant hues passed before the
dazzled gaze of Caderousse.

"Wife, wife!" cried he in a hoarse
voice, "come here!"

"Diamond!" exclaimed La Carconte, rising
and descending to the chamber with a
tolerably firm step; "what diamond are
you talking about?"

"Why, did you not hear all we said?"
inquired Caderousse. "It is a beautiful
diamond left by poor Edmond Dantes, to
be sold, and the money divided between
his father, Mercedes, his betrothed
bride, Fernand, Danglars, and myself.
The jewel is worth at least fifty
thousand francs."

"Oh, what a magnificent jewel!" cried
the astonished woman.

"The fifth part of the profits from this
stone belongs to us then, does it not?"
asked Caderousse.

"It does," replied the abbe; "with the
addition of an equal division of that
part intended for the elder Dantes,
which I believe myself at liberty to
divide equally with the four survivors."

"And why among us four?" inquired
Caderousse.

"As being the friends Edmond esteemed
most faithful and devoted to him."

"I don't call those friends who betray
and ruin you," murmured the wife in her
turn, in a low, muttering voice.

"Of course not!" rejoined Caderousse
quickly; "no more do I, and that was
what I was observing to this gentleman
just now. I said I looked upon it as a
sacrilegious profanation to reward
treachery, perhaps crime."

"Remember," answered the abbe calmly, as
he replaced the jewel and its case in
the pocket of his cassock, "it is your
fault, not mine, that I do so. You will
have the goodness to furnish me with the
address of both Fernand and Danglars, in
order that I may execute Edmond's last
wishes." The agitation of Caderousse
became extreme, and large drops of
perspiration rolled from his heated
brow. As he saw the abbe rise from his
seat and go towards the door, as though
to ascertain if his horse were
sufficiently refreshed to continue his
journey, Caderousse and his wife
exchanged looks of deep meaning.

"There, you see, wife," said the former,
"this splendid diamond might all be
ours, if we chose!"

"Do you believe it?"

"Why, surely a man of his holy
profession would not deceive us!"

"Well," replied La Carconte, "do as you
like. For my part, I wash my hands of
the affair." So saying, she once more
climbed the staircase leading to her
chamber, her body convulsed with chills,
and her teeth rattling in her head, in
spite of the intense heat of the
weather. Arrived at the top stair, she
turned round, and called out, in a
warning tone, to her husband, "Gaspard,
consider well what you are about to do!"

"I have both reflected and decided,"
answered he. La Carconte then entered
her chamber, the flooring of which
creaked beneath her heavy, uncertain
tread, as she proceeded towards her
arm-chair, into which she fell as though
exhausted.

"Well," asked the abbe, as he returned
to the apartment below, "what have you
made up your mind to do?"

"To tell you all I know," was the reply.

"I certainly think you act wisely in so
doing," said the priest. "Not because I
have the least desire to learn anything
you may please to conceal from me, but
simply that if, through your assistance,
I could distribute the legacy according
to the wishes of the testator, why, so
much the better, that is all."

"I hope it may be so," replied
Caderousse, his face flushed with
cupidity.

"I am all attention," said the abbe.

"Stop a minute," answered Caderousse;
"we might be interrupted in the most
interesting part of my story, which
would be a pity; and it is as well that
your visit hither should be made known
only to ourselves." With these words he
went stealthily to the door, which he
closed, and, by way of still greater
precaution, bolted and barred it, as he
was accustomed to do at night. During
this time the abbe had chosen his place
for listening at his ease. He removed
his seat into a corner of the room,
where he himself would be in deep
shadow, while the light would be fully
thrown on the narrator; then, with head
bent down and hands clasped, or rather
clinched together, he prepared to give
his whole attention to Caderousse, who
seated himself on the little stool,
exactly opposite to him.

"Remember, this is no affair of mine,"
said the trembling voice of La Carconte,
as though through the flooring of her
chamber she viewed the scene that was
enacting below.

"Enough, enough!" replied Caderousse;
"say no more about it; I will take all
the consequences upon myself." And he
began his story.



Chapter 27 The Story.

"First, sir," said Caderousse, "you must
make me a promise."

"What is that?" inquired the abbe.

"Why, if you ever make use of the
details I am about to give you, that you
will never let any one know that it was
I who supplied them; for the persons of
whom I am about to talk are rich and
powerful, and if they only laid the tips
of their fingers on me, I should break
to pieces like glass."

"Make yourself easy, my friend," replied
the abbe. "I am a priest, and
confessions die in my breast. Recollect,
our only desire is to carry out, in a
fitting manner, the last wishes of our
friend. Speak, then, without reserve, as
without hatred; tell the truth, the
whole truth; I do not know, never may
know, the persons of whom you are about
to speak; besides, I am an Italian, and
not a Frenchman, and belong to God, and
not to man, and I shall shortly retire
to my convent, which I have only quitted
to fulfil the last wishes of a dying
man." This positive assurance seemed to
give Caderousse a little courage.

"Well, then, under these circumstances,"
said Caderousse, "I will, I even believe
I ought to undeceive you as to the
friendship which poor Edmond thought so
sincere and unquestionable."

"Begin with his father, if you please."
said the abbe; "Edmond talked to me a
great deal about the old man for whom he
had the deepest love."

"The history is a sad one, sir," said
Caderousse, shaking his head; "perhaps
you know all the earlier part of it?"

"Yes." answered the abbe; "Edmond
related to me everything until the
moment when he was arrested in a small
cabaret close to Marseilles."

"At La Reserve! Oh, yes; I can see it
all before me this moment."

"Was it not his betrothal feast?"

"It was and the feast that began so
gayly had a very sorrowful ending; a
police commissary, followed by four
soldiers, entered, and Dantes was
arrested."

"Yes, and up to this point I know all,"
said the priest. "Dantes himself only
knew that which personally concerned
him, for he never beheld again the five
persons I have named to you, or heard
mention of any one of them."

"Well, when Dantes was arrested,
Monsieur Morrel hastened to obtain the
particulars, and they were very sad. The
old man returned alone to his home,
folded up his wedding suit with tears in
his eyes, and paced up and down his
chamber the whole day, and would not go
to bed at all, for I was underneath him
and heard him walking the whole night;
and for myself, I assure you I could not
sleep either, for the grief of the poor
father gave me great uneasiness, and
every step he took went to my heart as
really as if his foot had pressed
against my breast. The next day Mercedes
came to implore the protection of M. de
Villefort; she did not obtain it,
however, and went to visit the old man;
when she saw him so miserable and
heart-broken, having passed a sleepless
night, and not touched food since the
previous day, she wished him to go with
her that she might take care of him; but
the old man would not consent. `No,' was
the old man's reply, `I will not leave
this house, for my poor dear boy loves
me better than anything in the world;
and if he gets out of prison he will
come and see me the first thing, and
what would he think if I did not wait
here for him?' I heard all this from the
window, for I was anxious that Mercedes
should persuade the old man to accompany
her, for his footsteps over my head
night and day did not leave me a
moment's repose."

"But did you not go up-stairs and try to
console the poor old man?" asked the
abbe.

"Ah, sir," replied Caderousse, "we
cannot console those who will not be
consoled, and he was one of these;
besides, I know not why, but he seemed
to dislike seeing me. One night,
however, I heard his sobs, and I could
not resist my desire to go up to him,
but when I reached his door he was no
longer weeping but praying. I cannot now
repeat to you, sir, all the eloquent
words and imploring language he made use
of; it was more than piety, it was more
than grief, and I, who am no canter, and
hate the Jesuits, said then to myself,
`It is really well, and I am very glad
that I have not any children; for if I
were a father and felt such excessive
grief as the old man does, and did not
find in my memory or heart all he is now
saying, I should throw myself into the
sea at once, for I could not bear it.'"

"Poor father!" murmured the priest.

"From day to day he lived on alone, and
more and more solitary. M. Morrel and
Mercedes came to see him, but his door
was closed; and, although I was certain
he was at home, he would not make any
answer. One day, when, contrary to his
custom, he had admitted Mercedes, and
the poor girl, in spite of her own grief
and despair, endeavored to console him,
he said to her, -- `Be assured, my dear
daughter, he is dead; and instead of
expecting him, it is he who is awaiting
us; I am quite happy, for I am the
oldest, and of course shall see him
first.' However well disposed a person
may be, why you see we leave off after a
time seeing persons who are in sorrow,
they make one melancholy; and so at last
old Dantes was left all to himself, and
I only saw from time to time strangers
go up to him and come down again with
some bundle they tried to hide; but I
guessed what these bundles were, and
that he sold by degrees what he had to
pay for his subsistence. At length the
poor old fellow reached the end of all
he had; he owed three quarters' rent,
and they threatened to turn him out; he
begged for another week, which was
granted to him. I know this, because the
landlord came into my apartment when he
left his. For the first three days I
heard him walking about as usual, but,
on the fourth I heard nothing. I then
resolved to go up to him at all risks.
The door was closed, but I looked
through the keyhole, and saw him so pale
and haggard, that believing him very
ill, I went and told M. Morrel and then
ran on to Mercedes. They both came
immediately, M. Morrel bringing a
doctor, and the doctor said it was
inflammation of the bowels, and ordered
him a limited diet. I was there, too,
and I never shall forget the old man's
smile at this prescription. From that
time he received all who came; he had an
excuse for not eating any more; the
doctor had put him on a diet." The abbe
uttered a kind of groan. "The story
interests you, does it not, sir?"
inquired Caderousse.

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

"Mercedes came again, and she found him
so altered that she was even more
anxious than before to have him taken to
her own home. This was M. Morrel's wish
also, who would fain have conveyed the
old man against his consent; but the old
man resisted, and cried so that they
were actually frightened. Mercedes
remained, therefore, by his bedside, and
M. Morrel went away, making a sign to
the Catalan that he had left his purse
on the chimney-piece. But availing
himself of the doctor's order, the old
man would not take any sustenance; at
length (after nine days of despair and
fasting), the old man died, cursing
those who had caused his misery, and
saying to Mercedes, `If you ever see my
Edmond again, tell him I die blessing
him.'" The abbe rose from his chair,
made two turns round the chamber, and
pressed his trembling hand against his
parched throat. "And you believe he
died" --

"Of hunger, sir, of hunger," said
Caderousse. "I am as certain of it as
that we two are Christians."

The abbe, with a shaking hand, seized a
glass of water that was standing by him
half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, and
then resumed his seat, with red eyes and
pale cheeks. "This was, indeed, a horrid
event." said he in a hoarse voice.

"The more so, sir, as it was men's and
not God's doing."

"Tell me of those men," said the abbe,
"and remember too," he added in an
almost menacing tone, "you have promised
to tell me everything. Tell me,
therefore, who are these men who killed
the son with despair, and the father
with famine?"

"Two men jealous of him, sir; one from
love, and the other from ambition, --
Fernand and Danglars."

"How was this jealousy manifested? Speak
on."

"They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist
agent."

"Which of the two denounced him? Which
was the real delinquent?"

"Both, sir; one with a letter, and the
other put it in the post."

"And where was this letter written?"

"At La Reserve, the day before the
betrothal feast."

"'Twas so, then -- 'twas so, then,"
murmured the abbe. "Oh, Faria, Faria,
how well did you judge men and things!"

"What did you please to say, sir?" asked
Caderousse.

"Nothing, nothing," replied the priest;
"go on."

"It was Danglars who wrote the
denunciation with his left hand, that
his writing might not be recognized, and
Fernand who put it in the post."

"But," exclaimed the abbe suddenly, "you
were there yourself."

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

The abbe saw he had overshot the mark,
and he added quickly, -- "No one; but in
order to have known everything so well,
you must have been an eye-witness."

"True, true!" said Caderousse in a
choking voice, "I was there."

"And did you not remonstrate against
such infamy?" asked the abbe; "if not,
you were an accomplice."

"Sir," replied Caderousse, "they had
made me drink to such an excess that I
nearly lost all perception. I had only
an indistinct understanding of what was
passing around me. I said all that a man
in such a state could say; but they both
assured me that it was a jest they were
carrying on, and perfectly harmless."

"Next day -- next day, sir, you must
have seen plain enough what they had
been doing, yet you said nothing, though
you were present when Dantes was
arrested."

"Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious
to speak; but Danglars restrained me.
`If he should really be guilty,' said
he, `and did really put in to the Island
of Elba; if he is really charged with a
letter for the Bonapartist committee at
Paris, and if they find this letter upon
him, those who have supported him will
pass for his accomplices.' I confess I
had my fears, in the state in which
politics then were, and I held my
tongue. It was cowardly, I confess, but
it was not criminal."

"I understand -- you allowed matters to
take their course, that was all."

"Yes, sir," answered Caderousse; "and
remorse preys on me night and day. I
often ask pardon of God, I swear to you,
because this action, the only one with
which I have seriously to reproach
myself in all my life, is no doubt the
cause of my abject condition. I am
expiating a moment of selfishness, and
so I always say to La Carconte, when she
complains, `Hold your tongue, woman; it
is the will of God.'" And Caderousse
bowed his head with every sign of real
repentance.

"Well, sir," said the abbe, "you have
spoken unreservedly; and thus to accuse
yourself is to deserve pardon."

"Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has
not pardoned me."

"He did not know," said the abbe.

"But he knows it all now," interrupted
Caderousse; "they say the dead know
everything." There was a brief silence;
the abbe rose and paced up and down
pensively, and then resumed his seat.
"You have two or three times mentioned a
M. Morrel," he said; "who was he?"

"The owner of the Pharaon and patron of
Dantes."

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

"The part of an honest man, full of
courage and real regard. Twenty times he
interceded for Edmond. When the emperor
returned, he wrote, implored,
threatened, and so energetically, that
on the second restoration he was
persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times,
as I told you, he came to see Dantes'
father, and offered to receive him in
his own house; and the night or two
before his death, as I have already
said, he left his purse on the
mantelpiece, with which they paid the
old man's debts, and buried him
decently; and so Edmond's father died,
as he had lived, without doing harm to
any one. I have the purse still by me --
a large one, made of red silk."

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

"Yes," replied Caderousse.

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

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

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

"He is reduced almost to the last
extremity -- nay, he is almost at the
point of dishonor."

"How?"

"Yes," continued Caderousse, "so it is;
after five and twenty years of labor,
after having acquired a most honorable
name in the trade of Marseilles, M.
Morrel is utterly ruined; he has lost
five ships in two years, has suffered by
the bankruptcy of three large houses,
and his only hope now is in that very
Pharaon which poor Dantes commanded, and
which is expected from the Indies with a
cargo of cochineal and indigo. If this
ship founders, like the others, he is a
ruined man."

"And has the unfortunate man wife or
children?" inquired the abbe.

"Yes, he has a wife, who through
everything has behaved like an angel; he
has a daughter, who was about to marry
the man she loved, but whose family now
will not allow him to wed the daughter
of a ruined man; he has, besides, a son,
a lieutenant in the army; and, as you
may suppose, all this, instead of
lessening, only augments his sorrows. If
he were alone in the world he would blow
out his brains, and there would be an
end."

"Horrible!" ejaculated the priest.

"And it is thus heaven recompenses
virtue, sir," added Caderousse. "You
see, I, who never did a bad action but
that I have told you of -- am in
destitution, with my poor wife dying of
fever before my very eyes, and I unable
to do anything in the world for her; I
shall die of hunger, as old Dantes did,
while Fernand and Danglars are rolling
in wealth."

"How is that?"

"Because their deeds have brought them
good fortune, while honest men have been
reduced to misery."

"What has become of Danglars, the
instigator, and therefore the most
guilty?"

"What has become of him? Why, he left
Marseilles, and was taken, on the
recommendation of M. Morrel, who did not
know his crime, as cashier into a
Spanish bank. During the war with Spain
he was employed in the commissariat of
the French army, and made a fortune;
then with that money he speculated in
the funds, and trebled or quadrupled his
capital; and, having first married his
banker's daughter, who left him a
widower, he has married a second time, a
widow, a Madame de Nargonne, daughter of
M. de Servieux, the king's chamberlain,
who is in high favor at court. He is a
millionaire, and they have made him a
baron, and now he is the Baron Danglars,
with a fine residence in the Rue de
Mont-Blanc, with ten horses in his
stables, six footmen in his
ante-chamber, and I know not how many
millions in his strongbox."

"Ah!" said the abbe, in a peculiar tone,
"he is happy."

"Happy? Who can answer for that?
Happiness or unhappiness is the secret
known but to one's self and the walls --
walls have ears but no tongue; but if a
large fortune produces happiness,
Danglars is happy."

"And Fernand?"

"Fernand? Why, much the same story."

"But how could a poor Catalan
fisher-boy, without education or
resources, make a fortune? I confess
this staggers me."

"And it has staggered everybody. There
must have been in his life some strange
secret that no one knows."

"But, then, by what visible steps has he
attained this high fortune or high
position?"

"Both, sir -- he has both fortune and
position -- both."

"This must be impossible!"

"It would seem so; but listen, and you
will understand. Some days before the
return of the emperor, Fernand was
drafted. The Bourbons left him quietly
enough at the Catalans, but Napoleon
returned, a special levy was made, and
Fernand was compelled to join. I went
too; but as I was older than Fernand,
and had just married my poor wife, I was
only sent to the coast. Fernand was
enrolled in the active troop, went to
the frontier with his regiment, and was
at the battle of Ligny. The night after
that battle he was sentry at the door of
a general who carried on a secret
correspondence with the enemy. That same
night the general was to go over to the
English. He proposed to Fernand to
accompany him; Fernand agreed to do so,
deserted his post, and followed the
general. Fernand would have been
court-martialed if Napoleon had remained
on the throne, but his action was
rewarded by the Bourbons. He returned to
France with the epaulet of
sub-lieutenant, and as the protection of
the general, who is in the highest
favor, was accorded to him, he was a
captain in 1823, during the Spanish
war -- that is to say, at the time when
Danglars made his early speculations.
Fernand was a Spaniard, and being sent
to Spain to ascertain the feeling of his
fellow-countrymen, found Danglars there,
got on very intimate terms with him, won
over the support of the royalists at the
capital and in the provinces, received
promises and made pledges on his own
part, guided his regiment by paths known
to himself alone through the mountain
gorges which were held by the royalists,
and, in fact, rendered such services in
this brief campaign that, after the
taking of Trocadero, he was made
colonel, and received the title of count
and the cross of an officer of the
Legion of Honor."

"Destiny! destiny!" murmured the abbe.

"Yes, but listen: this was not all. The
war with Spain being ended, Fernand's
career was checked by the long peace
which seemed likely to endure throughout
Europe. Greece only had risen against
Turkey, and had begun her war of
independence; all eyes were turned
towards Athens -- it was the fashion to
pity and support the Greeks. The French
government, without protecting them
openly, as you know, gave countenance to
volunteer assistance. Fernand sought and
obtained leave to go and serve in
Greece, still having his name kept on
the army roll. Some time after, it was
stated that the Comte de Morcerf (this
was the name he bore) had entered the
service of Ali Pasha with the rank of
instructor-general. Ali Pasha was
killed, as you know, but before he died
he recompensed the services of Fernand
by leaving him a considerable sum, with
which he returned to France, when he was
gazetted lieutenant-general."

"So that now?" -- inquired the abbe.

"So that now," continued Caderousse, "he
owns a magnificent house -- No. 27, Rue
du Helder, Paris." The abbe opened his
mouth, hesitated for a moment, then,
making an effort at self-control, he
said, "And Mercedes -- they tell me that
she has disappeared?"

"Disappeared," said Caderousse, "yes, as
the sun disappears, to rise the next day
with still more splendor."

"Has she made a fortune also?" inquired
the abbe, with an ironical smile.

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

"Go on," said the abbe; "it seems as if
I were listening to the story of a
dream. But I have seen things so
extraordinary, that what you tell me
seems less astonishing than it otherwise
might."

"Mercedes was at first in the deepest
despair at the blow which deprived her
of Edmond. I have told you of her
attempts to propitiate M. de Villefort,
her devotion to the elder Dantes. In the
midst of her despair, a new affliction
overtook her. This was the departure of
Fernand -- of Fernand, whose crime she
did not know, and whom she regarded as
her brother. Fernand went, and Mercedes
remained alone. Three months passed and
still she wept -- no news of Edmond, no
news of Fernand, no companionship save
that of an old man who was dying with
despair. One evening, after a day of
accustomed vigil at the angle of two
roads leading to Marseilles from the
Catalans, she returned to her home more
depressed than ever. Suddenly she heard
a step she knew, turned anxiously
around, the door opened, and Fernand,
dressed in the uniform of a
sub-lieutenant, stood before her. It was
not the one she wished for most, but it
seemed as if a part of her past life had
returned to her. Mercedes seized
Fernand's hands with a transport which
he took for love, but which was only joy
at being no longer alone in the world,
and seeing at last a friend, after long
hours of solitary sorrow. And then, it
must be confessed, Fernand had never
been hated -- he was only not precisely
loved. Another possessed all Mercedes'
heart; that other was absent, had
disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this
last thought Mercedes burst into a flood
of tears, and wrung her hands in agony;
but the thought, which she had always
repelled before when it was suggested to
her by another, came now in full force
upon her mind; and then, too, old Dantes
incessantly said to her, `Our Edmond is
dead; if he were not, he would return to
us.' The old man died, as I have told
you; had he lived, Mercedes, perchance,
had not become the wife of another, for
he would have been there to reproach her
infidelity. Fernand saw this, and when
he learned of the old man's death he
returned. He was now a lieutenant. At
his first coming he had not said a word
of love to Mercedes; at the second he
reminded her that he loved her. Mercedes
begged for six months more in which to
await and mourn for Edmond."

"So that," said the abbe, with a bitter
smile, "that makes eighteen months in
all. What more could the most devoted
lover desire?" Then he murmured the
words of the English poet, "`Frailty,
thy name is woman.'"

"Six months afterwards," continued
Caderousse, "the marriage took place in
the church of Accoules."

"The very church in which she was to
have married Edmond," murmured the
priest; "there was only a change of
bride-grooms."

"Well, Mercedes was married," proceeded
Caderousse; "but although in the eyes of
the world she appeared calm, she nearly
fainted as she passed La Reserve, where,
eighteen months before, the betrothal
had been celebrated with him whom she
might have known she still loved had she
looked to the bottom of her heart.
Fernand, more happy, but not more at his
ease -- for I saw at this time he was in
constant dread of Edmond's return --
Fernand was very anxious to get his wife
away, and to depart himself. There were
too many unpleasant possibilities
associated with the Catalans, and eight
days after the wedding they left
Marseilles."

"Did you ever see Mercedes again?"
inquired the priest.

"Yes, during the Spanish war, at
Perpignan, where Fernand had left her;
she was attending to the education of
her son." The abbe started. "Her son?"
said he.

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

"But, then, to be able to instruct her
child," continued the abbe, "she must
have received an education herself. I
understood from Edmond that she was the
daughter of a simple fisherman,
beautiful but uneducated."

"Oh," replied Caderousse, "did he know
so little of his lovely betrothed?
Mercedes might have been a queen, sir,
if the crown were to be placed on the
heads of the loveliest and most
intelligent. Fernand's fortune was
already waxing great, and she developed
with his growing fortune. She learned
drawing, music -- everything. Besides, I
believe, between ourselves, she did this
in order to distract her mind, that she
might forget; and she only filled her
head in order to alleviate the weight on
her heart. But now her position in life
is assured," continued Caderousse; "no
doubt fortune and honors have comforted
her; she is rich, a countess, and
yet" -- Caderousse paused.

"And yet what?" asked the abbe.

"Yet, I am sure, she is not happy," said
Caderousse.

"What makes you believe this?"

"Why, when I found myself utterly
destitute, I thought my old friends
would, perhaps, assist me. So I went to
Danglars, who would not even receive me.
I called on Fernand, who sent me a
hundred francs by his valet-de-chambre."

"Then you did not see either of them?"

"No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me."

"How was that?"

"As I went away a purse fell at my
feet -- it contained five and twenty
louis; I raised my head quickly, and saw
Mercedes, who at once shut the blind."

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

"Oh, he never was a friend of mine, I
did not know him, and I had nothing to
ask of him."

"Do you not know what became of him, and
the share he had in Edmond's
misfortunes?"

"No; I only know that some time after
Edmond's arrest, he married Mademoiselle
de Saint-Meran, and soon after left
Marseilles; no doubt he has been as
lucky as the rest; no doubt he is as
rich as Danglars, as high in station as
Fernand. I only, as you see, have
remained poor, wretched, and forgotten."

"You are mistaken, my friend," replied
the abbe; "God may seem sometimes to
forget for a time, while his justice
reposes, but there always comes a moment
when he remembers -- and behold -- a
proof!" As he spoke, the abbe took the
diamond from his pocket, and giving it
to Caderousse, said, -- "Here, my
friend, take this diamond, it is yours."

"What, for me only?" cried Caderousse,
"ah, sir, do not jest with me!"

"This diamond was to have been shared
among his friends. Edmond had one friend
only, and thus it cannot be divided.
Take the diamond, then, and sell it; it
is worth fifty thousand francs, and I
repeat my wish that this sum may suffice
to release you from your wretchedness."

"Oh, sir," said Caderousse, putting out
one hand timidly, and with the other
wiping away the perspiration which
bedewed his brow, -- "Oh, sir, do not
make a jest of the happiness or despair
of a man."

"I know what happiness and what despair
are, and I never make a jest of such
feelings. Take it, then, but in
exchange -- "

Caderousse, who touched the diamond,
withdrew his hand. The abbe smiled. "In
exchange," he continued, "give me the
red silk purse that M. Morrel left on
old Dantes' chimney-piece, and which you
tell me is still in your hands."
Caderousse, more and more astonished,
went toward a large oaken cupboard,
opened it, and gave the abbe a long
purse of faded red silk, round which
were two copper runners that had once
been gilt. The abbe took it, and in
return gave Caderousse the diamond.

"Oh, you are a man of God, sir," cried
Caderousse; "for no one knew that Edmond
had given you this diamond, and you
might have kept it."

"Which," said the abbe to himself, "you
would have done." The abbe rose, took
his hat and gloves. "Well," he said,
"all you have told me is perfectly true,
then, and I may believe it in every
particular."

"See, sir," replied Caderousse, "in this
corner is a crucifix in holy wood --
here on this shelf is my wife's
testament; open this book, and I will
swear upon it with my hand on the
crucifix. I will swear to you by my
soul's salvation, my faith as a
Christian, I have told everything to you
as it occurred, and as the recording
angel will tell it to the ear of God at
the day of the last judgment!"

"'Tis well," said the abbe, convinced by
his manner and tone that Caderousse
spoke the truth. "'Tis well, and may
this money profit you! Adieu; I go far
from men who thus so bitterly injure
each other." The abbe with difficulty
got away from the enthusiastic thanks of
Caderousse, opened the door himself, got
out and mounted his horse, once more
saluted the innkeeper, who kept uttering
his loud farewells, and then returned by
the road he had travelled in coming.
When Caderousse turned around, he saw
behind him La Carconte, paler and
trembling more than ever. "Is, then, all
that I have heard really true?" she
inquired.

"What? That he has given the diamond to
us only?" inquired Caderousse, half
bewildered with joy; "yes, nothing more
true! See, here it is." The woman gazed
at it a moment, and then said, in a
gloomy voice, "Suppose it's false?"
Caderousse started and turned pale.
"False!" he muttered. "False! Why should
that man give me a false diamond?"

"To get your secret without paying for
it, you blockhead!"

Caderousse remained for a moment aghast
under the weight of such an idea. "Oh!"
he said, taking up his hat, which he
placed on the red handkerchief tied
round his head, "we will soon find out."

"In what way?"

"Why, the fair is on at Beaucaire, there
are always jewellers from Paris there,
and I will show it to them. Look after
the house, wife, and I shall be back in
two hours," and Caderousse left the
house in haste, and ran rapidly in the
direction opposite to that which the
priest had taken. "Fifty thousand
francs!" muttered La Carconte when left
alone; "it is a large sum of money, but
it is not a fortune."



Chapter 28 The Prison Register.

The day after that in which the scene we
have just described had taken place on
the road between Bellegarde and
Beaucaire, a man of about thirty or two
and thirty, dressed in a bright blue
frock coat, nankeen trousers, and a
white waistcoat, having the appearance
and accent of an Englishman, presented
himself before the mayor of Marseilles.
"Sir," said he, "I am chief clerk of the
house of Thomson & French, of Rome. We
are, and have been these ten years,
connected with the house of Morrel &
Son, of Marseilles. We have a hundred
thousand francs or thereabouts loaned on
their securities, and we are a little
uneasy at reports that have reached us
that the firm is on the brink of ruin. I
have come, therefore, express from Rome,
to ask you for information."

"Sir," replied the mayor. "I know very
well that during the last four or five
years misfortune has seemed to pursue M.
Morrel. He has lost four or five
vessels, and suffered by three or four
bankruptcies; but it is not for me,
although I am a creditor myself to the
amount of ten thousand francs, to give
any information as to the state of his
finances. Ask of me, as mayor, what is
my opinion of M. Morrel, and I shall say
that he is a man honorable to the last
degree, and who has up to this time
fulfilled every engagement with
scrupulous punctuality. This is all I
can say, sir; if you wish to learn more,
address yourself to M. de Boville, the
inspector of prisons, No. 15, Rue de
Nouailles; he has, I believe, two
hundred thousand francs in Morrel's
hands, and if there be any grounds for
apprehension, as this is a greater
amount than mine, you will most probably
find him better informed than myself."

The Englishman seemed to appreciate this
extreme delicacy, made his bow and went
away, proceeding with a characteristic
British stride towards the street
mentioned. M. de Boville was in his
private room, and the Englishman, on
perceiving him, made a gesture of
surprise, which seemed to indicate that
it was not the first time he had been in
his presence. As to M. de Boville, he
was in such a state of despair, that it
was evident all the faculties of his
mind, absorbed in the thought which
occupied him at the moment, did not
allow either his memory or his
imagination to stray to the past. The
Englishman, with the coolness of his
nation, addressed him in terms nearly
similar to those with which he had
accosted the mayor of Marseilles. "Oh,
sir," exclaimed M. de Boville, "your
fears are unfortunately but too well
founded, and you see before you a man in
despair. I had two hundred thousand
francs placed in the hands of Morrel &
Son; these two hundred thousand francs
were the dowry of my daughter, who was
to be married in a fortnight, and these
two hundred thousand francs were
payable, half on the 15th of this month,
and the other half on the 15th of next
month. I had informed M. Morrel of my
desire to have these payments
punctually, and he has been here within
the last half-hour to tell me that if
his ship, the Pharaon, did not come into
port on the 15th, he would be wholly
unable to make this payment."

"But," said the Englishman, "this looks
very much like a suspension of payment."

"It looks more like bankruptcy!"
exclaimed M. de Boville despairingly.

The Englishman appeared to reflect a
moment, and then said, -- "From which it
would appear, sir, that this credit
inspires you with considerable
apprehension?"

"To tell you the truth, I consider it
lost."

"Well, then, I will buy it of you!"

"You?"

"Yes, I!"

"But at a tremendous discount, of
course?"

"No, for two hundred thousand francs.
Our house," added the Englishman with a
laugh, "does not do things in that way."

"And you will pay" --

"Ready money." And the Englishman drew
from his pocket a bundle of bank-notes,
which might have been twice the sum M.
de Boville feared to lose. A ray of joy
passed across M. de Boville's
countenance, yet he made an effort at
self-control, and said, -- "Sir, I ought
to tell you that, in all probability,
you will not realize six per cent of
this sum."

"That's no affair of mine," replied the
Englishman, "that is the affair of the
house of Thomson & French, in whose name
I act. They have, perhaps, some motive
to serve in hastening the ruin of a
rival firm. But all I know, sir, is,
that I am ready to hand you over this
sum in exchange for your assignment of
the debt. I only ask a brokerage."

"Of course, that is perfectly just,"
cried M. de Boville. "The commission is
usually one and a half; will you have
two -- three -- five per cent, or even
more? Whatever you say."

"Sir," replied the Englishman, laughing,
"I am like my house, and do not do such
things -- no, the commission I ask is
quite different."

"Name it, sir, I beg."

"You are the inspector of prisons?"

"I have been so these fourteen years."

"You keep the registers of entries and
departures?"

"I do."

"To these registers there are added
notes relative to the prisoners?"

"There are special reports on every
prisoner."

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

"What was his name?"

"The Abbe Faria."

"Oh, I recollect him perfectly," cried
M. de Boville; "he was crazy."

"So they said."

"Oh, he was, decidedly."

"Very possibly; but what sort of madness
was it?"

"He pretended to know of an immense
treasure, and offered vast sums to the
government if they would liberate him."

"Poor devil! -- and he is dead?"

"Yes, sir, five or six months ago --
last February."

"You have a good memory, sir, to
recollect dates so well."

"I recollect this, because the poor
devil's death was accompanied by a
singular incident."

"May I ask what that was?" said the
Englishman with an expression of
curiosity, which a close observer would
have been astonished at discovering in
his phlegmatic countenance.

"Oh dear, yes, sir; the abbe's dungeon
was forty or fifty feet distant from
that of one of Bonaparte's
emissaries, -- one of those who had
contributed the most to the return of
the usurper in 1815, -- a very resolute
and very dangerous man."

"Indeed!" said the Englishman.

"Yes," replied M. de Boville; "I myself
had occasion to see this man in 1816 or
1817, and we could only go into his
dungeon with a file of soldiers. That
man made a deep impression on me; I
shall never forget his countenance!" The
Englishman smiled imperceptibly.

"And you say, sir," he interposed, "that
the two dungeons" --

"Were separated by a distance of fifty
feet; but it appears that this Edmond
Dantes" --

"This dangerous man's name was" --

"Edmond Dantes. It appears, sir, that
this Edmond Dantes had procured tools,
or made them, for they found a tunnel
through which the prisoners held
communication with one another."

"This tunnel was dug, no doubt, with an
intention of escape?"

"No doubt; but unfortunately for the
prisoners, the Abbe Faria had an attack
of catalepsy, and died."

"That must have cut short the projects
of escape."

"For the dead man, yes," replied M. de
Boville, "but not for the survivor; on
the contrary, this Dantes saw a means of
accelerating his escape. He, no doubt,
thought that prisoners who died in the
Chateau d'If were interred in an
ordinary burial-ground, and he conveyed
the dead man into his own cell, took his
place in the sack in which they had
sewed up the corpse, and awaited the
moment of interment."

"It was a bold step, and one that showed
some courage," remarked the Englishman.

"As I have already told you, sir, he was
a very dangerous man; and, fortunately,
by his own act disembarrassed the
government of the fears it had on his
account."

"How was that?"

"How? Do you not comprehend?"

"No."

"The Chateau d'If has no cemetery, and
they simply throw the dead into the sea,
after fastening a thirty-six pound
cannon-ball to their feet."

"Well," observed the Englishman as if he
were slow of comprehension.

"Well, they fastened a thirty-six pound
ball to his feet, and threw him into the
sea."

"Really!" exclaimed the Englishman.

"Yes, sir," continued the inspector of
prisons. "You may imagine the amazement
of the fugitive when he found himself
flung headlong over the rocks! I should
like to have seen his face at that
moment."

"That would have been difficult."

"No matter," replied De Boville, in
supreme good-humor at the certainty of
recovering his two hundred thousand
francs, -- "no matter, I can fancy it."
And he shouted with laughter.

"So can I," said the Englishman, and he
laughed too; but he laughed as the
English do, "at the end of his teeth."

"And so," continued the Englishman who
first gained his composure, "he was
drowned?"

"Unquestionably."

"So that the governor got rid of the
dangerous and the crazy prisoner at the
same time?"

"Precisely."

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

"Yes, yes, the mortuary deposition. You
understand, Dantes' relations, if he had
any, might have some interest in knowing
if he were dead or alive."

"So that now, if there were anything to
inherit from him, they may do so with
easy conscience. He is dead, and no
mistake about it."

"Oh, yes; and they may have the fact
attested whenever they please."

"So be it," said the Englishman. "But to
return to these registers."

"True, this story has diverted our
attention from them. Excuse me."

"Excuse you for what? For the story? By
no means; it really seems to me very
curious."

"Yes, indeed. So, sir, you wish to see
all relating to the poor abbe, who
really was gentleness itself."

"Yes, you will much oblige me."

"Go into my study here, and I will show
it to you." And they both entered M. de
Boville's study. Everything was here
arranged in perfect order; each register
had its number, each file of papers its
place. The inspector begged the
Englishman to seat himself in an
arm-chair, and placed before him the
register and documents relative to the
Chateau d'If, giving him all the time he
desired for the examination, while De
Boville seated himself in a corner, and
began to read his newspaper. The
Englishman easily found the entries
relative to the Abbe Faria; but it
seemed that the history which the
inspector had related interested him
greatly, for after having perused the
first documents he turned over the
leaves until he reached the deposition
respecting Edmond Dantes. There he found
everything arranged in due order, -- the
accusation, examination, Morrel's
petition, M. de Villefort's marginal
notes. He folded up the accusation
quietly, and put it as quietly in his
pocket; read the examination, and saw
that the name of Noirtier was not
mentioned in it; perused, too, the
application dated 10th April, 1815, in
which Morrel, by the deputy procureur's
advice, exaggerated with the best
intentions (for Napoleon was then on the
throne) the services Dantes had rendered
to the imperial cause -- services which
Villefort's certificates rendered
indispensable. Then he saw through the
whole thing. This petition to Napoleon,
kept back by Villefort, had become,
under the second restoration, a terrible
weapon against him in the hands of the
king's attorney. He was no longer
astonished when he searched on to find
in the register this note, placed in a
bracket against his name: --

Edmond Dantes.

An inveterate Bonapartist; took an
active part in the return from the
Island of Elba.

To be kept in strict solitary
confinement, and to be closely watched
and guarded.

Beneath these lines was written in
another hand: "See note above -- nothing
can be done." He compared the writing in
the bracket with the writing of the
certificate placed beneath Morrel's
petition, and discovered that the note
in the bracket was the some writing as
the certificate -- that is to say, was
in Villefort's handwriting. As to the
note which accompanied this, the
Englishman understood that it might have
been added by some inspector who had
taken a momentary interest in Dantes'
situation, but who had, from the remarks
we have quoted, found it impossible to
give any effect to the interest he had
felt.

As we have said, the inspector, from
discretion, and that he might not
disturb the Abbe Faria's pupil in his
researches, had seated himself in a
corner, and was reading Le Drapeau
Blanc. He did not see the Englishman
fold up and place in his pocket the
accusation written by Danglars under the
arbor of La Reserve, and which had the
postmark, "Marseilles, 27th Feb.,
delivery 6 o'clock, P.M." But it must be
said that if he had seen it, he attached
so little importance to this scrap of
paper, and so much importance to his two
hundred thousand francs, that he would
not have opposed whatever the Englishman
might do, however irregular it might be.

"Thanks," said the latter, closing the
register with a slam, "I have all I
want; now it is for me to perform my
promise. Give me a simple assignment of
your debt; acknowledge therein the
receipt of the cash, and I will hand you
over the money." He rose, gave his seat
to M. de Boville, who took it without
ceremony, and quickly drew up the
required assignment, while the
Englishman counted out the bank-notes on
the other side of the desk.



Chapter 29 The House of Morrel & Son.

Any one who had quitted Marseilles a few
years previously, well acquainted with
the interior of Morrel's warehouse, and
had returned at this date, would have
found a great change. Instead of that
air of life, of comfort, and of
happiness that permeates a flourishing
and prosperous business establishment --
instead of merry faces at the windows,
busy clerks hurrying to and fro in the
long corridors -- instead of the court
filled with bales of goods, re-echoing
with the cries and the jokes of porters,
one would have immediately perceived all
aspect of sadness and gloom. Out of all
the numerous clerks that used to fill
the deserted corridor and the empty
office, but two remained. One was a
young man of three or four and twenty,
who was in love with M. Morrel's
daughter, and had remained with him in
spite of the efforts of his friends to
induce him to withdraw; the other was an
old one-eyed cashier, called "Cocles,"
or "Cock-eye," a nickname given him by
the young men who used to throng this
vast now almost deserted bee-hive, and
which had so completely replaced his
real name that he would not, in all
probability, have replied to any one who
addressed him by it.

Cocles remained in M. Morrel's service,
and a most singular change had taken
place in his position; he had at the
same time risen to the rank of cashier,
and sunk to the rank of a servant. He
was, however, the same Cocles, good,
patient, devoted, but inflexible on the
subject of arithmetic, the only point on
which he would have stood firm against
the world, even against M. Morrel; and
strong in the multiplication-table,
which he had at his fingers' ends, no
matter what scheme or what trap was laid
to catch him. In the midst of the
disasters that befell the house, Cocles
was the only one unmoved. But this did
not arise from a want of affection; on
the contrary, from a firm conviction.
Like the rats that one by one forsake
the doomed ship even before the vessel
weighs anchor, so all the numerous
clerks had by degrees deserted the
office and the warehouse. Cocles had
seen them go without thinking of
inquiring the cause of their departure.
Everything was as we have said, a
question of arithmetic to Cocles, and
during twenty years he had always seen
all payments made with such exactitude,
that it seemed as impossible to him that
the house should stop payment, as it
would to a miller that the river that
had so long turned his mill should cease
to flow.

Nothing had as yet occurred to shake
Cocles' belief; the last month's payment
had been made with the most scrupulous
exactitude; Cocles had detected an
overbalance of fourteen sous in his
cash, and the same evening he had
brought them to M. Morrel, who, with a
melancholy smile, threw them into an
almost empty drawer, saying: --

"Thanks, Cocles; you are the pearl of
cashiers."

Cocles went away perfectly happy, for
this eulogium of M. Morrel, himself the
pearl of the honest men of Marseilles,
flattered him more than a present of
fifty crowns. But since the end of the
month M. Morrel had passed many an
anxious hour. In order to meet the
payments then due; he had collected all
his resources, and, fearing lest the
report of his distress should get
bruited abroad at Marseilles when he was
known to be reduced to such an
extremity, he went to the Beaucaire fair
to sell his wife's and daughter's jewels
and a portion of his plate. By this
means the end of the month was passed,
but his resources were now exhausted.
Credit, owing to the reports afloat, was
no longer to be had; and to meet the one
hundred thousand francs due on the 10th
of the present month, and the one
hundred thousand francs due on the 15th
of the next month to M. de Boville, M.
Morrel had, in reality, no hope but the
return of the Pharaon, of whose
departure he had learnt from a vessel
which had weighed anchor at the same
time, and which had already arrived in
harbor. But this vessel which, like the
Pharaon, came from Calcutta, had been in
for a fortnight, while no intelligence
had been received of the Pharaon.

Such was the state of affairs when, the
day after his interview with M. de
Boville, the confidential clerk of the
house of Thomson & French of Rome,
presented himself at M. Morrel's.
Emmanuel received him; this young man
was alarmed by the appearance of every
new face, for every new face might be
that of a new creditor, come in anxiety
to question the head of the house. The
young man, wishing to spare his employer
the pain of this interview, questioned
the new-comer; but the stranger declared
that he had nothing to say to M.
Emmanuel, and that his business was with
M. Morrel in person. Emmanuel sighed,
and summoned Cocles. Cocles appeared,
and the young man bade him conduct the
stranger to M. Morrel's apartment.
Cocles went first, and the stranger
followed him. On the staircase they met
a beautiful girl of sixteen or
seventeen, who looked with anxiety at
the stranger.

"M. Morrel is in his room, is he not,
Mademoiselle Julie?" said the cashier.

"Yes; I think so, at least," said the
young girl hesitatingly. "Go and see,
Cocles, and if my father is there,
announce this gentleman."

"It will be useless to announce me,
mademoiselle," returned the Englishman.
"M. Morrel does not know my name; this
worthy gentleman has only to announce
the confidential clerk of the house of
Thomson & French of Rome, with whom your
father does business."

The young girl turned pale and continued
to descend, while the stranger and
Cocles continued to mount the staircase.
She entered the office where Emmanuel
was, while Cocles, by the aid of a key
he possessed, opened a door in the
corner of a landing-place on the second
staircase, conducted the stranger into
an ante-chamber, opened a second door,
which he closed behind him, and after
having left the clerk of the house of
Thomson & French alone, returned and
signed to him that he could enter. The
Englishman entered, and found Morrel
seated at a table, turning over the
formidable columns of his ledger, which
contained the list of his liabilities.
At the sight of the stranger, M. Morrel
closed the ledger, arose, and offered a
seat to the stranger; and when he had
seen him seated, resumed his own chair.
Fourteen years had changed the worthy
merchant, who, in his thirty-sixth year
at the opening of this history, was now
in his fiftieth; his hair had turned
white, time and sorrow had ploughed deep
furrows on his brow, and his look, once
so firm and penetrating, was now
irresolute and wandering, as if he
feared being forced to fix his attention
on some particular thought or person.
The Englishman looked at him with an air
of curiosity, evidently mingled with
interest. "Monsieur," said Morrel, whose
uneasiness was increased by this
examination, "you wish to speak to me?"

"Yes, monsieur; you are aware from whom
I come?"

"The house of Thomson & French; at
least, so my cashier tells me."

"He has told you rightly. The house of
Thomson & French had 300,000 or 400,000
francs to pay this month in France; and,
knowing your strict punctuality, have
collected all the bills bearing your
signature, and charged me as they became
due to present them, and to employ the
money otherwise." Morrel sighed deeply,
and passed his hand over his forehead,
which was covered with perspiration.

"So then, sir," said Morrel, "you hold
bills of mine?"

"Yes, and for a considerable sum."

"What is the amount?" asked Morrel with
a voice he strove to render firm.

"Here is," said the Englishman, taking a
quantity of papers from his pocket, "an
assignment of 200,000 francs to our
house by M. de Boville, the inspector of
prisons, to whom they are due. You
acknowledge, of course, that you owe
this sum to him?"

"Yes; he placed the money in my hands at
four and a half per cent nearly five
years ago."

"When are you to pay?"

"Half the 15th of this month, half the
15th of next."

"Just so; and now here are 32,500 francs
payable shortly; they are all signed by
you, and assigned to our house by the
holders."

"I recognize them," said Morrel, whose
face was suffused, as he thought that,
for the first time in his life, he would
be unable to honor his own signature.
"Is this all?"

"No, I have for the end of the month
these bills which have been assigned to
us by the house of Pascal, and the house
of Wild & Turner of Marseilles,
amounting to nearly 55,000 francs; in
all, 287,500 francs." It is impossible
to describe what Morrel suffered during
this enumeration. "Two hundred and
eighty-seven thousand five hundred
francs," repeated he.

"Yes, sir," replied the Englishman. "I
will not," continued he, after a
moment's silence, "conceal from you,
that while your probity and exactitude
up to this moment are universally
acknowledged, yet the report is current
in Marseilles that you are not able to
meet your liabilities." At this almost
brutal speech Morrel turned deathly
pale. "Sir," said he, "up to this
time -- and it is now more than
four-and-twenty years since I received
the direction of this house from my
father, who had himself conducted it for
five and thirty years -- never has
anything bearing the signature of Morrel
& Son been dishonored."

"I know that," replied the Englishman.
"But as a man of honor should answer
another, tell me fairly, shall you pay
these with the same punctuality?" Morrel
shuddered, and looked at the man, who
spoke with more assurance than he had
hitherto shown. "To questions frankly
put," said he, "a straightforward answer
should be given. Yes, I shall pay, if,
as I hope, my vessel arrives safely; for
its arrival will again procure me the
credit which the numerous accidents, of
which I have been the victim, have
deprived me; but if the Pharaon should
be lost, and this last resource be
gone" -- the poor man's eyes filled with
tears.

"Well," said the other, "if this last
resource fail you?"

"Well," returned Morrel, "it is a cruel
thing to be forced to say, but, already
used to misfortune, I must habituate
myself to shame. I fear I shall be
forced to suspend payment."

"Have you no friends who could assist
you?" Morrel smiled mournfully. "In
business, sir," said he, "one has no
friends, only correspondents."

"It is true," murmured the Englishman;
"then you have but one hope."

"But one."

"The last?"

"The last."

"So that if this fail" --

"I am ruined, -- completely ruined!"

"As I was on my way here, a vessel was
coming into port."

"I know it, sir; a young man, who still
adheres to my fallen fortunes, passes a
part of his time in a belvidere at the
top of the house, in hopes of being the
first to announce good news to me; he
has informed me of the arrival of this
ship."

"And it is not yours?"

"No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, La
Gironde; she comes from India also; but
she is not mine."

"Perhaps she has spoken to the Pharaon,
and brings you some tidings of her?"

"Shall I tell you plainly one thing,
sir? I dread almost as much to receive
any tidings of my vessel as to remain in
doubt. Uncertainty is still hope." Then
in a low voice Morrel added, -- "This
delay is not natural. The Pharaon left
Calcutta the 5th of February; she ought
to have been here a month ago."

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

"Oh, oh!" cried Morrel, turning pale,
"what is it?" A loud noise was heard on
the stairs of people moving hastily, and
half-stifled sobs. Morrel rose and
advanced to the door; but his strength
failed him and he sank into a chair. The
two men remained opposite one another,
Morrel trembling in every limb, the
stranger gazing at him with an air of
profound pity. The noise had ceased; but
it seemed that Morrel expected
something -- something had occasioned
the noise, and something must follow.
The stranger fancied he heard footsteps
on the stairs; and that the footsteps,
which were those of several persons,
stopped at the door. A key was inserted
in the lock of the first door, and the
creaking of hinges was audible.

"There are only two persons who have the
key to that door," murmured Morrel,
"Cocles and Julie." At this instant the
second door opened, and the young girl,
her eyes bathed with tears, appeared.
Morrel rose tremblingly, supporting
himself by the arm of the chair. He
would have spoken, but his voice failed
him. "Oh, father!" said she, clasping
her hands, "forgive your child for being
the bearer of evil tidings."

Morrel again changed color. Julie threw
herself into his arms.

"Oh, father, father!" murmured she,
"courage!"

"The Pharaon has gone down, then?" said
Morrel in a hoarse voice. The young girl
did not speak; but she made an
affirmative sign with her head as she
lay on her father's breast.

"And the crew?" asked Morrel.

"Saved," said the girl; "saved by the
crew of the vessel that has just entered
the harbor." Morrel raised his two hands
to heaven with an expression of
resignation and sublime gratitude.
"Thanks, my God," said he, "at least
thou strikest but me alone." A tear
moistened the eye of the phlegmatic
Englishman.

"Come in, come in," said Morrel, "for I
presume you are all at the door."

Scarcely had he uttered those words than
Madame Morrel entered weeping bitterly.
Emmanuel followed her, and in the
antechamber were visible the rough faces
of seven or eight half-naked sailors. At
the sight of these men the Englishman
started and advanced a step; then
restrained himself, and retired into the
farthest and most obscure corner of the
apartment. Madame Morrel sat down by her
husband and took one of his hands in
hers, Julie still lay with her head on
his shoulder, Emmanuel stood in the
centre of the chamber and seemed to form
the link between Morrel's family and the
sailors at the door.

"How did this happen?" said Morrel.

"Draw nearer, Penelon," said the young
man, "and tell us all about it."

An old seaman, bronzed by the tropical
sun, advanced, twirling the remains of a
tarpaulin between his hands. "Good-day,
M. Morrel," said he, as if he had just
quitted Marseilles the previous evening,
and had just returned from Aix or
Toulon.

"Good-day, Penelon," returned Morrel,
who could not refrain from smiling
through his tears, "where is the
captain?"

"The captain, M. Morrel, -- he has
stayed behind sick at Palma; but please
God, it won't be much, and you will see
him in a few days all alive and hearty."

"Well, now tell your story, Penelon."

Penelon rolled his quid in his cheek,
placed his hand before his mouth, turned
his head, and sent a long jet of
tobacco-juice into the antechamber,
advanced his foot, balanced himself, and
began, -- "You see, M. Morrel," said he,
"we were somewhere between Cape Blanc
and Cape Boyador, sailing with a fair
breeze, south-south-west after a week's
calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up to
me -- I was at the helm I should tell
you -- and says, `Penelon, what do you
think of those clouds coming up over
there?' I was just then looking at them
myself. `What do I think, captain? Why I
think that they are rising faster than
they have any business to do, and that
they would not be so black if they
didn't mean mischief.' -- `That's my
opinion too,' said the captain, `and
I'll take precautions accordingly. We
are carrying too much canvas. Avast,
there, all hands! Take in the
studding-sl's and stow the flying jib.'
It was time; the squall was on us, and
the vessel began to heel. `Ah,' said the
captain, `we have still too much canvas
set; all hands lower the mains'l!' Five
minutes after, it was down; and we
sailed under mizzen-tops'ls and
to'gall'nt sails. `Well, Penelon,' said
the captain, `what makes you shake your
head?' `Why,' I says, `I still think
you've got too much on.' `I think you're
right,' answered he, `we shall have a
gale.' `A gale? More than that, we shall
have a tempest, or I don't know what's
what.' You could see the wind coming
like the dust at Montredon; luckily the
captain understood his business. `Take
in two reefs in the tops'ls,' cried the
captain; `let go the bowlin's, haul the
brace, lower the to'gall'nt sails, haul
out the reef-tackles on the yards.'"

"That was not enough for those
latitudes," said the Englishman; "I
should have taken four reefs in the
topsails and furled the spanker."

His firm, sonorous, and unexpected voice
made every one start. Penelon put his
hand over his eyes, and then stared at
the man who thus criticized the
manoeuvres of his captain. "We did
better than that, sir," said the old
sailor respectfully; "we put the helm up
to run before the tempest; ten minutes
after we struck our tops'ls and scudded
under bare poles."

"The vessel was very old to risk that,"
said the Englishman.

"Eh, it was that that did the business;
after pitching heavily for twelve hours
we sprung a leak. `Penelon,' said the
captain, `I think we are sinking, give
me the helm, and go down into the hold.'
I gave him the helm, and descended;
there was already three feet of water.
`All hands to the pumps!' I shouted; but
it was too late, and it seemed the more
we pumped the more came in. `Ah,' said
I, after four hours' work, `since we are
sinking, let us sink; we can die but
once.' `That's the example you set,
Penelon,' cries the captain; `very well,
wait a minute.' He went into his cabin
and came back with a brace of pistols.
`I will blow the brains out of the first
man who leaves the pump,' said he."

"Well done!" said the Englishman.

"There's nothing gives you so much
courage as good reasons," continued the
sailor; "and during that time the wind
had abated, and the sea gone down, but
the water kept rising; not much, only
two inches an hour, but still it rose.
Two inches an hour does not seem much,
but in twelve hours that makes two feet,
and three we had before, that makes
five. `Come,' said the captain, `we have
done all in our power, and M. Morrel
will have nothing to reproach us with,
we have tried to save the ship, let us
now save ourselves. To the boats, my
lads, as quick as you can.' Now,"
continued Penelon, "you see, M. Morrel,
a sailor is attached to his ship, but
still more to his life, so we did not
wait to be told twice; the more so, that
the ship was sinking under us, and
seemed to say, `Get along -- save
yourselves.' We soon launched the boat,
and all eight of us got into it. The
captain descended last, or rather, he
did not descend, he would not quit the
vessel; so I took him round the waist,
and threw him into the boat, and then I
jumped after him. It was time, for just
as I jumped the deck burst with a noise
like the broadside of a man-of-war. Ten
minutes after she pitched forward, then
the other way, spun round and round, and
then good-by to the Pharaon. As for us,
we were three days without anything to
eat or drink, so that we began to think
of drawing lots who should feed the
rest, when we saw La Gironde; we made
signals of distress, she perceived us,
made for us, and took us all on board.
There now, M. Morrel, that's the whole
truth, on the honor of a sailor; is not
it true, you fellows there?" A general
murmur of approbation showed that the
narrator had faithfully detailed their
misfortunes and sufferings.

"Well, well," said M. Morrel, "I know
there was no one in fault but destiny.
It was the will of God that this should
happen, blessed be His name. What wages
are due to you?"

"Oh, don't let us talk of that, M.
Morrel."

"Yes, but we will talk of it."

"Well, then, three months," said
Penelon.

"Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each
of these good fellows," said Morrel. "At
another time," added he, "I should have
said, `Give them, besides, two hundred
francs over as a present;' but times are
changed, and the little money that
remains to me is not my own."

Penelon turned to his companions, and
exchanged a few words with them.

"As for that, M. Morrel," said he, again
turning his quid, "as for that" --

"As for what?"

"The money."

"Well" --

"Well, we all say that fifty francs will
be enough for us at present, and that we
will wait for the rest."

"Thanks, my friends, thanks!" cried
Morrel gratefully; "take it -- take it;
and if you can find another employer,
enter his service; you are free to do
so." These last words produced a
prodigious effect on the seaman. Penelon
nearly swallowed his quid; fortunately
he recovered. "What, M. Morrel!" said he
in a low voice, "you send us away; you
are then angry with us!"

"No, no," said M. Morrel, "I am not
angry, quite the contrary, and I do not
send you away; but I have no more ships,
and therefore I do not want any
sailors."

"No more ships!" returned Penelon;
"well, then, you'll build some; we'll
wait for you."

"I have no money to build ships with,
Penelon," said the poor owner
mournfully, "so I cannot accept your
kind offer."

"No more money? Then you must not pay
us; we can scud, like the Pharaon, under
bare poles."

"Enough, enough!" cried Morrel, almost
overpowered; "leave me, I pray you; we
shall meet again in a happier time.
Emmanuel, go with them, and see that my
orders are executed."

"At least, we shall see each other
again, M. Morrel?" asked Penelon.

"Yes; I hope so, at least. Now go." He
made a sign to Cocles, who went first;
the seamen followed him and Emmanuel
brought up the rear. "Now," said the
owner to his wife and daughter, "leave
me; I wish to speak with this
gentleman." And he glanced towards the
clerk of Thomson & French, who had
remained motionless in the corner during
this scene, in which he had taken no
part, except the few words we have
mentioned. The two women looked at this
person whose presence they had entirely
forgotten, and retired; but, as she left
the apartment, Julie gave the stranger a
supplicating glance, to which he replied
by a smile that an indifferent spectator
would have been surprised to see on his
stern features. The two men were left
alone. "Well, sir," said Morrel, sinking
into a chair, "you have heard all, and I
have nothing further to tell you."

"I see," returned the Englishman, "that
a fresh and unmerited misfortune has
overwhelmed you, and this only increases
my desire to serve you."

"Oh, sir!" cried Morrel.

"Let me see," continued the stranger, "I
am one of your largest creditors."

"Your bills, at least, are the first
that will fall due."

"Do you wish for time to pay?"

"A delay would save my honor, and
consequently my life."

"How long a delay do you wish for?" --
Morrel reflected. "Two months," said he.

"I will give you three," replied the
stranger.

"But," asked Morrel, "will the house of
Thomson & French consent?"

"Oh, I take everything on myself. To-day
is the 5th of June."

"Yes."

"Well, renew these bills up to the 5th
of September; and on the 5th of
September at eleven o'clock (the hand of
the clock pointed to eleven), I shall
come to receive the money."

"I shall expect you," returned Morrel;
"and I will pay you -- or I shall be
dead." These last words were uttered in
so low a tone that the stranger could
not hear them. The bills were renewed,
the old ones destroyed, and the poor
ship-owner found himself with three
months before him to collect his
resources. The Englishman received his
thanks with the phlegm peculiar to his
nation; and Morrel, overwhelming him
with grateful blessings, conducted him
to the staircase. The stranger met Julie
on the stairs; she pretended to be
descending, but in reality she was
waiting for him. "Oh, sir" -- said she,
clasping her hands.

"Mademoiselle," said the stranger, "one
day you will receive a letter signed
`Sinbad the Sailor.' Do exactly what the
letter bids you, however strange it may
appear."

"Yes, sir," returned Julie.

"Do you promise?"

"I swear to you I will."

"It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle.
Continue to be the good, sweet girl you
are at present, and I have great hopes
that heaven will reward you by giving
you Emmanuel for a husband."

Julie uttered a faint cry, blushed like
a rose, and leaned against the baluster.
The stranger waved his hand, and
continued to descend. In the court he
found Penelon, who, with a rouleau of a
hundred francs in either hand, seemed
unable to make up his mind to retain
them. "Come with me, my friend," said
the Englishman; "I wish to speak to
you."



Chapter 30 The Fifth of September.

The extension provided for by the agent
of Thomson & French, at the moment when
Morrel expected it least, was to the
poor shipowner so decided a stroke of
good fortune that he almost dared to
believe that fate was at length grown
weary of wasting her spite upon him. The
same day he told his wife, Emmanuel, and
his daughter all that had occurred; and
a ray of hope, if not of tranquillity,
returned to the family. Unfortunately,
however, Morrel had not only engagements
with the house of Thomson & French, who
had shown themselves so considerate
towards him; and, as he had said, in
business he had correspondents, and not
friends. When he thought the matter
over, he could by no means account for
this generous conduct on the part of
Thomson & French towards him; and could
only attribute it to some such selfish
argument as this: -- "We had better help
a man who owes us nearly 300,000 francs,
and have those 300,000 francs at the end
of three months than hasten his ruin,
and get only six or eight per cent of
our money back again." Unfortunately,
whether through envy or stupidity, all
Morrel's correspondents did not take
this view; and some even came to a
contrary decision. The bills signed by
Morrel were presented at his office with
scrupulous exactitude, and, thanks to
the delay granted by the Englishman,
were paid by Cocles with equal
punctuality. Cocles thus remained in his
accustomed tranquillity. It was Morrel
alone who remembered with alarm, that if
he had to repay on the 15th the 50,000
francs of M. de Boville, and on the 30th
the 32,500 francs of bills, for which,
as well as the debt due to the inspector
of prisons, he had time granted, he must
be a ruined man.

The opinion of all the commercial men
was that, under the reverses which had
successively weighed down Morrel, it was
impossible for him to remain solvent.
Great, therefore, was the astonishment
when at the end of the month, he
cancelled all his obligations with his
usual punctuality. Still confidence was
not restored to all minds, and the
general opinion was that the complete
ruin of the unfortunate shipowner had
been postponed only until the end of the
month. The month passed, and Morrel made
extraordinary efforts to get in all his
resources. Formerly his paper, at any
date, was taken with confidence, and was
even in request. Morrel now tried to
negotiate bills at ninety days only, and
none of the banks would give him credit.
Fortunately, Morrel had some funds
coming in on which he could rely; and,
as they reached him, he found himself in
a condition to meet his engagements when
the end of July came. The agent of
Thomson & French had not been again seen
at Marseilles; the day after, or two
days after his visit to Morrel, he had
disappeared; and as in that city he had
had no intercourse but with the mayor,
the inspector of prisons, and M. Morrel,
his departure left no trace except in
the memories of these three persons. As
to the sailors of the Pharaon, they must
have found snug berths elsewhere, for
they also had disappeared.

Captain Gaumard, recovered from his
illness, had returned from Palma. He
delayed presenting himself at Morrel's,
but the owner, hearing of his arrival,
went to see him. The worthy shipowner
knew, from Penelon's recital, of the
captain's brave conduct during the
storm, and tried to console him. He
brought him also the amount of his
wages, which Captain Gaumard had not
dared to apply for. As he descended the
staircase, Morrel met Penelon, who was
going up. Penelon had, it would seem,
made good use of his money, for he was
newly clad. When he saw his employer,
the worthy tar seemed much embarrassed,
drew on one side into the corner of the
landing-place, passed his quid from one
cheek to the other, stared stupidly with
his great eyes, and only acknowledged
the squeeze of the hand which Morrel as
usual gave him by a slight pressure in
return. Morrel attributed Penelon's
embarrassment to the elegance of his
attire; it was evident the good fellow
had not gone to such an expense on his
own account; he was, no doubt, engaged
on board some other vessel, and thus his
bashfulness arose from the fact of his
not having, if we may so express
ourselves, worn mourning for the Pharaon
longer. Perhaps he had come to tell
Captain Gaumard of his good luck, and to
offer him employment from his new
master. "Worthy fellows!" said Morrel,
as he went away, "may your new master
love you as I loved you, and be more
fortunate than I have been!"

August rolled by in unceasing efforts on
the part of Morrel to renew his credit
or revive the old. On the 20th of August
it was known at Marseilles that he had
left town in the mailcoach, and then it
was said that the bills would go to
protest at the end of the month, and
that Morrel had gone away and left his
chief clerk Emmanuel, and his cashier
Cocles, to meet the creditors. But,
contrary to all expectation, when the
31st of August came, the house opened as
usual, and Cocles appeared behind the
grating of the counter, examined all
bills presented with the usual scrutiny,
and, from first to last, paid all with
the usual precision. There came in,
moreover, two drafts which M. Morrel had
fully anticipated, and which Cocles paid
as punctually as the bills which the
shipowner had accepted. All this was
incomprehensible, and then, with the
tenacity peculiar to prophets of bad
news, the failure was put off until the
end of September. On the 1st, Morrel
returned; he was awaited by his family
with extreme anxiety, for from this
journey to Paris they hoped great
things. Morrel had thought of Danglars,
who was now immensely rich, and had lain
under great obligations to Morrel in
former days, since to him it was owing
that Danglars entered the service of the
Spanish banker, with whom he had laid
the foundations of his vast wealth. It
was said at this moment that Danglars
was worth from six to eight millions of
francs, and had unlimited credit.
Danglars, then, without taking a crown
from his pocket, could save Morrel; he
had but to pass his word for a loan, and
Morrel was saved. Morrel had long
thought of Danglars, but had kept away
from some instinctive motive, and had
delayed as long as possible availing
himself of this last resource. And
Morrel was right, for he returned home
crushed by the humiliation of a refusal.
Yet, on his arrival, Morrel did not
utter a complaint, or say one harsh
word. He embraced his weeping wife and
daughter, pressed Emmanuel's hand with
friendly warmth, and then going to his
private room on the second floor had
sent for Cocles. "Then," said the two
women to Emmanuel, "we are indeed
ruined."

It was agreed in a brief council held
among them, that Julie should write to
her brother, who was in garrison at
Nimes, to come to them as speedily as
possible. The poor women felt
instinctively that they required all
their strength to support the blow that
impended. Besides, Maximilian Morrel,
though hardly two and twenty, had great
influence over his father. He was a
strong-minded, upright young man. At the
time when he decided on his profession
his father had no desire to choose for
him, but had consulted young
Maximilian's taste. He had at once
declared for a military life, and had in
consequence studied hard, passed
brilliantly through the Polytechnic
School, and left it as sub-lieutenant of
the 53d of the line. For a year he had
held this rank, and expected promotion
on the first vacancy. In his regiment
Maximilian Morrel was noted for his
rigid observance, not only of the
obligations imposed on a soldier, but
also of the duties of a man; and he thus
gained the name of "the stoic." We need
hardly say that many of those who gave
him this epithet repeated it because
they had heard it, and did not even know
what it meant. This was the young man
whom his mother and sister called to
their aid to sustain them under the
serious trial which they felt they would
soon have to endure. They had not
mistaken the gravity of this event, for
the moment after Morrel had entered his
private office with Cocles, Julie saw
the latter leave it pale, trembling, and
his features betraying the utmost
consternation. She would have questioned
him as he passed by her, but the worthy
creature hastened down the staircase
with unusual precipitation, and only
raised his hands to heaven and
exclaimed, "Oh, mademoiselle,
mademoiselle, what a dreadful
misfortune! Who could ever have believed
it!" A moment afterwards Julie saw him
go up-stairs carrying two or three heavy
ledgers, a portfolio, and a bag of
money.

Morrel examined the ledgers, opened the
portfolio, and counted the money. All
his funds amounted to 6,000, or 8,000
francs, his bills receivable up to the
5th to 4,000 or 5,000, which, making the
best of everything, gave him 14,000
francs to meet debts amounting to
287,500 francs. He had not even the
means for making a possible settlement
on account. However, when Morrel went
down to his dinner, he appeared very
calm. This calmness was more alarming to
the two women than the deepest dejection
would have been. After dinner Morrel
usually went out and used to take his
coffee at the Phocaean club, and read
the Semaphore; this day he did not leave
the house, but returned to his office.

As to Cocles, he seemed completely
bewildered. For part of the day he went
into the court-yard, seated himself on a
stone with his head bare and exposed to
the blazing sun. Emmanuel tried to
comfort the women, but his eloquence
faltered. The young man was too well
acquainted with the business of the
house, not to feel that a great
catastrophe hung over the Morrel family.
Night came, the two women had watched,
hoping that when he left his room Morrel
would come to them, but they heard him
pass before their door, and trying to
conceal the noise of his footsteps. They
listened; he went into his
sleeping-room, and fastened the door
inside. Madame Morrel sent her daughter
to bed, and half an hour after Julie had
retired, she rose, took off her shoes,
and went stealthily along the passage,
to see through the keyhole what her
husband was doing. In the passage she
saw a retreating shadow; it was Julie,
who, uneasy herself, had anticipated her
mother. The young lady went towards
Madame Morrel.

"He is writing," she said. They had
understood each other without speaking.
Madame Morrel looked again through the
keyhole, Morrel was writing; but Madame
Morrel remarked, what her daughter had
not observed, that her husband was
writing on stamped paper. The terrible
idea that he was writing his will
flashed across her; she shuddered, and
yet had not strength to utter a word.
Next day M. Morrel seemed as calm as
ever, went into his office as usual,
came to his breakfast punctually, and
then, after dinner, he placed his
daughter beside him, took her head in
his arms, and held her for a long time
against his bosom. In the evening, Julie
told her mother, that although he was
apparently so calm, she had noticed that
her father's heart beat violently. The
next two days passed in much the same
way. On the evening of the 4th of
September, M. Morrel asked his daughter
for the key of his study. Julie trembled
at this request, which seemed to her of
bad omen. Why did her father ask for
this key which she always kept, and
which was only taken from her in
childhood as a punishment? The young
girl looked at Morrel.

"What have I done wrong, father," she
said, "that you should take this key
from me?"

"Nothing, my dear," replied the unhappy
man, the tears starting to his eyes at
this simple question, -- "nothing, only
I want it." Julie made a pretence to
feel for the key. "I must have left it
in my room," she said. And she went out,
but instead of going to her apartment
she hastened to consult Emmanuel. "Do
not give this key to your father," said
he, "and to-morrow morning, if possible,
do not quit him for a moment." She
questioned Emmanuel, but he knew
nothing, or would not say what he knew.
During the night, between the 4th and
5th of September, Madame Morrel remained
listening for every sound, and, until
three o'clock in the morning, she heard
her husband pacing the room in great
agitation. It was three o'clock when he
threw himself on the bed. The mother and
daughter passed the night together. They
had expected Maximilian since the
previous evening. At eight o'clock in
the morning Morrel entered their
chamber. He was calm; but the agitation
of the night was legible in his pale and
careworn visage. They did not dare to
ask him how he had slept. Morrel was
kinder to his wife, more affectionate to
his daughter, than he had ever been. He
could not cease gazing at and kissing
the sweet girl. Julie, mindful of
Emmanuel's request, was following her
father when he quitted the room, but he
said to her quickly, -- "Remain with
your mother, dearest." Julie wished to
accompany him. "I wish you to do so,"
said he.

This was the first time Morrel had ever
so spoken, but he said it in a tone of
paternal kindness, and Julie did not
dare to disobey. She remained at the
same spot standing mute and motionless.
An instant afterwards the door opened,
she felt two arms encircle her, and a
mouth pressed her forehead. She looked
up and uttered an exclamation of joy.

"Maximilian, my dearest brother!" she
cried. At these words Madame Morrel
rose, and threw herself into her son's
arms. "Mother," said the young man,
looking alternately at Madame Morrel and
her daughter, "what has occurred -- what
has happened? Your letter has frightened
me, and I have come hither with all
speed."

"Julie," said Madame Morrel, making a
sign to the young man, "go and tell your
father that Maximilian has just
arrived." The young lady rushed out of
the apartment, but on the first step of
the staircase she found a man holding a
letter in his hand.

"Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?"
inquired the man, with a strong Italian
accent.

"Yes, sir," replied Julie with
hesitation; "what is your pleasure? I do
not know you."

"Read this letter," he said, handing it
to her. Julie hesitated. "It concerns
the best interests of your father," said
the messenger.

The young girl hastily took the letter
from him. She opened it quickly and
read: --

"Go this moment to the Allees de
Meillan, enter the house No. 15, ask the
porter for the key of the room on the
fifth floor, enter the apartment, take
from the corner of the mantelpiece a
purse netted in red silk, and give it to
your father. It is important that he
should receive it before eleven o'clock.
You promised to obey me implicitly.
Remember your oath.

"Sinbad the Sailor."

The young girl uttered a joyful cry,
raised her eyes, looked round to
question the messenger, but he had
disappeared. She cast her eyes again
over the note to peruse it a second
time, and saw there was a postscript.
She read: --

"It is important that you should fulfil
this mission in person and alone. If you
go accompanied by any other person, or
should any one else go in your place,
the porter will reply that he does not
know anything about it."

This postscript decreased greatly the
young girl's happiness. Was there
nothing to fear? Was there not some
snare laid for her? Her innocence had
kept her in ignorance of the dangers
that might assail a young girl of her
age. But there is no need to know danger
in order to fear it; indeed, it may be
observed, that it is usually unknown
perils that inspire the greatest terror.

Julie hesitated, and resolved to take
counsel. Yet, through a singular
impulse, it was neither to her mother
nor her brother that she applied, but to
Emmanuel. She hastened down and told him
what had occurred on the day when the
agent of Thomson & French had come to
her father's, related the scene on the
staircase, repeated the promise she had
made, and showed him the letter. "You
must go, then, mademoiselle," said
Emmanuel.

"Go there?" murmured Julie.

"Yes; I will accompany you."

"But did you not read that I must be
alone?" said Julie.

"And you shall be alone," replied the
young man. "I will await you at the
corner of the Rue de Musee, and if you
are so long absent as to make me uneasy,
I will hasten to rejoin you, and woe to
him of whom you shall have cause to
complain to me!"

"Then, Emmanuel?" said the young girl
with hesitation, "it is your opinion
that I should obey this invitation?"

"Yes. Did not the messenger say your
father's safety depended upon it?"

"But what danger threatens him, then,
Emmanuel?" she asked.

Emmanuel hesitated a moment, but his
desire to make Julie decide immediately
made him reply.

"Listen," he said; "to-day is the 5th of
September, is it not?"

"Yes."

"To-day, then, at eleven o'clock, your
father has nearly three hundred thousand
francs to pay?"

"Yes, we know that."

"Well, then," continued Emmanuel, "we
have not fifteen thousand francs in the
house."

"What will happen then?"

"Why, if to-day before eleven o'clock
your father has not found someone who
will come to his aid, he will be
compelled at twelve o'clock to declare
himself a bankrupt."

"Oh, come, then, come!" cried she,
hastening away with the young man.
During this time, Madame Morrel had told
her son everything. The young man knew
quite well that, after the succession of
misfortunes which had befallen his
father, great changes had taken place in
the style of living and housekeeping;
but he did not know that matters had
reached such a point. He was
thunderstruck. Then, rushing hastily out
of the apartment, he ran up-stairs,
expecting to find his father in his
study, but he rapped there in vain.

While he was yet at the door of the
study he heard the bedroom door open,
turned, and saw his father. Instead of
going direct to his study, M. Morrel had
returned to his bed-chamber, which he
was only this moment quitting. Morrel
uttered a cry of surprise at the sight
of his son, of whose arrival he was
ignorant. He remained motionless on the
spot, pressing with his left hand
something he had concealed under his
coat. Maximilian sprang down the
staircase, and threw his arms round his
father's neck; but suddenly he recoiled,
and placed his right hand on Morrel's
breast. "Father," he exclaimed, turning
pale as death, "what are you going to do
with that brace of pistols under your
coat?"

"Oh, this is what I feared!" said
Morrel.

"Father, father, in heaven's name,"
exclaimed the young man, "what are these
weapons for?"

"Maximilian," replied Morrel, looking
fixedly at his son, "you are a man, and
a man of honor. Come, and I will explain
to you."

And with a firm step Morrel went up to
his study, while Maximilian followed
him, trembling as he went. Morrel opened
the door, and closed it behind his son;
then, crossing the anteroom, went to his
desk on which he placed the pistols, and
pointed with his finger to an open
ledger. In this ledger was made out an
exact balance-sheet of his affair's.
Morrel had to pay, within half an hour,
287,500 francs. All he possessed was
15,257 francs. "Read!" said Morrel.

The young man was overwhelmed as he
read. Morrel said not a word. What could
he say? What need he add to such a
desperate proof in figures? "And have
you done all that is possible, father,
to meet this disastrous result?" asked
the young man, after a moment's pause.
"I have," replied Morrel.

"You have no money coming in on which
you can rely?"

"None."

"You have exhausted every resource?"

"All."

"And in half an hour," said Maximilian
in a gloomy voice, "our name is
dishonored!"

"Blood washes out dishonor," said
Morrel.

"You are right, father; I understand
you." Then extending his hand towards
one of the pistols, he said, "There is
one for you and one for me -- thanks!"
Morrel caught his hand. "Your mother --
your sister! Who will support them?" A
shudder ran through the young man's
frame. "Father," he said, "do you
reflect that you are bidding me to
live?"

"Yes, I do so bid you," answered Morrel,
"it is your duty. You have a calm,
strong mind, Maximilian. Maximilian, you
are no ordinary man. I make no requests
or commands; I only ask you to examine
my position as if it were your own, and
then judge for yourself."

The young man reflected for a moment,
then an expression of sublime
resignation appeared in his eyes, and
with a slow and sad gesture he took off
his two epaulets, the insignia of his
rank. "Be it so, then, my father," he
said, extending his hand to Morrel, "die
in peace, my father; I will live."
Morrel was about to cast himself on his
knees before his son, but Maximilian
caught him in his arms, and those two
noble hearts were pressed against each
other for a moment. "You know it is not
my fault," said Morrel. Maximilian
smiled. "I know, father, you are the
most honorable man I have ever known."

"Good, my son. And now there is no more
to be said; go and rejoin your mother
and sister."

"My father," said the young man, bending
his knee, "bless me!" Morrel took the
head of his son between his two hands,
drew him forward, and kissing his
forehead several times said, "Oh, yes,
yes, I bless you in my own name, and in
the name of three generations of
irreproachable men, who say through me,
`The edifice which misfortune has
destroyed, providence may build up
again.' On seeing me die such a death,
the most inexorable will have pity on
you. To you, perhaps, they will accord
the time they have refused to me. Then
do your best to keep our name free from
dishonor. Go to work, labor, young man,
struggle ardently and courageously;
live, yourself, your mother and sister,
with the most rigid economy, so that
from day to day the property of those
whom I leave in your hands may augment
and fructify. Reflect how glorious a day
it will be, how grand, how solemn, that
day of complete restoration, on which
you will say in this very office, `My
father died because he could not do what
I have this day done; but he died calmly
and peaceably, because in dying he knew
what I should do.'"

"My father, my father!" cried the young
man, "why should you not live?"

"If I live, all would be changed; if I
live, interest would be converted into
doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I
am only a man who has broken his word,
failed in his engagements -- in fact,
only a bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I
die, remember, Maximilian, my corpse is
that of an honest but unfortunate man.
Living, my best friends would avoid my
house; dead, all Marseilles will follow
me in tears to my last home. Living, you
would feel shame at my name; dead, you
may raise your head and say, `I am the
son of him you killed, because, for the
first time, he has been compelled to
break his word.'"

The young man uttered a groan, but
appeared resigned.

"And now," said Morrel, "leave me alone,
and endeavor to keep your mother and
sister away."

"Will you not see my sister once more?"
asked Maximilian. A last but final hope
was concealed by the young man in the
effect of this interview, and therefore
he had suggested it. Morrel shook his
head. "I saw her this morning, and bade
her adieu."

"Have you no particular commands to
leave with me, my father?" inquired
Maximilian in a faltering voice.

"Yes; my son, and a sacred command."

"Say it, my father."

"The house of Thomson & French is the
only one who, from humanity, or, it may
be, selfishness -- it is not for me to
read men's hearts -- has had any pity
for me. Its agent, who will in ten
minutes present himself to receive the
amount of a bill of 287,500 francs, I
will not say granted, but offered me
three months. Let this house be the
first repaid, my son, and respect this
man."

"Father, I will," said Maximilian.

"And now, once more, adieu," said
Morrel. "Go, leave me; I would be alone.
You will find my will in the secretary
in my bedroom."

The young man remained standing and
motionless, having but the force of will
and not the power of execution.

"Hear me, Maximilian," said his father.
"Suppose I was a soldier like you, and
ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and
you knew I must be killed in the
assault, would you not say to me, as you
said just now, `Go, father; for you are
dishonored by delay, and death is
preferable to shame!'"

"Yes, yes," said the young man, "yes;"
and once again embracing his father with
convulsive pressure, he said, "Be it so,
my father."

And he rushed out of the study. When his
son had left him, Morrel remained an
instant standing with his eyes fixed on
the door; then putting forth his arm, he
pulled the bell. After a moment's
interval, Cocles appeared.

It was no longer the same man -- the
fearful revelations of the three last
days had crushed him. This thought --
the house of Morrel is about to stop
payment -- bent him to the earth more
than twenty years would otherwise have
done.

"My worthy Cocles," said Morrel in a
tone impossible to describe, "do you
remain in the ante-chamber. When the
gentleman who came three months ago --
the agent of Thomson & French --
arrives, announce his arrival to me."
Cocles made no reply; he made a sign
with his head, went into the anteroom,
and seated himself. Morrel fell back in
his chair, his eyes fixed on the clock;
there were seven minutes left, that was
all. The hand moved on with incredible
rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.

What passed in the mind of this man at
the supreme moment of his agony cannot
be told in words. He was still
comparatively young, he was surrounded
by the loving care of a devoted family,
but he had convinced himself by a course
of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet
certainly plausible, that he must
separate himself from all he held dear
in the world, even life itself. To form
the slightest idea of his feelings, one
must have seen his face with its
expression of enforced resignation and
its tear-moistened eyes raised to
heaven. The minute hand moved on. The
pistols were loaded; he stretched forth
his hand, took one up, and murmured his
daughter's name. Then he laid it down
seized his pen, and wrote a few words.
It seemed to him as if he had not taken
a sufficient farewell of his beloved
daughter. Then he turned again to the
clock, counting time now not by minutes,
but by seconds. He took up the deadly
weapon again, his lips parted and his
eyes fixed on the clock, and then
shuddered at the click of the trigger as
he cocked the pistol. At this moment of
mortal anguish the cold sweat came forth
upon his brow, a pang stronger than
death clutched at his heart-strings. He
heard the door of the staircase creak on
its hinges -- the clock gave its warning
to strike eleven -- the door of his
study opened; Morrel did not turn
round -- he expected these words of
Cocles, "The agent of Thomson & French."

He placed the muzzle of the pistol
between his teeth. Suddenly he heard a
cry -- it was his daughter's voice. He
turned and saw Julie. The pistol fell
from his hands. "My father!" cried the
young girl, out of breath, and half dead
with joy -- "saved, you are saved!" And
she threw herself into his arms, holding
in her extended hand a red, netted silk
purse.

"Saved, my child!" said Morrel; "what do
you mean?"

"Yes, saved -- saved! See, see!" said
the young girl.

Morrel took the purse, and started as he
did so, for a vague remembrance reminded
him that it once belonged to himself. At
one end was the receipted bill for the
287,000 francs, and at the other was a
diamond as large as a hazel-nut, with
these words on a small slip of
parchment: -- Julie's Dowry.

Morrel passed his hand over his brow; it
seemed to him a dream. At this moment
the clock struck eleven. He felt as if
each stroke of the hammer fell upon his
heart. "Explain, my child," he said,
"Explain, my child," he said,
"explain -- where did you find this
purse?"

"In a house in the Allees de Meillan,
No. 15, on the corner of a mantelpiece
in a small room on the fifth floor."

"But," cried Morrel, "this purse is not
yours!" Julie handed to her father the
letter she had received in the morning.

"And did you go alone?" asked Morrel,
after he had read it.

"Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was
to have waited for me at the corner of
the Rue de Musee, but, strange to say,
he was not there when I returned."

"Monsieur Morrel!" exclaimed a voice on
the stairs. -- "Monsieur Morrel!"

"It is his voice!" said Julie. At this
moment Emmanuel entered, his countenance
full of animation and joy. "The
Pharaon!" he cried; "the Pharaon!"

"What -- what -- the Pharaon! Are you
mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel is
lost."

"The Pharaon, sir -- they signal the
Pharaon! The Pharaon is entering the
harbor!" Morrel fell back in his chair,
his strength was failing him; his
understanding weakened by such events,
refused to comprehend such incredible,
unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his son
came in. "Father," cried Maximilian,
"how could you say the Pharaon was lost?
The lookout has signalled her, and they
say she is now coming into port."

"My dear friends," said Morrel, "if this
be so, it must be a miracle of heaven!
Impossible, impossible!"

But what was real and not less
incredible was the purse he held in his
hand, the acceptance receipted -- the
splendid diamond.

"Ah, sir," exclaimed Cocles, "what can
it mean? -- the Pharaon?"

"Come, dear ones," said Morrel, rising
from his seat, "let us go and see, and
heaven have pity upon us if it be false
intelligence!" They all went out, and on
the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had
been afraid to go up into the study. In
a moment they were at the Cannebiere.
There was a crowd on the pier. All the
crowd gave way before Morrel. "The
Pharaon, the Pharaon!" said every voice.

And, wonderful to see, in front of the
tower of Saint-Jean, was a ship bearing
on her stern these words, printed in
white letters, "The Pharaon, Morrel &
Son, of Marseilles." She was the exact
duplicate of the other Pharaon, and
loaded, as that had been, with cochineal
and indigo. She cast anchor, clued up
sails, and on the deck was Captain
Gaumard giving orders, and good old
Penelon making signals to M. Morrel. To
doubt any longer was impossible; there
was the evidence of the senses, and ten
thousand persons who came to corroborate
the testimony. As Morrel and his son
embraced on the pier-head, in the
presence and amid the applause of the
whole city witnessing this event, a man,
with his face half-covered by a black
beard, and who, concealed behind the
sentry-box, watched the scene with
delight, uttered these words in a low
tone: "Be happy, noble heart, be blessed
for all the good thou hast done and wilt
do hereafter, and let my gratitude
remain in obscurity like your good
deeds."

And with a smile expressive of supreme
content, he left his hiding-place, and
without being observed, descended one of
the flights of steps provided for
debarkation, and hailing three times,
shouted "Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!" Then a
launch came to shore, took him on board,
and conveyed him to a yacht splendidly
fitted up, on whose deck he sprung with
the activity of a sailor; thence he once
again looked towards Morrel, who,
weeping with joy, was shaking hands most
cordially with all the crowd around him,
and thanking with a look the unknown
benefactor whom he seemed to be seeking
in the skies. "And now," said the
unknown, "farewell kindness, humanity,
and gratitude! Farewell to all the
feelings that expand the heart! I have
been heaven's substitute to recompense
the good -- now the god of vengeance
yields to me his power to punish the
wicked!" At these words he gave a
signal, and, as if only awaiting this
signal, the yacht instantly put out to
sea.



Chapter 31 Italy: Sinbad the Sailor.

Towards the beginning of the year 1838,
two young men belonging to the first
society of Paris, the Vicomte Albert de
Morcerf and the Baron Franz d'Epinay,
were at Florence. They had agreed to see
the Carnival at Rome that year, and that
Franz, who for the last three or four
years had inhabited Italy, should act as
cicerone to Albert. As it is no
inconsiderable affair to spend the
Carnival at Rome, especially when you
have no great desire to sleep on the
Piazza del Popolo, or the Campo Vaccino,
they wrote to Signor Pastrini, the
proprietor of the Hotel de Londres,
Piazza di Spagna, to reserve comfortable
apartments for them. Signor Pastrini
replied that he had only two rooms and a
parlor on the third floor, which he
offered at the low charge of a louis per
diem. They accepted his offer; but
wishing to make the best use of the time
that was left, Albert started for
Naples. As for Franz, he remained at
Florence, and after having passed a few
days in exploring the paradise of the
Cascine, and spending two or three
evenings at the houses of the Florentine
nobility, he took a fancy into his head
(having already visited Corsica, the
cradle of Bonaparte) to visit Elba, the
waiting-place of Napoleon.

One evening he cast off the painter of a
sailboat from the iron ring that secured
it to the dock at Leghorn, wrapped
himself in his coat and lay down, and
said to the crew, -- "To the Island of
Elba!" The boat shot out of the harbor
like a bird and the next morning Franz
disembarked at Porto-Ferrajo. He
traversed the island, after having
followed the traces which the footsteps
of the giant have left, and re-embarked
for Marciana. Two hours after he again
landed at Pianosa, where he was assured
that red partridges abounded. The sport
was bad; Franz only succeeded in killing
a few partridges, and, like every
unsuccessful sportsman, he returned to
the boat very much out of temper. "Ah,
if your excellency chose," said the
captain, "you might have capital sport."

"Where?"

"Do you see that island?" continued the
captain, pointing to a conical pile
rising from the indigo sea.

"Well, what is this island?"

"The Island of Monte Cristo."

"But I have no permission to shoot over
this island."

"Your excellency does not require a
permit, for the island is uninhabited."

"Ah, indeed!" said the young man. "A
desert island in the midst of the
Mediterranean must be a curiosity."

"It is very natural; this island is a
mass of rocks, and does not contain an
acre of land capable of cultivation."

"To whom does this island belong?"

"To Tuscany."

"What game shall I find there!"

"Thousands of wild goats."

"Who live upon the stones, I suppose,"
said Franz with an incredulous smile.

"No, but by browsing the shrubs and
trees that grow out of the crevices of
the rocks."

"Where can I sleep?"

"On shore in the grottos, or on board in
your cloak; besides, if your excellency
pleases, we can leave as soon as you
like -- we can sail as well by night as
by day, and if the wind drops we can use
our oars."

As Franz had sufficient time, and his
apartments at Rome were not yet
available, he accepted the proposition.
Upon his answer in the affirmative, the
sailors exchanged a few words together
in a low tone. "Well," asked he, "what
now? Is there any difficulty in the
way?"

"No," replied the captain, "but we must
warn your excellency that the island is
an infected port."

"What do you mean?"

"Monte Cristo although uninhabited, yet
serves occasionally as a refuge for the
smugglers and pirates who come from
Corsica, Sardinia, and Africa, and if it
becomes known that we have been there,
we shall have to perform quarantine for
six days on our return to Leghorn."

"The deuce! That puts a different face
on the matter. Six days! Why, that's as
long as the Almighty took to make the
world! Too long a wait -- too long."

"But who will say your excellency has
been to Monte Cristo?"

"Oh, I shall not," cried Franz.

"Nor I, nor I," chorused the sailors.

"Then steer for Monte Cristo."

The captain gave his orders, the helm
was put up, and the boat was soon
sailing in the direction of the island.
Franz waited until all was in order, and
when the sail was filled, and the four
sailors had taken their places -- three
forward, and one at the helm -- he
resumed the conversation. "Gaetano,"
said he to the captain, "you tell me
Monte Cristo serves as a refuge for
pirates, who are, it seems to me, a very
different kind of game from the goats."

"Yes, your excellency, and it is true."

"I knew there were smugglers, but I
thought that since the capture of
Algiers, and the destruction of the
regency, pirates existed only in the
romances of Cooper and Captain Marryat."

"Your excellency is mistaken; there are
pirates, like the bandits who were
believed to have been exterminated by
Pope Leo XII., and who yet, every day,
rob travellers at the gates of Rome. Has
not your excellency heard that the
French charge d'affaires was robbed six
months ago within five hundred paces of
Velletri?"

"Oh, yes, I heard that."

"Well, then, if, like us, your
excellency lived at Leghorn, you would
hear, from time to time, that a little
merchant vessel, or an English yacht
that was expected at Bastia, at
Porto-Ferrajo, or at Civita Vecchia, has
not arrived; no one knows what has
become of it, but, doubtless, it has
struck on a rock and foundered. Now this
rock it has met has been a long and
narrow boat, manned by six or eight men,
who have surprised and plundered it,
some dark and stormy night, near some
desert and gloomy island, as bandits
plunder a carriage in the recesses of a
forest."

"But," asked Franz, who lay wrapped in
his cloak at the bottom of the boat,
"why do not those who have been
plundered complain to the French,
Sardinian, or Tuscan governments?"

"Why?" said Gaetano with a smile.

"Yes, why?"

"Because, in the first place, they
transfer from the vessel to their own
boat whatever they think worth taking,
then they bind the crew hand and foot,
they attach to every one's neck a four
and twenty pound ball, a large hole is
chopped in the vessel's bottom, and then
they leave her. At the end of ten
minutes the vessel begins to roll
heavily and settle down. First one gun'l
goes under, then the other. Then they
lift and sink again, and both go under
at once. All at once there's a noise
like a cannon -- that's the air blowing
up the deck. Soon the water rushes out
of the scupper-holes like a whale
spouting, the vessel gives a last groan,
spins round and round, and disappears,
forming a vast whirlpool in the ocean,
and then all is over, so that in five
minutes nothing but the eye of God can
see the vessel where she lies at the
bottom of the sea. Do you understand
now," said the captain, "why no
complaints are made to the government,
and why the vessel never reaches port?"

It is probable that if Gaetano had
related this previous to proposing the
expedition, Franz would have hesitated,
but now that they had started, he
thought it would be cowardly to draw
back. He was one of those men who do not
rashly court danger, but if danger
presents itself, combat it with the most
unalterable coolness. Calm and resolute,
he treated any peril as he would an
adversary in a duel, -- calculated its
probable method of approach; retreated,
if at all, as a point of strategy and
not from cowardice; was quick to see an
opening for attack, and won victory at a
single thrust. "Bah!" said he, "I have
travelled through Sicily and Calabria --
I have sailed two months in the
Archipelago, and yet I never saw even
the shadow of a bandit or a pirate."

"I did not tell your excellency this to
deter you from your project," replied
Gaetano, "but you questioned me, and I
have answered; that's all."

"Yes, and your conversation is most
interesting; and as I wish to enjoy it
as long as possible, steer for Monte
Cristo."

The wind blew strongly, the boat made
six or seven knots an hour, and they
were rapidly reaching the end of their
voyage. As they drew near the island
seemed to lift from the sea, and the air
was so clear that they could already
distinguish the rocks heaped on one
another, like cannon balls in an
arsenal, with green bushes and trees
growing in the crevices. As for the
sailors, although they appeared
perfectly tranquil yet it was evident
that they were on the alert, and that
they carefully watched the glassy
surface over which they were sailing,
and on which a few fishing-boats, with
their white sails, were alone visible.
They were within fifteen miles of Monte
Cristo when the sun began to set behind
Corsica, whose mountains appeared
against the sky, showing their rugged
peaks in bold relief; this mass of rock,
like the giant Adamastor, rose dead
ahead, a formidable barrier, and
intercepting the light that gilded its
massive peaks so that the voyagers were
in shadow. Little by little the shadow
rose higher and seemed to drive before
it the last rays of the expiring day; at
last the reflection rested on the summit
of the mountain, where it paused an
instant, like the fiery crest of a
volcano, then gloom gradually covered
the summit as it had covered the base,
and the island now only appeared to be a
gray mountain that grew continually
darker; half an hour after, the night
was quite dark.

Fortunately, the mariners were used to
these latitudes, and knew every rock in
the Tuscan Archipelago; for in the midst
of this obscurity Franz was not without
uneasiness -- Corsica had long since
disappeared, and Monte Cristo itself was
invisible; but the sailors seemed, like
the lynx, to see in the dark, and the
pilot who steered did not evince the
slightest hesitation. An hour had passed
since the sun had set, when Franz
fancied he saw, at a quarter of a mile
to the left, a dark mass, but he could
not precisely make out what it was, and
fearing to excite the mirth of the
sailors by mistaking a floating cloud
for land, he remained silent; suddenly a
great light appeared on the strand; land
might resemble a cloud, but the fire was
not a meteor. "What is this light?"
asked he.

"Hush!" said the captain; "it is a
fire."

"But you told me the island was
uninhabited?"

"l said there were no fixed habitations
on it, but I said also that it served
sometimes as a harbor for smugglers."

"And for pirates?"

"And for pirates," returned Gaetano,
repeating Franz's words. "It is for that
reason I have given orders to pass the
island, for, as you see, the fire is
behind us."

"But this fire?" continued Franz. "It
seems to me rather reassuring than
otherwise; men who did not wish to be
seen would not light a fire."

"Oh, that goes for nothing," said
Gaetano. "If you can guess the position
of the island in the darkness, you will
see that the fire cannot be seen from
the side or from Pianosa, but only from
the sea."

"You think, then, this fire indicates
the presence of unpleasant neighbors?"

"That is what we must find out,"
returned Gaetano, fixing his eyes on
this terrestrial star.

"How can you find out?"

"You shall see." Gaetano consulted with
his companions, and after five minutes'
discussion a manoeuvre was executed
which caused the vessel to tack about,
they returned the way they had come, and
in a few minutes the fire disappeared,
hidden by an elevation of the land. The
pilot again changed the course of the
boat, which rapidly approached the
island, and was soon within fifty paces
of it. Gaetano lowered the sail, and the
boat came to rest. All this was done in
silence, and from the moment that their
course was changed not a word was
spoken.

Gaetano, who had proposed the
expedition, had taken all the
responsibility on himself; the four
sailors fixed their eyes on him, while
they got out their oars and held
themselves in readiness to row away,
which, thanks to the darkness, would not
be difficult. As for Franz, he examined
his arms with the utmost coolness; he
had two double-barrelled guns and a
rifle; he loaded them, looked at the
priming, and waited quietly. During this
time the captain had thrown off his vest
and shirt, and secured his trousers
round his waist; his feet were naked, so
he had no shoes and stockings to take
off; after these preparations he placed
his finger on his lips, and lowering
himself noiselessly into the sea, swam
towards the shore with such precaution
that it was impossible to hear the
slightest sound; he could only be traced
by the phosphorescent line in his wake.
This track soon disappeared; it was
evident that he had touched the shore.
Every one on board remained motionless
for half an hour, when the same luminous
track was again observed, and the
swimmer was soon on board. "Well?"
exclaimed Franz and the sailors in
unison.

"They are Spanish smugglers," said he;
"they have with them two Corsican
bandits."

"And what are these Corsican bandits
doing here with Spanish smugglers?"

"Alas," returned the captain with an
accent of the most profound pity, "we
ought always to help one another. Very
often the bandits are hard pressed by
gendarmes or carbineers; well, they see
a vessel, and good fellows like us on
board, they come and demand hospitality
of us; you can't refuse help to a poor
hunted devil; we receive them, and for
greater security we stand out to sea.
This costs us nothing, and saves the
life, or at least the liberty, of a
fellow-creature, who on the first
occasion returns the service by pointing
out some safe spot where we can land our
goods without interruption."

"Ah!" said Franz, "then you are a
smuggler occasionally, Gaetano?"

"Your excellency, we must live somehow,"
returned the other, smiling
impenetrably.

"Then you know the men who are now on
Monte Cristo?"

"Oh, yes, we sailors are like
freemasons, and recognize each other by
signs."

"And do you think we have nothing to
fear if we land?"

"Nothing at all; smugglers are not
thieves."

"But these two Corsican bandits?" said
Franz, calculating the chances of peril.

"It is not their fault that they are
bandits, but that of the authorities."

"How so?"

"Because they are pursued for having
made a stiff, as if it was not in a
Corsican's nature to revenge himself."

"What do you mean by having made a
stiff? -- having assassinated a man?"
said Franz, continuing his
investigation.

"I mean that they have killed an enemy,
which is a very different thing,"
returned the captain.

"Well," said the young man, "let us
demand hospitality of these smugglers
and bandits. Do you think they will
grant it?"

"Without doubt."

"How many are they?"

"Four, and the two bandits make six."

"Just our number, so that if they prove
troublesome, we shall be able to hold
them in check; so, for the last time,
steer to Monte Cristo."

"Yes, but your excellency will permit us
to take all due precautions."

"By all means, be as wise as Nestor and
as prudent as Ulysses; I do more than
permit, I exhort you."

"Silence, then!" said Gaetano.

Every one obeyed. For a man who, like
Franz, viewed his position in its true
light, it was a grave one. He was alone
in the darkness with sailors whom he did
not know, and who had no reason to be
devoted to him; who knew that he had
several thousand francs in his belt, and
who had often examined his weapons, --
which were very beautiful, -- if not
with envy, at least with curiosity. On
the other hand, he was about to land,
without any other escort than these men,
on an island which had, indeed, a very
religious name, but which did not seem
to Franz likely to afford him much
hospitality, thanks to the smugglers and
bandits. The history of the scuttled
vessels, which had appeared improbable
during the day, seemed very probable at
night; placed as he was between two
possible sources of danger, he kept his
eye on the crew, and his gun in his
hand. The sailors had again hoisted
sail, and the vessel was once more
cleaving the waves. Through the darkness
Franz, whose eyes were now more
accustomed to it, could see the looming
shore along which the boat was sailing,
and then, as they rounded a rocky point,
he saw the fire more brilliant than
ever, and about it five or six persons
seated. The blaze illumined the sea for
a hundred paces around. Gaetano skirted
the light, carefully keeping the boat in
the shadow; then, when they were
opposite the fire, he steered to the
centre of the circle, singing a fishing
song, of which his companions sung the
chorus. At the first words of the song
the men seated round the fire arose and
approached the landing-place, their eyes
fixed on the boat, evidently seeking to
know who the new-comers were and what
were their intentions. They soon
appeared satisfied and returned (with
the exception of one, who remained at
the shore) to their fire, at which the
carcass of a goat was roasting. When the
boat was within twenty paces of the
shore, the man on the beach, who carried
a carbine, presented arms after the
manner of a sentinel, and cried, "Who
comes there?" in Sardinian. Franz coolly
cocked both barrels. Gaetano then
exchanged a few words with this man
which the traveller did not understand,
but which evidently concerned him. "Will
your excellency give your name, or
remain incognito?" asked the captain.

"My name must rest unknown, -- merely
say I am a Frenchman travelling for
pleasure." As soon as Gaetano had
transmitted this answer, the sentinel
gave an order to one of the men seated
round the fire, who rose and disappeared
among the rocks. Not a word was spoken,
every one seemed occupied, Franz with
his disembarkment, the sailors with
their sails, the smugglers with their
goat; but in the midst of all this
carelessness it was evident that they
mutually observed each other. The man
who had disappeared returned suddenly on
the opposite side to that by which he
had left; he made a sign with his head
to the sentinel, who, turning to the
boat, said, "S'accommodi." The Italian
s'accommodi is untranslatable; it means
at once, "Come, enter, you are welcome;
make yourself at home; you are the
master." It is like that Turkish phrase
of Moliere's that so astonished the
bourgeois gentleman by the number of
things implied in its utterance. The
sailors did not wait for a second
invitation; four strokes of the oar
brought them to land; Gaetano sprang to
shore, exchanged a few words with the
sentinel, then his comrades disembarked,
and lastly came Franz. One of his guns
was swung over his shoulder, Gaetano had
the other, and a sailor held his rifle;
his dress, half artist, half dandy, did
not excite any suspicion, and,
consequently, no disquietude. The boat
was moored to the shore, and they
advanced a few paces to find a
comfortable bivouac; but, doubtless, the
spot they chose did not suit the
smuggler who filled the post of
sentinel, for he cried out, "Not that
way, if you please."

Gaetano faltered an excuse, and advanced
to the opposite side, while two sailors
kindled torches at the fire to light
them on their way. They advanced about
thirty paces, and then stopped at a
small esplanade surrounded with rocks,
in which seats had been cut, not unlike
sentry-boxes. Around in the crevices of
the rocks grew a few dwarf oaks and
thick bushes of myrtles. Franz lowered a
torch, and saw by the mass of cinders
that had accumulated that he was not the
first to discover this retreat, which
was, doubtless, one of the
halting-places of the wandering visitors
of Monte Cristo. As for his suspicions,
once on terra firma, once that he had
seen the indifferent, if not friendly,
appearance of his hosts, his anxiety had
quite disappeared, or rather, at sight
of the goat, had turned to appetite. He
mentioned this to Gaetano, who replied
that nothing could be more easy than to
prepare a supper when they had in their
boat, bread, wine, half a dozen
partridges, and a good fire to roast
them by. "Besides," added he, "if the
smell of their roast meat tempts you, I
will go and offer them two of our birds
for a slice."

"You are a born diplomat," returned
Franz; "go and try."

Meanwhile the sailors had collected
dried sticks and branches with which
they made a fire. Franz waited
impatiently, inhaling the aroma of the
roasted meat, when the captain returned
with a mysterious air.

"Well," said Franz, "anything new? -- do
they refuse?"

"On the contrary," returned Gaetano,
"the chief, who was told you were a
young Frenchman, invites you to sup with
him."

"Well," observed Franz, "this chief is
very polite, and I see no objection --
the more so as I bring my share of the
supper."

"Oh, it is not that; he has plenty, and
to spare, for supper; but he makes one
condition, and rather a peculiar one,
before he will receive you at his
house."

"His house? Has he built one here,
then?"

"No; but he has a very comfortable one
all the same, so they say."

"You know this chief, then?"

"I have heard talk of him."

"Favorably or otherwise?"

"Both."

"The deuce! -- and what is this
condition?"

"That you are blindfolded, and do not
take off the bandage until he himself
bids you." Franz looked at Gaetano, to
see, if possible, what he thought of
this proposal. "Ah," replied he,
guessing Franz's thought, "I know this
is a serious matter."

"What should you do in my place?"

"I, who have nothing to lose, -- I
should go."

"You would accept?"

"Yes, were it only out of curiosity."

"There is something very peculiar about
this chief, then?"

"Listen," said Gaetano, lowering his
voice, "I do not know if what they say
is true" -- he stopped to see if any one
was near.

"What do they say?"

"That this chief inhabits a cavern to
which the Pitti Palace is nothing."

"What nonsense!" said Franz, reseating
himself.

"It is no nonsense; it is quite true.
Cama, the pilot of the Saint Ferdinand,
went in once, and he came back amazed,
vowing that such treasures were only to
be heard of in fairy tales."

"Do you know," observed Franz, "that
with such stories you make me think of
Ali Baba's enchanted cavern?"

"I tell you what I have been told."

"Then you advise me to accept?"

"Oh, I don't say that; your excellency
will do as you please; I should be sorry
to advise you in the matter." Franz
pondered the matter for a few moments,
concluded that a man so rich could not
have any intention of plundering him of
what little he had, and seeing only the
prospect of a good supper, accepted.
Gaetano departed with the reply. Franz
was prudent, and wished to learn all he
possibly could concerning his host. He
turned towards the sailor, who, during
this dialogue, had sat gravely plucking
the partridges with the air of a man
proud of his office, and asked him how
these men had landed, as no vessel of
any kind was visible.

"Never mind that," returned the sailor,
"I know their vessel."

"Is it a very beautiful vessel?"

"I would not wish for a better to sail
round the world."

"Of what burden is she?"

"About a hundred tons; but she is built
to stand any weather. She is what the
English call a yacht."

"Where was she built?"

"I know not; but my own opinion is she
is a Genoese."

"And how did a leader of smugglers,"
continued Franz, "venture to build a
vessel designed for such a purpose at
Genoa?"

"I did not say that the owner was a
smuggler," replied the sailor.

"No; but Gaetano did, I thought."

"Gaetano had only seen the vessel from a
distance, he had not then spoken to any
one."

"And if this person be not a smuggler,
who is he?"

"A wealthy signor, who travels for his
pleasure."

"Come," thought Franz, "he is still more
mysterious, since the two accounts do
not agree."

"What is his name?"

"If you ask him he says Sinbad the
Sailor; but I doubt if it be his real
name."

"Sinbad the Sailor?"

"Yes."

"And where does he reside?"

"On the sea."

"What country does he come from?"

"I do not know."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"Sometimes."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"Your excellency will judge for
yourself."

"Where will he receive me?"

"No doubt in the subterranean palace
Gaetano told you of."

"Have you never had the curiosity, when
you have landed and found this island
deserted, to seek for this enchanted
palace?"

"Oh, yes, more than once, but always in
vain; we examined the grotto all over,
but we never could find the slightest
trace of any opening; they say that the
door is not opened by a key, but a magic
word."

"Decidedly," muttered Franz, "this is an
Arabian Nights' adventure."

"His excellency waits for you," said a
voice, which he recognized as that of
the sentinel. He was accompanied by two
of the yacht's crew. Franz drew his
handkerchief from his pocket, and
presented it to the man who had spoken
to him. Without uttering a word, they
bandaged his eyes with a care that
showed their apprehensions of his
committing some indiscretion. Afterwards
he was made to promise that he would not
make the least attempt to raise the
bandage. He promised. Then his two
guides took his arms, and he went on,
guided by them, and preceded by the
sentinel. After going about thirty
paces, he smelt the appetizing odor of
the kid that was roasting, and knew thus
that he was passing the bivouac; they
then led him on about fifty paces
farther, evidently advancing towards
that part of the shore where they would
not allow Gaetano to go -- a refusal he
could now comprehend. Presently, by a
change in the atmosphere, he knew that
they were entering a cave; after going
on for a few seconds more he heard a
crackling, and it seemed to him as
though the atmosphere again changed, and
became balmy and perfumed. At length his
feet touched on a thick and soft carpet,
and his guides let go their hold of him.
There was a moment's silence, and then a
voice, in excellent French, although,
with a foreign accent, said, "Welcome,
sir. I beg you will remove your
bandage." It may be supposed, then,
Franz did not wait for a repetition of
this permission, but took off the
handkerchief, and found himself in the
presence of a man from thirty-eight to
forty years of age, dressed in a
Tunisian costume -- that is to say, a
red cap with a long blue silk tassel, a
vest of black cloth embroidered with
gold, pantaloons of deep red, large and
full gaiters of the same color,
embroidered with gold like the vest, and
yellow slippers; he had a splendid
cashmere round his waist, and a small
sharp and crooked cangiar was passed
through his girdle. Although of a
paleness that was almost livid, this man
had a remarkably handsome face; his eyes
were penetrating and sparkling; his
nose, quite straight, and projecting
direct from the brow, was of the pure
Greek type, while his teeth, as white as
pearls, were set off to admiration by
the black mustache that encircled them.

His pallor was so peculiar, that it
seemed to pertain to one who had been
long entombed, and who was incapable of
resuming the healthy glow and hue of
life. He was not particularly tall, but
extremely well made, and, like the men
of the south, had small hands and feet.
But what astonished Franz, who had
treated Gaetano's description as a
fable, was the splendor of the apartment
in which he found himself. The entire
chamber was lined with crimson brocade,
worked with flowers of gold. In a recess
was a kind of divan, surmounted with a
stand of Arabian swords in silver
scabbards, and the handles resplendent
with gems; from the ceiling hung a lamp
of Venetian glass, of beautiful shape
and color, while the feet rested on a
Turkey carpet, in which they sunk to the
instep; tapestry hung before the door by
which Franz had entered, and also in
front of another door, leading into a
second apartment which seemed to be
brilliantly illuminated. The host gave
Franz time to recover from his surprise,
and, moreover, returned look for look,
not even taking his eyes off him. "Sir,"
he said, after a pause, "a thousand
excuses for the precaution taken in your
introduction hither; but as, during the
greater portion of the year, this island
is deserted, if the secret of this abode
were discovered. I should doubtless,
find on my return my temporary
retirement in a state of great disorder,
which would be exceedingly annoying, not
for the loss it occasioned me, but
because I should not have the certainty
I now possess of separating myself from
all the rest of mankind at pleasure. Let
me now endeavor to make you forget this
temporary unpleasantness, and offer you
what no doubt you did not expect to find
here -- that is to say, a tolerable
supper and pretty comfortable beds."

"Ma foi, my dear sir," replied Franz,
"make no apologies. I have always
observed that they bandage people's eyes
who penetrate enchanted palaces, for
instance, those of Raoul in the
`Huguenots,' and really I have nothing
to complain of, for what I see makes me
think of the wonders of the `Arabian
Nights.'"

"Alas, I may say with Lucullus, if I
could have anticipated the honor of your
visit, I would have prepared for it. But
such as is my hermitage, it is at your
disposal; such as is my supper, it is
yours to share, if you will. Ali, is the
supper ready?" At this moment the
tapestry moved aside, and a Nubian,
black as ebony, and dressed in a plain
white tunic, made a sign to his master
that all was prepared in the
dining-room. "Now," said the unknown to
Franz, "I do not know if you are of my
opinion, but I think nothing is more
annoying than to remain two or three
hours together without knowing by name
or appellation how to address one
another. Pray observe, that I too much
respect the laws of hospitality to ask
your name or title. I only request you
to give me one by which I may have the
pleasure of addressing you. As for
myself, that I may put you at your ease,
I tell you that I am generally called
`Sinbad the Sailor.'"

"And I," replied Franz, "will tell you,
as I only require his wonderful lamp to
make me precisely like Aladdin, that I
see no reason why at this moment I
should not be called Aladdin. That will
keep us from going away from the East
whither I am tempted to think I have
been conveyed by some good genius."

"Well, then, Signor Aladdin," replied
the singular amphitryon, "you heard our
repast announced, will you now take the
trouble to enter the dining-room, your
humble servant going first to show the
way?" At these words, moving aside the
tapestry, Sinbad preceded his guest.
Franz now looked upon another scene of
enchantment; the table was splendidly
covered, and once convinced of this
important point he cast his eyes around
him. The dining-room was scarcely less
striking than the room he had just left;
it was entirely of marble, with antique
bas-reliefs of priceless value; and at
the four corners of this apartment,
which was oblong, were four magnificent
statues, having baskets in their hands.
These baskets contained four pyramids of
most splendid fruit; there were Sicily
pine-apples, pomegranates from Malaga,
oranges from the Balearic Isles, peaches
from France, and dates from Tunis. The
supper consisted of a roast pheasant
garnished with Corsican blackbirds; a
boar's ham with jelly, a quarter of a
kid with tartar sauce, a glorious
turbot, and a gigantic lobster. Between
these large dishes were smaller ones
containing various dainties. The dishes
were of silver, and the plates of
Japanese china.

Franz rubbed his eyes in order to assure
himself that this was not a dream. Ali
alone was present to wait at table, and
acquitted himself so admirably, that the
guest complimented his host thereupon.
"Yes," replied he, while he did the
honors of the supper with much ease and
grace -- "yes, he is a poor devil who is
much devoted to me, and does all he can
to prove it. He remembers that I saved
his life, and as he has a regard for his
head, he feels some gratitude towards me
for having kept it on his shoulders."
Ali approached his master, took his
hand, and kissed it.

"Would it be impertinent, Signor
Sinbad," said Franz, "to ask you the
particulars of this kindness?"

"Oh, they are simple enough," replied
the host. "It seems the fellow had been
caught wandering nearer to the harem of
the Bey of Tunis than etiquette permits
to one of his color, and he was
condemned by the bey to have his tongue
cut out, and his hand and head cut off;
the tongue the first day, the hand the
second, and the head the third. I always
had a desire to have a mute in my
service, so learning the day his tongue
was cut out, I went to the bey, and
proposed to give him for Ali a splendid
double-barreled gun which I knew he was
very desirous of having. He hesitated a
moment, he was so very desirous to
complete the poor devil's punishment.
But when I added to the gun an English
cutlass with which I had shivered his
highness's yataghan to pieces, the bey
yielded, and agreed to forgive the hand
and head, but on condition that the poor
fellow never again set foot in Tunis.
This was a useless clause in the
bargain, for whenever the coward sees
the first glimpse of the shores of
Africa, he runs down below, and can only
be induced to appear again when we are
out of sight of that quarter of the
globe."

Franz remained a moment silent and
pensive, hardly knowing what to think of
the half-kindness, half-cruelty, with
which his host related the brief
narrative. "And like the celebrated
sailor whose name you have assumed," he
said, by way of changing the
conversation, "you pass your life in
travelling?"

"Yes. I made a vow at a time when I
little thought I should ever be able to
accomplish it," said the unknown with a
singular smile; "and I made some others
also which I hope I may fulfil in due
season." Although Sinbad pronounced
these words with much calmness, his eyes
gave forth gleams of extraordinary
ferocity.

"You have suffered a great deal, sir?"
said Franz inquiringly.

Sinbad started and looked fixedly at
him, as he replied, "What makes you
suppose so?"

"Everything," answered Franz, -- "your
voice, your look, your pallid
complexion, and even the life you lead."

"I? -- I live the happiest life
possible, the real life of a pasha. I am
king of all creation. I am pleased with
one place, and stay there; I get tired
of it, and leave it; I am free as a bird
and have wings like one; my attendants
obey my slightest wish. Sometimes I
amuse myself by delivering some bandit
or criminal from the bonds of the law.
Then I have my mode of dispensing
justice, silent and sure, without
respite or appeal, which condemns or
pardons, and which no one sees. Ah, if
you had tasted my life, you would not
desire any other, and would never return
to the world unless you had some great
project to accomplish there."

"Revenge, for instance!" observed Franz.

The unknown fixed on the young man one
of those looks which penetrate into the
depth of the heart and thoughts. "And
why revenge?" he asked.

"Because," replied Franz, "you seem to
me like a man who, persecuted by
society, has a fearful account to settle
with it."

"Ah," responded Sinbad, laughing with
his singular laugh which displayed his
white and sharp teeth. "You have not
guessed rightly. Such as you see me I
am, a sort of philosopher, and one day
perhaps I shall go to Paris to rival
Monsieur Appert, and the little man in
the blue cloak."

"And will that be the first time you
ever took that journey?"

"Yes; it will. I must seem to you by no
means curious, but I assure you that it
is not my fault I have delayed it so
long -- it will happen one day or the
other."

"And do you propose to make this journey
very shortly?"

"I do not know; it depends on
circumstances which depend on certain
arrangements."

"I should like to be there at the time
you come, and I will endeavor to repay
you, as far as lies in my power, for
your liberal hospitality displayed to me
at Monte Cristo."

"I should avail myself of your offer
with pleasure," replied the host, "but,
unfortunately, if I go there, it will
be, in all probability, incognito."

The supper appeared to have been
supplied solely for Franz, for the
unknown scarcely touched one or two
dishes of the splendid banquet to which
his guest did ample justice. Then Ali
brought on the dessert, or rather took
the baskets from the hands of the
statues and placed them on the table.
Between the two baskets he placed a
small silver cup with a silver cover.
The care with which Ali placed this cup
on the table roused Franz's curiosity.
He raised the cover and saw a kind of
greenish paste, something like preserved
angelica, but which was perfectly
unknown to him. He replaced the lid, as
ignorant of what the cup contained as he
was before he had looked at it, and then
casting his eyes towards his host he saw
him smile at his disappointment. "You
cannot guess," said he, "what there is
in that small vase, can you?"

"No, I really cannot."

"Well, then, that green preserve is
nothing less than the ambrosia which
Hebe served at the table of Jupiter."

"But," replied Franz, "this ambrosia, no
doubt, in passing through mortal hands
has lost its heavenly appellation and
assumed a human name; in vulgar phrase,
what may you term this composition, for
which, to tell the truth, I do not feel
any particular desire?"

"Ah, thus it is that our material origin
is revealed," cried Sinbad; "we
frequently pass so near to happiness
without seeing, without regarding it, or
if we do see and regard it, yet without
recognizing it. Are you a man for the
substantials, and is gold your god?
Taste this, and the mines of Peru,
Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to you.
Are you a man of imagination -- a poet?
Taste this, and the boundaries of
possibility disappear; the fields of
infinite space open to you, you advance
free in heart, free in mind, into the
boundless realms of unfettered revery.
Are you ambitious, and do you seek after
the greatnesses of the earth? Taste
this, and in an hour you will be a king,
not a king of a petty kingdom hidden in
some corner of Europe like France,
Spain, or England, but king of the
world, king of the universe, king of
creation; without bowing at the feet of
Satan, you will be king and master of
all the kingdoms of the earth. Is it not
tempting what I offer you, and is it not
an easy thing, since it is only to do
thus? Look!" At these words he uncovered
the small cup which contained the
substance so lauded, took a teaspoonful
of the magic sweetmeat, raised it to his
lips, and swallowed it slowly with his
eyes half shut and his head bent
backwards. Franz did not disturb him
whilst he absorbed his favorite
sweetmeat, but when he had finished, he
inquired, -- "What, then, is this
precious stuff?"

"Did you ever hear," he replied, "of the
Old Man of the Mountain, who attempted
to assassinate Philip Augustus?"

"Of course I have."

"Well, you know he reigned over a rich
valley which was overhung by the
mountain whence he derived his
picturesque name. In this valley were
magnificent gardens planted by
Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens
isolated pavilions. Into these pavilions
he admitted the elect, and there, says
Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain
herb, which transported them to
Paradise, in the midst of ever-blooming
shrubs, ever-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely
virgins. What these happy persons took
for reality was but a dream; but it was
a dream so soft, so voluptuous, so
enthralling, that they sold themselves
body and soul to him who gave it to
them, and obedient to his orders as to
those of a deity, struck down the
designated victim, died in torture
without a murmur, believing that the
death they underwent was but a quick
transition to that life of delights of
which the holy herb, now before you had
given them a slight foretaste."

"Then," cried Franz, "it is hashish! I
know that -- by name at least."

"That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin;
it is hashish -- the purest and most
unadulterated hashish of Alexandria, --
the hashish of Abou-Gor, the celebrated
maker, the only man, the man to whom
there should be built a palace,
inscribed with these words, `A grateful
world to the dealer in happiness.'"

"Do you know," said Franz, "I have a
very great inclination to judge for
myself of the truth or exaggeration of
your eulogies."

"Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin --
judge, but do not confine yourself to
one trial. Like everything else, we must
habituate the senses to a fresh
impression, gentle or violent, sad or
joyous. There is a struggle in nature
against this divine substance, -- in
nature which is not made for joy and
clings to pain. Nature subdued must
yield in the combat, the dream must
succeed to reality, and then the dream
reigns supreme, then the dream becomes
life, and life becomes the dream. But
what changes occur! It is only by
comparing the pains of actual being with
the joys of the assumed existence, that
you would desire to live no longer, but
to dream thus forever. When you return
to this mundane sphere from your
visionary world, you would seem to leave
a Neapolitan spring for a Lapland
winter -- to quit paradise for earth --
heaven for hell! Taste the hashish,
guest of mine -- taste the hashish."

Franz's only reply was to take a
teaspoonful of the marvellous
preparation, about as much in quantity
as his host had eaten, and lift it to
his mouth. "Diable!" he said, after
having swallowed the divine preserve. "I
do not know if the result will be as
agreeable as you describe, but the thing
does not appear to me as palatable as
you say."

"Because your palate has not yet been
attuned to the sublimity of the
substances it flavors. Tell me, the
first time you tasted oysters, tea,
porter, truffles, and sundry other
dainties which you now adore, did you
like them? Could you comprehend how the
Romans stuffed their pheasants with
assafoetida, and the Chinese eat
swallows' nests? Eh? no! Well, it is the
same with hashish; only eat for a week,
and nothing in the world will seem to
you to equal the delicacy of its flavor,
which now appears to you flat and
distasteful. Let us now go into the
adjoining chamber, which is your
apartment, and Ali will bring us coffee
and pipes." They both arose, and while
he who called himself Sinbad -- and whom
we have occasionally named so, that we
might, like his guest, have some title
by which to distinguish him -- gave some
orders to the servant, Franz entered
still another apartment. It was simply
yet richly furnished. It was round, and
a large divan completely encircled it.
Divan, walls, ceiling, floor, were all
covered with magnificent skins as soft
and downy as the richest carpets; there
were heavy-maned lion-skins from Atlas,
striped tiger-skins from Bengal;
panther-skins from the Cape, spotted
beautifully, like those that appeared to
Dante; bear-skins from Siberia,
fox-skins from Norway, and so on; and
all these skins were strewn in profusion
one on the other, so that it seemed like
walking over the most mossy turf, or
reclining on the most luxurious bed.
Both laid themselves down on the divan;
chibouques with jasmine tubes and amber
mouthpieces were within reach, and all
prepared so that there was no need to
smoke the same pipe twice. Each of them
took one, which Ali lighted and then
retired to prepare the coffee. There was
a moment's silence, during which Sinbad
gave himself up to thoughts that seemed
to occupy him incessantly, even in the
midst of his conversation; and Franz
abandoned himself to that mute revery,
into which we always sink when smoking
excellent tobacco, which seems to remove
with its fume all the troubles of the
mind, and to give the smoker in exchange
all the visions of the soul. Ali brought
in the coffee. "How do you take it?"
inquired the unknown; "in the French or
Turkish style, strong or weak, sugar or
none, cool or boiling? As you please; it
is ready in all ways."

"I will take it in the Turkish style,"
replied Franz.

"And you are right," said his host; "it
shows you have a tendency for an
Oriental life. Ah, those Orientals; they
are the only men who know how to live.
As for me," he added, with one of those
singular smiles which did not escape the
young man, "when I have completed my
affairs in Paris, I shall go and die in
the East; and should you wish to see me
again, you must seek me at Cairo,
Bagdad, or Ispahan."

"Ma foi," said Franz, "it would be the
easiest thing in the world; for I feel
eagle's wings springing out at my
shoulders, and with those wings I could
make a tour of the world in four and
twenty hours."

"Ah, yes, the hashish is beginning its
work. Well, unfurl your wings, and fly
into superhuman regions; fear nothing,
there is a watch over you; and if your
wings, like those of Icarus, melt before
the sun, we are here to ease your fall."
He then said something in Arabic to Ali,
who made a sign of obedience and
withdrew, but not to any distance. As to
Franz a strange transformation had taken
place in him. All the bodily fatigue of
the day, all the preoccupation of mind
which the events of the evening had
brought on, disappeared as they do at
the first approach of sleep, when we are
still sufficiently conscious to be aware
of the coming of slumber. His body
seemed to acquire an airy lightness, his
perception brightened in a remarkable
manner, his senses seemed to redouble
their power, the horizon continued to
expand; but it was not the gloomy
horizon of vague alarms, and which he
had seen before he slept, but a blue,
transparent, unbounded horizon, with all
the blue of the ocean, all the spangles
of the sun, all the perfumes of the
summer breeze; then, in the midst of the
songs of his sailors, -- songs so clear
and sonorous, that they would have made
a divine harmony had their notes been
taken down, -- he saw the Island of
Monte Cristo, no longer as a threatening
rock in the midst of the waves, but as
an oasis in the desert; then, as his
boat drew nearer, the songs became
louder, for an enchanting and mysterious
harmony rose to heaven, as if some
Loreley had decreed to attract a soul
thither, or Amphion, the enchanter,
intended there to build a city.

At length the boat touched the shore,
but without effort, without shock, as
lips touch lips; and he entered the
grotto amidst continued strains of most
delicious melody. He descended, or
rather seemed to descend, several steps,
inhaling the fresh and balmy air, like
that which may be supposed to reign
around the grotto of Circe, formed from
such perfumes as set the mind a
dreaming, and such fires as burn the
very senses; and he saw again all he had
seen before his sleep, from Sinbad, his
singular host, to Ali, the mute
attendant; then all seemed to fade away
and become confused before his eyes,
like the last shadows of the magic
lantern before it is extinguished, and
he was again in the chamber of statues,
lighted only by one of those pale and
antique lamps which watch in the dead of
the night over the sleep of pleasure.
They were the same statues, rich in
form, in attraction, and poesy, with
eyes of fascination, smiles of love, and
bright and flowing hair. They were
Phryne, Cleopatra, Messalina, those
three celebrated courtesans. Then among
them glided like a pure ray, like a
Christian angel in the midst of Olympus,
one of those chaste figures, those calm
shadows, those soft visions, which
seemed to veil its virgin brow before
these marble wantons. Then the three
statues advanced towards him with looks
of love, and approached the couch on
which he was reposing, their feet hidden
in their long white tunics, their
throats bare, hair flowing like waves,
and assuming attitudes which the gods
could not resist, but which saints
withstood, and looks inflexible and
ardent like those with which the serpent
charms the bird; and then he gave way
before looks that held him in a
torturing grasp and delighted his senses
as with a voluptuous kiss. It seemed to
Franz that he closed his eyes, and in a
last look about him saw the vision of
modesty completely veiled; and then
followed a dream of passion like that
promised by the Prophet to the elect.
Lips of stone turned to flame, breasts
of ice became like heated lava, so that
to Franz, yielding for the first time to
the sway of the drug, love was a sorrow
and voluptuousness a torture, as burning
mouths were pressed to his thirsty lips,
and he was held in cool serpent-like
embraces. The more he strove against
this unhallowed passion the more his
senses yielded to its thrall, and at
length, weary of a struggle that taxed
his very soul, he gave way and sank back
breathless and exhausted beneath the
kisses of these marble goddesses, and
the enchantment of his marvellous dream.



Chapter 32 The Waking.

When Franz returned to himself, he
seemed still to be in a dream. He
thought himself in a sepulchre, into
which a ray of sunlight in pity scarcely
penetrated. He stretched forth his hand,
and touched stone; he rose to his seat,
and found himself lying on his bournous
in a bed of dry heather, very soft and
odoriferous. The vision had fled; and as
if the statues had been but shadows from
the tomb, they had vanished at his
waking. He advanced several paces
towards the point whence the light came,
and to all the excitement of his dream
succeeded the calmness of reality. He
found that he was in a grotto, went
towards the opening, and through a kind
of fanlight saw a blue sea and an azure
sky. The air and water were shining in
the beams of the morning sun; on the
shore the sailors were sitting, chatting
and laughing; and at ten yards from them
the boat was at anchor, undulating
gracefully on the water. There for some
time he enjoyed the fresh breeze which
played on his brow, and listened to the
dash of the waves on the beach, that
left against the rocks a lace of foam as
white as silver. He was for some time
without reflection or thought for the
divine charm which is in the things of
nature, specially after a fantastic
dream; then gradually this view of the
outer world, so calm, so pure, so grand,
reminded him of the illusiveness of his
vision, and once more awakened memory.
He recalled his arrival on the island,
his presentation to a smuggler chief, a
subterranean palace full of splendor, an
excellent supper, and a spoonful of
hashish. It seemed, however, even in the
very face of open day, that at least a
year had elapsed since all these things
had passed, so deep was the impression
made in his mind by the dream, and so
strong a hold had it taken of his
imagination. Thus every now and then he
saw in fancy amid the sailors, seated on
a rock, or undulating in the vessel, one
of the shadows which had shared his
dream with looks and kisses. Otherwise,
his head was perfectly clear, and his
body refreshed; he was free from the
slightest headache; on the contrary, he
felt a certain degree of lightness, a
faculty for absorbing the pure air, and
enjoying the bright sunshine more
vividly than ever.

He went gayly up to the sailors, who
rose as soon as they perceived him; and
the patron, accosting him, said, "The
Signor Sinbad has left his compliments
for your excellency, and desires us to
express the regret he feels at not being
able to take his leave in person; but he
trusts you will excuse him, as very
important business calls him to Malaga."

"So, then, Gaetano," said Franz, "this
is, then, all reality; there exists a
man who has received me in this island,
entertained me right royally, and has
departed while I was asleep?"

"He exists as certainly as that you may
see his small yacht with all her sails
spread; and if you will use your glass,
you will, in all probability, recognize
your host in the midst of his crew." So
saying, Gaetano pointed in a direction
in which a small vessel was making sail
towards the southern point of Corsica.
Franz adjusted his telescope, and
directed it towards the yacht. Gaetano
was not mistaken. At the stern the
mysterious stranger was standing up
looking towards the shore, and holding a
spy-glass in his hand. He was attired as
he had been on the previous evening, and
waved his pocket-handkerchief to his
guest in token of adieu. Franz returned
the salute by shaking his handkerchief
as an exchange of signals. After a
second, a slight cloud of smoke was seen
at the stern of the vessel, which rose
gracefully as it expanded in the air,
and then Franz heard a slight report.
"There, do you hear?" observed Gaetano;
"he is bidding you adieu." The young man
took his carbine and fired it in the
air, but without any idea that the noise
could be heard at the distance which
separated the yacht from the shore.

"What are your excellency's orders?"
inquired Gaetano.

"In the first place, light me a torch."

"Ah, yes, I understand," replied the
patron, "to find the entrance to the
enchanted apartment. With much pleasure,
your excellency, if it would amuse you;
and I will get you the torch you ask
for. But I too have had the idea you
have, and two or three times the same
fancy has come over me; but I have
always given it up. Giovanni, light a
torch," he added, "and give it to his
excellency."

Giovanni obeyed. Franz took the lamp,
and entered the subterranean grotto,
followed by Gaetano. He recognized the
place where he had awaked by the bed of
heather that was there; but it was in
vain that he carried his torch all round
the exterior surface of the grotto. He
saw nothing, unless that, by traces of
smoke, others had before him attempted
the same thing, and, like him, in vain.
Yet he did not leave a foot of this
granite wall, as impenetrable as
futurity, without strict scrutiny; he
did not see a fissure without
introducing the blade of his hunting
sword into it, or a projecting point on
which he did not lean and press in the
hopes it would give way. All was vain;
and he lost two hours in his attempts,
which were at last utterly useless. At
the end of this time he gave up his
search, and Gaetano smiled.

When Franz appeared again on the shore,
the yacht only seemed like a small white
speck on the horizon. He looked again
through his glass, but even then he
could not distinguish anything. Gaetano
reminded him that he had come for the
purpose of shooting goats, which he had
utterly forgotten. He took his
fowling-piece, and began to hunt over
the island with the air of a man who is
fulfilling a duty, rather than enjoying
a pleasure; and at the end of a quarter
of an hour he had killed a goat and two
kids. These animals, though wild and
agile as chamois, were too much like
domestic goats, and Franz could not
consider them as game. Moreover, other
ideas, much more enthralling, occupied
his mind. Since, the evening before, he
had really been the hero of one of the
tales of the "Thousand and One Nights,"
and he was irresistibly attracted
towards the grotto. Then, in spite of
the failure of his first search, he
began a second, after having told
Gaetano to roast one of the two kids.
The second visit was a long one, and
when he returned the kid was roasted and
the repast ready. Franz was sitting on
the spot where he was on the previous
evening when his mysterious host had
invited him to supper; and he saw the
little yacht, now like a sea-gull on the
wave, continuing her flight towards
Corsica. "Why," he remarked to Gaetano,
"you told me that Signor Sinbad was
going to Malaga, while it seems he is in
the direction of Porto-Vecchio."

"Don't you remember," said the patron,
"I told you that among the crew there
were two Corsican brigands?"

"True; and he is going to land them,"
added Franz.

"Precisely so," replied Gaetano. "Ah, he
is one who fears neither God nor Satan,
they say, and would at any time run
fifty leagues out of his course to do a
poor devil a service."

"But such services as these might
involve him with the authorities of the
country in which he practices this kind
of philanthropy," said Franz.

"And what cares he for that," replied
Gaetano with a laugh, "or any
authorities? He smiles at them. Let them
try to pursue him! Why, in the first
place, his yacht is not a ship, but a
bird, and he would beat any frigate
three knots in every nine; and if he
were to throw himself on the coast, why,
is he not certain of finding friends
everywhere?"

It was perfectly clear that the Signor
Sinbad, Franz's host, had the honor of
being on excellent terms with the
smugglers and bandits along the whole
coast of the Mediterranean, and so
enjoyed exceptional privileges. As to
Franz, he had no longer any inducement
to remain at Monte Cristo. He had lost
all hope of detecting the secret of the
grotto; he consequently despatched his
breakfast, and, his boat being ready, he
hastened on board, and they were soon
under way. At the moment the boat began
her course they lost sight of the yacht,
as it disappeared in the gulf of
Porto-Vecchio. With it was effaced the
last trace of the preceding night; and
then supper, Sinbad, hashish,
statues, -- all became a dream for
Franz. The boat sailed on all day and
all night, and next morning, when the
sun rose, they had lost sight of Monte
Cristo. When Franz had once again set
foot on shore, he forgot, for the moment
at least, the events which had just
passed, while he finished his affairs of
pleasure at Florence, and then thought
of nothing but how he should rejoin his
companion, who was awaiting him at Rome.

He set out, and on the Saturday evening
reached the Eternal City by the
mail-coach. An apartment, as we have
said, had been retained beforehand, and
thus he had but to go to Signor
Pastrini's hotel. But this was not so
easy a matter, for the streets were
thronged with people, and Rome was
already a prey to that low and feverish
murmur which precedes all great events;
and at Rome there are four great events
in every year, -- the Carnival, Holy
Week, Corpus Christi, and the Feast of
St. Peter. All the rest of the year the
city is in that state of dull apathy,
between life and death, which renders it
similar to a kind of station between
this world and the next -- a sublime
spot, a resting-place full of poetry and
character, and at which Franz had
already halted five or six times, and at
each time found it more marvellous and
striking. At last he made his way
through the mob, which was continually
increasing and getting more and more
turbulent, and reached the hotel. On his
first inquiry he was told, with the
impertinence peculiar to hired
hackney-coachmen and inn-keepers with
their houses full, that there was no
room for him at the Hotel de Londres.
Then he sent his card to Signor
Pastrini, and asked for Albert de
Morcerf. This plan succeeded; and Signor
Pastrini himself ran to him, excusing
himself for having made his excellency
wait, scolding the waiters, taking the
candlestick from the porter, who was
ready to pounce on the traveller and was
about to lead him to Albert, when
Morcerf himself appeared.

The apartment consisted of two small
rooms and a parlor. The two rooms looked
onto the street -- a fact which Signor
Pastrini commented upon as an
inappreciable advantage. The rest of the
floor was hired by a very rich gentleman
who was supposed to be a Sicilian or
Maltese; but the host was unable to
decide to which of the two nations the
traveller belonged. "Very good, signor
Pastrini," said Franz; "but we must have
some supper instantly, and a carriage
for tomorrow and the following days."

"As to supper," replied the landlord,
"you shall be served immediately; but as
for the carriage" --

"What as to the carriage?" exclaimed
Albert. "Come, come, Signor Pastrini, no
joking; we must have a carriage."

"Sir," replied the host, "we will do all
in our power to procure you one -- this
is all I can say."

"And when shall we know?" inquired
Franz.

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

"Oh, the deuce! Then we shall pay the
more, that's all, I see plainly enough.
At Drake's or Aaron's one pays
twenty-five lire for common days, and
thirty or thirty-five lire a day more
for Sundays and feast days; add five
lire a day more for extras, that will
make forty, and there's an end of it."

"I am afraid if we offer them double
that we shall not procure a carriage."

"Then they must put horses to mine. It
is a little worse for the journey, but
that's no matter."

"There are no horses." Albert looked at
Franz like a man who hears a reply he
does not understand.

"Do you understand that, my dear
Franz -- no horses?" he said, "but can't
we have post-horses?"

"They have been all hired this
fortnight, and there are none left but
those absolutely requisite for posting."

"What are we to say to this?" asked
Franz.

"I say, that when a thing completely
surpasses my comprehension, I am
accustomed not to dwell on that thing,
but to pass to another. Is supper ready,
Signor Pastrini?"

"Yes, your excellency."

"Well, then, let us sup."

"But the carriage and horses?" said
Franz.

"Be easy, my dear boy; they will come in
due season; it is only a question of how
much shall be charged for them." Morcerf
then, with that delighted philosophy
which believes that nothing is
impossible to a full purse or well-lined
pocketbook, supped, went to bed, slept
soundly, and dreamed he was racing all
over Rome at Carnival time in a coach
with six horses.



Chapter 33 Roman Bandits.

The next morning Franz woke first, and
instantly rang the bell. The sound had
not yet died away when Signor Pastrini
himself entered.

"Well, excellency," said the landlord
triumphantly, and without waiting for
Franz to question him, "I feared
yesterday, when I would not promise you
anything, that you were too late --
there is not a single carriage to be
had -- that is, for the last three days
of the carnival."

"Yes," returned Franz, "for the very
three days it is most needed."

"What is the matter?" said Albert,
entering; "no carriage to be had?"

"Just so," returned Franz, "you have
guessed it."

"Well, your Eternal City is a nice sort
of place."

"That is to say, excellency," replied
Pastrini, who was desirous of keeping up
the dignity of the capital of the
Christian world in the eyes of his
guest, "that there are no carriages to
be had from Sunday to Tuesday evening,
but from now till Sunday you can have
fifty if you please."

"Ah, that is something," said Albert;
"to-day is Thursday, and who knows what
may arrive between this and Sunday?"

"Ten or twelve thousand travellers will
arrive," replied Franz, "which will make
it still more difficult."

"My friend," said Morcerf, "let us enjoy
the present without gloomy forebodings
for the future."

"At least we can have a window?"

"Where?"

"In the Corso."

"Ah, a window!" exclaimed Signor
Pastrini, -- "utterly impossible; there
was only one left on the fifth floor of
the Doria Palace, and that has been let
to a Russian prince for twenty sequins a
day."

The two young men looked at each other
with an air of stupefaction.

"Well," said Franz to Albert, "do you
know what is the best thing we can do?
It is to pass the Carnival at Venice;
there we are sure of obtaining gondolas
if we cannot have carriages."

"Ah, the devil, no," cried Albert; "I
came to Rome to see the Carnival, and I
will, though I see it on stilts."

"Bravo! an excellent idea. We will
disguise ourselves as monster
pulchinellos or shepherds of the Landes,
and we shall have complete success."

"Do your excellencies still wish for a
carriage from now to Sunday morning?"

"Parbleu!" said Albert, "do you think we
are going to run about on foot in the
streets of Rome, like lawyer's clerks?"

"I hasten to comply with your
excellencies' wishes; only, I tell you
beforehand, the carriage will cost you
six piastres a day."

"And, as I am not a millionaire, like
the gentleman in the next apartments,"
said Franz, "I warn you, that as I have
been four times before at Rome, I know
the prices of all the carriages; we will
give you twelve piastres for to-day,
tomorrow, and the day after, and then
you will make a good profit."

"But, excellency" -- said Pastrini,
still striving to gain his point.

"Now go," returned Franz, "or I shall go
myself and bargain with your
affettatore, who is mine also; he is an
old friend of mine, who has plundered me
pretty well already, and, in the hope of
making more out of me, he will take a
less price than the one I offer you; you
will lose the preference, and that will
be your fault."

"Do not give yourselves the trouble,
excellency," returned Signor Pastrini,
with the smile peculiar to the Italian
speculator when he confesses defeat; "I
will do all I can, and I hope you will
be satisfied."

"And now we understand each other."

"When do you wish the carriage to be
here?"

"In an hour."

"In an hour it will be at the door."

An hour after the vehicle was at the
door; it was a hack conveyance which was
elevated to the rank of a private
carriage in honor of the occasion, but,
in spite of its humble exterior, the
young men would have thought themselves
happy to have secured it for the last
three days of the Carnival.
"Excellency," cried the cicerone, seeing
Franz approach the window, "shall I
bring the carriage nearer to the
palace?"

Accustomed as Franz was to the Italian
phraseology, his first impulse was to
look round him, but these words were
addressed to him. Franz was the
"excellency," the vehicle was the
"carriage," and the Hotel de Londres was
the "palace." The genius for laudation
characteristic of the race was in that
phrase.

Franz and Albert descended, the carriage
approached the palace; their
excellencies stretched their legs along
the seats; the cicerone sprang into the
seat behind. "Where do your excellencics
wish to go?" asked he.

"To Saint Peter's first, and then to the
Colosseum," returned Albert. But Albert
did not know that it takes a day to see
Saint Peter's, and a month to study it.
The day was passed at Saint Peter's
alone. Suddenly the daylight began to
fade away; Franz took out his watch --
it was half-past four. They returned to
the hotel; at the door Franz ordered the
coachman to be ready at eight. He wished
to show Albert the Colosseum by
moonlight, as he had shown him Saint
Peter's by daylight. When we show a
friend a city one has already visited,
we feel the same pride as when we point
out a woman whose lover we have been. He
was to leave the city by the Porta del
Popolo, skirt the outer wall, and
re-enter by the Porta San Giovanni; thus
they would behold the Colosseum without
finding their impressions dulled by
first looking on the Capitol, the Forum,
the Arch of Septimus Severus, the Temple
of Antoninus and Faustina, and the Via
Sacra. They sat down to dinner. Signor
Pastrini had promised them a banquet; he
gave them a tolerable repast. At the end
of the dinner he entered in person.
Franz thought that he came to hear his
dinner praised, and began accordingly,
but at the first words he was
interrupted. "Excellency," said
Pastrini, "I am delighted to have your
approbation, but it was not for that I
came."

"Did you come to tell us you have
procured a carriage?" asked Albert,
lighting his cigar.

"No; and your excellencies will do well
not to think of that any longer; at Rome
things can or cannot be done; when you
are told anything cannot be done, there
is an end of it."

"It is much more convenient at Paris, --
when anything cannot be done, you pay
double, and it is done directly."

"That is what all the French say,"
returned Signor Pastrini, somewhat
piqued; "for that reason, I do not
understand why they travel."

"But," said Albert, emitting a volume of
smoke and balancing his chair on its
hind legs, "only madmen, or blockheads
like us, ever do travel. Men in their
senses do not quit their hotel in the
Rue du Helder, their walk on the
Boulevard de Gand, and the Cafe de
Paris." It is of course understood that
Albert resided in the aforesaid street,
appeared every day on the fashionable
walk, and dined frequently at the only
restaurant where you can really dine,
that is, if you are on good terms with
its frequenters. Signor Pastrini
remained silent a short time; it was
evident that he was musing over this
answer, which did not seem very clear.
"But," said Franz, in his turn
interrupting his host's meditations,
"you had some motive for coming here,
may I beg to know what it was?"

"Ah, yes; you have ordered your carriage
at eight o'clock precisely?"

"I have."

"You intend visiting Il Colosseo."

"You mean the Colosseum?"

"It is the same thing. You have told
your coachman to leave the city by the
Porta del Popolo, to drive round the
walls, and re-enter by the Porta San
Giovanni?"

"These are my words exactly."

"Well, this route is impossible."

"Impossible!"

"Very dangerous, to say the least."

"Dangerous! -- and why?"

"On account of the famous Luigi Vampa."

"Pray, who may this famous Luigi Vampa
be?" inquired Albert; "he may be very
famous at Rome, but I can assure you he
is quite unknown at Paris."

"What! do you not know him?"

"I have not that honor."

"You have never heard his name?"

"Never."

"Well, then, he is a bandit, compared to
whom the Decesaris and the Gasparones
were mere children."

"Now then, Albert," cried Franz, "here
is a bandit for you at last."

"I forewarn you, Signor Pastrini, that I
shall not believe one word of what you
are going to tell us; having told you
this, begin."

"Once upon a time" --

"Well, go on." Signor Pastrini turned
toward Franz, who seemed to him the more
reasonable of the two; we must do him
justice, -- he had had a great many
Frenchmen in his house, but had never
been able to comprehend them.
"Excellency," said he gravely,
addressing Franz, "if you look upon me
as a liar, it is useless for me to say
anything; it was for your interest I" --

"Albert does not say you are a liar,
Signor Pastrini," said Franz, "but that
he will not believe what you are going
to tell us, -- but I will believe all
you say; so proceed."

"But if your excellency doubt my
veracity" --

"Signor Pastrini," returned Franz, "you
are more susceptible than Cassandra, who
was a prophetess, and yet no one
believed her; while you, at least, are
sure of the credence of half your
audience. Come, sit down, and tell us
all about this Signor Vampa."

"I had told your excellency he is the
most famous bandit we have had since the
days of Mastrilla."

"Well, what has this bandit to do with
the order I have given the coachman to
leave the city by the Porta del Popolo,
and to re-enter by the Porta San
Giovanni?"

"This," replied Signor Pastrini, "that
you will go out by one, but I very much
doubt your returning by the other."

"Why?" asked Franz.

"Because, after nightfall, you are not
safe fifty yards from the gates."

"On your honor is that true?" cried
Albert.

"Count," returned Signor Pastrini, hurt
at Albert's repeated doubts of the truth
of his assertions, "I do not say this to
you, but to your companion, who knows
Rome, and knows, too, that these things
are not to be laughed at."

"My dear fellow," said Albert, turning
to Franz, "here is an admirable
adventure; we will fill our carriage
with pistols, blunderbusses, and
double-barrelled guns. Luigi Vampa comes
to take us, and we take him -- we bring
him back to Rome, and present him to his
holiness the Pope, who asks how he can
repay so great a service; then we merely
ask for a carriage and a pair of horses,
and we see the Carnival in the carriage,
and doubtless the Roman people will
crown us at the Capitol, and proclaim
us, like Curtius and the veiled
Horatius, the preservers of their
country." Whilst Albert proposed this
scheme, Signor Pastrini's face assumed
an expression impossible to describe.

"And pray," asked Franz, "where are
these pistols, blunderbusses, and other
deadly weapons with which you intend
filling the carriage?"

"Not out of my armory, for at Terracina
I was plundered even of my
hunting-knife."

"I shared the same fate at
Aquapendente."

"Do you know, Signor Pastrini," said
Albert, lighting a second cigar at the
first, "that this practice is very
convenient for bandits, and that it
seems to be due to an arrangement of
their own." Doubtless Signor Pastrini
found this pleasantry compromising, for
he only answered half the question, and
then he spoke to Franz, as the only one
likely to listen with attention. "Your
excellency knows that it is not
customary to defend yourself when
attacked by bandits."

"What!" cried Albert, whose courage
revolted at the idea of being plundered
tamely, "not make any resistance!"

"No, for it would be useless. What could
you do against a dozen bandits who
spring out of some pit, ruin, or
aqueduct, and level their pieces at
you?"

"Eh, parbleu! -- they should kill me."

The inn-keeper turned to Franz with an
air that seemed to say, "Your friend is
decidedly mad."

"My dear Albert," returned Franz, "your
answer is sublime, and worthy the `Let
him die,' of Corneille, only, when
Horace made that answer, the safety of
Rome was concerned; but, as for us, it
is only to gratify a whim, and it would
be ridiculous to risk our lives for so
foolish a motive." Albert poured himself
out a glass of lacryma Christi, which he
sipped at intervals, muttering some
unintelligible words.

"Well, Signor Pastrini," said Franz,
"now that my companion is quieted, and
you have seen how peaceful my intentions
are, tell me who is this Luigi Vampa. Is
he a shepherd or a nobleman? -- young or
old? -- tall or short? Describe him, in
order that, if we meet him by chance,
like Bugaboo John or Lara, we may
recognize him."

"You could not apply to any one better
able to inform you on all these points,
for I knew him when he was a child, and
one day that I fell into his hands,
going from Ferentino to Alatri, he,
fortunately for me, recollected me, and
set me free, not only without ransom,
but made me a present of a very splendid
watch, and related his history to me."

"Let us see the watch," said Albert.

Signor Pastrini drew from his fob a
magnificent Breguet, bearing the name of
its maker, of Parisian manufacture, and
a count's coronet.

"Here it is," said he.

"Peste," returned Albert, "I compliment
you on it; I have its fellow" -- he took
his watch from his waistcoat pocket --
"and it cost me 3,000 francs."

"Let us hear the history," said Franz,
motioning Signor Pastrini to seat
himself.

"Your excellencies permit it?" asked the
host.

"Pardieu!" cried Albert, "you are not a
preacher, to remain standing!"

The host sat down, after having made
each of them a respectful bow, which
meant that he was ready to tell them all
they wished to know concerning Luigi
Vampa. "You tell me," said Franz, at the
moment Signor Pastrini was about to open
his mouth, "that you knew Luigi Vampa
when he was a child -- he is still a
young man, then?"

"A young man? he is only two and
twenty; -- he will gain himself a
reputation."

"What do you think of that, Albert? --
at two and twenty to be thus famous?"

"Yes, and at his age, Alexander, Caesar,
and Napoleon, who have all made some
noise in the world, were quite behind
him."

"So," continued Franz, "the hero of this
history is only two and twenty?"

"Scarcely so much."

"Is he tall or short?"

"Of the middle height -- about the same
stature as his excellency," returned the
host, pointing to Albert.

"Thanks for the comparison," said
Albert, with a bow.

"Go on, Signor Pastrini," continued
Franz, smiling at his friend's
susceptibility. "To what class of
society does he belong?"

"He was a shepherd-boy attached to the
farm of the Count of San-Felice,
situated between Palestrina and the lake
of Gabri; he was born at Pampinara, and
entered the count's service when he was
five years old; his father was also a
shepherd, who owned a small flock, and
lived by the wool and the milk, which he
sold at Rome. When quite a child, the
little Vampa displayed a most
extraordinary precocity. One day, when
he was seven years old, he came to the
curate of Palestrina, and asked to be
taught to read; it was somewhat
difficult, for he could not quit his
flock; but the good curate went every
day to say mass at a little hamlet too
poor to pay a priest and which, having
no other name, was called Borgo; he told
Luigi that he might meet him on his
return, and that then he would give him
a lesson, warning him that it would be
short, and that he must profit as much
as possible by it. The child accepted
joyfully. Every day Luigi led his flock
to graze on the road that leads from
Palestrina to Borgo; every day, at nine
o'clock in the morning, the priest and
the boy sat down on a bank by the
wayside, and the little shepherd took
his lesson out of the priest's breviary.
At the end of three months he had
learned to read. This was not enough --
he must now learn to write. The priest
had a writing teacher at Rome make three
alphabets -- one large, one middling,
and one small; and pointed out to him
that by the help of a sharp instrument
he could trace the letters on a slate,
and thus learn to write. The same
evening, when the flock was safe at the
farm, the little Luigi hastened to the
smith at Palestrina, took a large nail,
heated and sharpened it, and formed a
sort of stylus. The next morning he
gathered an armful of pieces of slate
and began. At the end of three months he
had learned to write. The curate,
astonished at his quickness and
intelligence, made him a present of
pens, paper, and a penknife. This
demanded new effort, but nothing
compared to the first; at the end of a
week he wrote as well with this pen as
with the stylus. The curate related the
incident to the Count of San-Felice, who
sent for the little shepherd, made him
read and write before him, ordered his
attendant to let him eat with the
domestics, and to give him two piastres
a month. With this, Luigi purchased
books and pencils. He applied his
imitative powers to everything, and,
like Giotto, when young, he drew on his
slate sheep, houses, and trees. Then,
with his knife, he began to carve all
sorts of objects in wood; it was thus
that Pinelli, the famous sculptor, had
commenced.

"A girl of six or seven -- that is, a
little younger than Vampa -- tended
sheep on a farm near Palestrina; she was
an orphan, born at Valmontone and was
named Teresa. The two children met, sat
down near each other, let their flocks
mingle together, played, laughed, and
conversed together; in the evening they
separated the Count of San-Felice's
flock from those of Baron Cervetri, and
the children returned to their
respective farms, promising to meet the
next morning. The next day they kept
their word, and thus they grew up
together. Vampa was twelve, and Teresa
eleven. And yet their natural
disposition revealed itself. Beside his
taste for the fine arts, which Luigi had
carried as far as he could in his
solitude, he was given to alternating
fits of sadness and enthusiasm, was
often angry and capricious, and always
sarcastic. None of the lads of
Pampinara, Palestrina, or Valmontone had
been able to gain any influence over him
or even to become his companion. His
disposition (always inclined to exact
concessions rather than to make them)
kept him aloof from all friendships.
Teresa alone ruled by a look, a word, a
gesture, this impetuous character, which
yielded beneath the hand of a woman, and
which beneath the hand of a man might
have broken, but could never have been
bended. Teresa was lively and gay, but
coquettish to excess. The two piastres
that Luigi received every month from the
Count of San-Felice's steward, and the
price of all the little carvings in wood
he sold at Rome, were expended in
ear-rings, necklaces, and gold hairpins.
So that, thanks to her friend's
generosity, Teresa was the most
beautiful and the best-attired peasant
near Rome. The two children grew up
together, passing all their time with
each other, and giving themselves up to
the wild ideas of their different
characters. Thus, in all their dreams,
their wishes, and their conversations,
Vampa saw himself the captain of a
vessel, general of an army, or governor
of a province. Teresa saw herself rich,
superbly attired, and attended by a
train of liveried domestics. Then, when
they had thus passed the day in building
castles in the air, they separated their
flocks, and descended from the elevation
of their dreams to the reality of their
humble position.

"One day the young shepherd told the
count's steward that he had seen a wolf
come out of the Sabine mountains, and
prowl around his flock. The steward gave
him a gun; this was what Vampa longed
for. This gun had an excellent barrel,
made at Breschia, and carrying a ball
with the precision of an English rifle;
but one day the count broke the stock,
and had then cast the gun aside. This,
however, was nothing to a sculptor like
Vampa; he examined the broken stock,
calculated what change it would require
to adapt the gun to his shoulder, and
made a fresh stock, so beautifully
carved that it would have fetched
fifteen or twenty piastres, had he
chosen to sell it. But nothing could be
farther from his thoughts. For a long
time a gun had been the young man's
greatest ambition. In every country
where independence has taken the place
of liberty, the first desire of a manly
heart is to possess a weapon, which at
once renders him capable of defence or
attack, and, by rendering its owner
terrible, often makes him feared. From
this moment Vampa devoted all his
leisure time to perfecting himself in
the use of his precious weapon; he
purchased powder and ball, and
everything served him for a mark -- the
trunk of some old and moss-grown
olive-tree, that grew on the Sabine
mountains; the fox, as he quitted his
earth on some marauding excursion; the
eagle that soared above their heads: and
thus he soon became so expert, that
Teresa overcame the terror she at first
felt at the report, and amused herself
by watching him direct the ball wherever
he pleased, with as much accuracy as if
he placed it by hand.

"One evening a wolf emerged from a
pine-wood hear which they were usually
stationed, but the wolf had scarcely
advanced ten yards ere he was dead.
Proud of this exploit, Vampa took the
dead animal on his shoulders, and
carried him to the farm. These exploits
had gained Luigi considerable
reputation. The man of superior
abilities always finds admirers, go
where he will. He was spoken of as the
most adroit, the strongest, and the most
courageous contadino for ten leagues
around; and although Teresa was
universally allowed to be the most
beautiful girl of the Sabines, no one
had ever spoken to her of love, because
it was known that she was beloved by
Vampa. And yet the two young people had
never declared their affection; they had
grown together like two trees whose
roots are mingled, whose branches
intertwined, and whose intermingled
perfume rises to the heavens. Only their
wish to see each other had become a
necessity, and they would have preferred
death to a day's separation. Teresa was
sixteen, and Vampa seventeen. About this
time, a band of brigands that had
established itself in the Lepini
mountains began to be much spoken of.
The brigands have never been really
extirpated from the neighborhood of
Rome. Sometimes a chief is wanted, but
when a chief presents himself he rarely
has to wait long for a band of
followers.

"The celebrated Cucumetto, pursued in
the Abruzzo, driven out of the kingdom
of Naples, where he had carried on a
regular war, had crossed the Garigliano,
like Manfred, and had taken refuge on
the banks of the Amasine between Sonnino
and Juperno. He strove to collect a band
of followers, and followed the footsteps
of Decesaris and Gasperone, whom he
hoped to surpass. Many young men of
Palestrina, Frascati, and Pampinara had
disappeared. Their disappearance at
first caused much disquietude; but it
was soon known that they had joined
Cucumetto. After some time Cucumetto
became the object of universal
attention; the most extraordinary traits
of ferocious daring and brutality were
related of him. One day he carried off a
young girl, the daughter of a surveyor
of Frosinone. The bandit's laws are
positive; a young girl belongs first to
him who carries her off, then the rest
draw lots for her, and she is abandoned
to their brutality until death relieves
her sufferings. When their parents are
sufficiently rich to pay a ransom, a
messenger is sent to negotiate; the
prisoner is hostage for the security of
the messenger; should the ransom be
refused, the prisoner is irrevocably
lost. The young girl's lover was in
Cucumetto's troop; his name was Carlini.
When she recognized her lover, the poor
girl extended her arms to him, and
believed herself safe; but Carlini felt
his heart sink, for he but too well knew
the fate that awaited her. However, as
he was a favorite with Cucumetto, as he
had for three years faithfully served
him, and as he had saved his life by
shooting a dragoon who was about to cut
him down, he hoped the chief would have
pity on him. He took Cucumetto one side,
while the young girl, seated at the foot
of a huge pine that stood in the centre
of the forest, made a veil of her
picturesque head-dress to hide her face
from the lascivious gaze of the bandits.
There he told the chief all -- his
affection for the prisoner, their
promises of mutual fidelity, and how
every night, since he had been near,
they had met in some neighboring ruins.

"It so happened that night that
Cucumetto had sent Carlini to a village,
so that he had been unable to go to the
place of meeting. Cucumetto had been
there, however, by accident, as he said,
and had carried the maiden off. Carlini
besought his chief to make an exception
in Rita's favor, as her father was rich,
and could pay a large ransom. Cucumetto
seemed to yield to his friend's
entreaties, and bade him find a shepherd
to send to Rita's father at Frosinone.
Carlini flew joyfully to Rita, telling
her she was saved, and bidding her write
to her father, to inform him what had
occurred, and that her ransom was fixed
at three hundred piastres. Twelve hours'
delay was all that was granted -- that
is, until nine the next morning. The
instant the letter was written, Carlini
seized it, and hastened to the plain to
find a messenger. He found a young
shepherd watching his flock. The natural
messengers of the bandits are the
shepherds who live between the city and
the mountains, between civilized and
savage life. The boy undertook the
commission, promising to be in Frosinone
in less than an hour. Carlini returned,
anxious to see his mistress, and
announce the joyful intelligence. He
found the troop in the glade, supping
off the provisions exacted as
contributions from the peasants; but his
eye vainly sought Rita and Cucumetto
among them. He inquired where they were,
and was answered by a burst of laughter.
A cold perspiration burst from every
pore, and his hair stood on end. He
repeated his question. One of the
bandits rose, and offered him a glass
filled with Orvietto, saying, `To the
health of the brave Cucumetto and the
fair Rita.' At this moment Carlini heard
a woman's cry; he divined the truth,
seized the glass, broke it across the
face of him who presented it, and rushed
towards the spot whence the cry came.
After a hundred yards he turned the
corner of the thicket; he found Rita
senseless in the arms of Cucumetto. At
the sight of Carlini, Cucumetto rose, a
pistol in each hand. The two brigands
looked at each other for a moment -- the
one with a smile of lasciviousness on
his lips, the other with the pallor of
death on his brow. A terrible battle
between the two men seemed imminent; but
by degrees Carlini's features relaxed,
his hand, which had grasped one of the
pistols in his belt, fell to his side.
Rita lay between them. The moon lighted
the group.

"`Well,' said Cucumetto, `have you
executed your commission?'

"`Yes, captain,' returned Carlini. `At
nine o'clock to-morrow Rita's father
will be here with the money.' -- `It is
well; in the meantime, we will have a
merry night; this young girl is
charming, and does credit to your taste.
Now, as I am not egotistical, we will
return to our comrades and draw lots for
her.' -- `You have determined, then, to
abandon her to the common law?" said
Carlini.

"`Why should an exception be made in her
favor?'

"`I thought that my entreaties' --

"`What right have you, any more than the
rest, to ask for an exception?' -- `It
is true.' -- `But never mind,' continued
Cucumetto, laughing, `sooner or later
your turn will come.' Carlini's teeth
clinched convulsively.

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

"Cucumetto departed, without losing
sight of Carlini, for, doubtless, he
feared lest he should strike him
unawares; but nothing betrayed a hostile
design on Carlini's part. He was
standing, his arms folded, near Rita,
who was still insensible. Cucumetto
fancied for a moment the young man was
about to take her in his arms and fly;
but this mattered little to him now Rita
had been his; and as for the money,
three hundred piastres distributed among
the band was so small a sum that he
cared little about it. He continued to
follow the path to the glade; but, to
his great surprise, Carlini arrived
almost as soon as himself. `Let us draw
lots! let us draw lots!' cried all the
brigands, when they saw the chief.

"Their demand was fair, and the chief
inclined his head in sign of
acquiescence. The eyes of all shone
fiercely as they made their demand, and
the red light of the fire made them look
like demons. The names of all, including
Carlini, were placed in a hat, and the
youngest of the band drew forth a
ticket; the ticket bore the name of
Diovolaccio. He was the man who had
proposed to Carlini the health of their
chief, and to whom Carlini replied by
breaking the glass across his face. A
large wound, extending from the temple
to the mouth, was bleeding profusely.
Diovalaccio, seeing himself thus favored
by fortune, burst into a loud laugh.
`Captain,' said he, `just now Carlini
would not drink your health when I
proposed it to him; propose mine to him,
and let us see if he will be more
condescending to you than to me.' Every
one expected an explosion on Carlini's
part; but to their great surprise, he
took a glass in one hand and a flask in
the other, and filling it, -- `Your
health, Diavolaccio,' said he calmly,
and he drank it off, without his hand
trembling in the least. Then sitting
down by the fire, `My supper,' said he;
`my expedition has given me an
appetite.' -- `Well done, Carlini!'
cried the brigands; `that is acting like
a good fellow;' and they all formed a
circle round the fire, while Diavolaccio
disappeared. Carlini ate and drank as if
nothing had happened. The bandits looked
on with astonishment at this singular
conduct until they heard footsteps. They
turned round, and saw Diavolaccio
bearing the young girl in his arms. Her
head hung back, and her long hair swept
the ground. As they entered the circle,
the bandits could perceive, by the
firelight, the unearthly pallor of the
young girl and of Diavolaccio. This
apparition was so strange and so solemn,
that every one rose, with the exception
of Carlini, who remained seated, and ate
and drank calmly. Diavolaccio advanced
amidst the most profound silence, and
laid Rita at the captain's feet. Then
every one could understand the cause of
the unearthly pallor in the young girl
and the bandit. A knife was plunged up
to the hilt in Rita's left breast. Every
one looked at Carlini; the sheath at his
belt was empty. `Ah, ah,' said the
chief, `I now understand why Carlini
stayed behind.' All savage natures
appreciate a desperate deed. No other of
the bandits would, perhaps, have done
the same; but they all understood what
Carlini had done. `Now, then,' cried
Carlini, rising in his turn, and
approaching the corpse, his hand on the
butt of one of his pistols, `does any
one dispute the possession of this woman
with me?' -- `No,' returned the chief,
`she is thine.' Carlini raised her in
his arms, and carried her out of the
circle of firelight. Cucumetto placed
his sentinels for the night, and the
bandits wrapped themselves in their
cloaks, and lay down before the fire. At
midnight the sentinel gave the alarm,
and in an instant all were on the alert.
It was Rita's father, who brought his
daughter's ransom in person. `Here,'
said he, to Cucumetto, `here are three
hundred piastres; give me back my child.
But the chief, without taking the money,
made a sign to him to follow. The old
man obeyed. They both advanced beneath
the trees, through whose branches
streamed the moonlight. Cucumetto
stopped at last, and pointed to two
persons grouped at the foot of a tree.

"`There,' said he, `demand thy child of
Carlini; he will tell thee what has
become of her;' and he returned to his
companions. The old man remained
motionless; he felt that some great and
unforeseen misfortune hung over his
head. At length he advanced toward the
group, the meaning of which he could not
comprehend. As he approached, Carlini
raised his head, and the forms of two
persons became visible to the old man's
eyes. A woman lay on the ground, her
head resting on the knees of a man, who
was seated by her; as he raised his
head, the woman's face became visible.
The old man recognized his child, and
Carlini recognized the old man. `I
expected thee,' said the bandit to
Rita's father. -- `Wretch!' returned the
old man, `what hast thou done?' and he
gazed with terror on Rita, pale and
bloody, a knife buried in her bosom. A
ray of moonlight poured through the
trees, and lighted up the face of the
dead. -- `Cucumetto had violated thy
daughter,' said the bandit; `I loved
her, therefore I slew her; for she would
have served as the sport of the whole
band.' The old man spoke not, and grew
pale as death. `Now,' continued Carlini,
`if I have done wrongly, avenge her;'
and withdrawing the knife from the wound
in Rita's bosom, he held it out to the
old man with one hand, while with the
other he tore open his vest. -- `Thou
hast done well!' returned the old man in
a hoarse voice; `embrace me, my son.'
Carlini threw himself, sobbing like a
child, into the arms of his mistress's
father. These were the first tears the
man of blood had ever wept. `Now,' said
the old man, `aid me to bury my child.'
Carlini fetched two pickaxes; and the
father and the lover began to dig at the
foot of a huge oak, beneath which the
young girl was to repose. When the grave
was formed, the father kissed her first,
and then the lover; afterwards, one
taking the head, the other the feet,
they placed her in the grave. Then they
knelt on each side of the grave, and
said the prayers of the dead. Then, when
they had finished, they cast the earth
over the corpse, until the grave was
filled. Then, extending his hand, the
old man said; `I thank you, my son; and
now leave me alone.' -- `Yet' -- replied
Carlini. -- `Leave me, I command you.'
Carlini obeyed, rejoined his comrades,
folded himself in his cloak, and soon
appeared to sleep as soundly as the
rest. It had been resolved the night
before to change their encampment. An
hour before daybreak, Cucumetto aroused
his men, and gave the word to march. But
Carlini would not quit the forest,
without knowing what had become of
Rita's father. He went toward the place
where he had left him. He found the old
man suspended from one of the branches
of the oak which shaded his daughter's
grave. He then took an oath of bitter
vengeance over the dead body of the one
and the tomb of the other. But he was
unable to complete this oath, for two
days afterwards, in an encounter with
the Roman carbineers, Carlini was
killed. There was some surprise,
however, that, as he was with his face
to the enemy, he should have received a
ball between his shoulders. That
astonishment ceased when one of the
brigands remarked to his comrades that
Cucumetto was stationed ten paces in
Carlini's rear when he fell. On the
morning of the departure from the forest
of Frosinone he had followed Carlini in
the darkness, and heard this oath of
vengeance, and, like a wise man,
anticipated it. They told ten other
stories of this bandit chief, each more
singular than the other. Thus, from
Fondi to Perusia, every one trembles at
the name of Cucumetto.

"These narratives were frequently the
theme of conversation between Luigi and
Teresa. The young girl trembled very
much at hearing the stories; but Vampa
reassured her with a smile, tapping the
butt of his good fowling-piece, which
threw its ball so well; and if that did
not restore her courage, he pointed to a
crow, perched on some dead branch, took
aim, touched the trigger, and the bird
fell dead at the foot of the tree. Time
passed on, and the two young people had
agreed to be married when Vampa should
be twenty and Teresa nineteen years of
age. They were both orphans, and had
only their employers' leave to ask,
which had been already sought and
obtained. One day when they were talking
over their plans for the future, they
heard two or three reports of firearms,
and then suddenly a man came out of the
wood, near which the two young persons
used to graze their flocks, and hurried
towards them. When he came within
hearing, he exclaimed. `I am pursued;
can you conceal me?' They knew full well
that this fugitive must be a bandit; but
there is an innate sympathy between the
Roman brigand and the Roman peasant and
the latter is always ready to aid the
former. Vampa, without saying a word,
hastened to the stone that closed up the
entrance to their grotto, drew it away,
made a sign to the fugitive to take
refuge there, in a retreat unknown to
every one, closed the stone upon him,
and then went and resumed his seat by
Teresa. Instantly afterwards four
carbineers, on horseback, appeared on
the edge of the wood; three of them
appeared to be looking for the fugitive,
while the fourth dragged a brigand
prisoner by the neck. The three
carbineers looked about carefully on
every side, saw the young peasants, and
galloping up, began to question them.
They had seen no one. `That is very
annoying,' said the brigadier; for the
man we are looking for is the chief.' --
`Cucumetto?' cried Luigi and Teresa at
the same moment.

"`Yes,' replied the brigadier; `and as
his head is valued at a thousand Roman
crowns, there would have been five
hundred for you, if you had helped us to
catch him.' The two young persons
exchanged looks. The brigadier had a
moment's hope. Five hundred Roman crowns
are three thousand lire, and three
thousand lire are a fortune for two poor
orphans who are going to be married.

"`Yes, it is very annoying,' said Vampa;
`but we have not seen him.'

"Then the carbineers scoured the country
in different directions, but in vain;
then, after a time, they disappeared.
Vampa then removed the stone, and
Cucumetto came out. Through the crevices
in the granite he had seen the two young
peasants talking with the carbineers,
and guessed the subject of their parley.
He had read in the countenances of Luigi
and Teresa their steadfast resolution
not to surrender him, and he drew from
his pocket a purse full of gold, which
he offered to them. But Vampa raised his
head proudly; as to Teresa, her eyes
sparkled when she thought of all the
fine gowns and gay jewellery she could
buy with this purse of gold.

"Cucumetto was a cunning fiend, and had
assumed the form of a brigand instead of
a serpent, and this look from Teresa
showed to him that she was a worthy
daughter of Eve, and he returned to the
forest, pausing several times on his
way, under the pretext of saluting his
protectors. Several days elapsed, and
they neither saw nor heard of Cucumetto.
The time of the Carnival was at hand.
The Count of San-Felice announced a
grand masked ball, to which all that
were distinguished in Rome were invited.
Teresa had a great desire to see this
ball. Luigi asked permission of his
protector, the steward, that she and he
might be present amongst the servants of
the house. This was granted. The ball
was given by the Count for the
particular pleasure of his daughter
Carmela, whom he adored. Carmela was
precisely the age and figure of Teresa,
and Teresa was as handsome as Carmela.
On the evening of the ball Teresa was
attired in her best, her most brilliant
ornaments in her hair, and gayest glass
beads, -- she was in the costume of the
women of Frascati. Luigi wore the very
picturesque garb of the Roman peasant at
holiday time. They both mingled, as they
had leave to do, with the servants and
peasants.

"The festa was magnificent; not only was
the villa brilliantly illuminated, but
thousands of colored lanterns were
suspended from the trees in the garden;
and very soon the palace overflowed to
the terraces, and the terraces to the
garden-walks. At each cross-path was an
orchestra, and tables spread with
refreshments; the guests stopped, formed
quadrilles, and danced in any part of
the grounds they pleased. Carmela was
attired like a woman of Sonnino. Her cap
was embroidered with pearls, the pins in
her hair were of gold and diamonds, her
girdle was of Turkey silk, with large
embroidered flowers, her bodice and
skirt were of cashmere, her apron of
Indian muslin, and the buttons of her
corset were of jewels. Two of her
companions were dressed, the one as a
woman of Nettuno, and the other as a
woman of La Riccia. Four young men of
the richest and noblest families of Rome
accompanied them with that Italian
freedom which has not its parallel in
any other country in the world. They
were attired as peasants of Albano,
Velletri, Civita-Castellana, and Sora.
We need hardly add that these peasant
costumes, like those of the young women,
were brilliant with gold and jewels.

"Carmela wished to form a quadrille, but
there was one lady wanting. Carmela
looked all around her, but not one of
the guests had a costume similar to her
own, or those of her companions. The
Count of San-Felice pointed out Teresa,
who was hanging on Luigi's arm in a
group of peasants. `Will you allow me,
father?' said Carmela. -- `Certainly,'
replied the count, `are we not in
Carnival time?' -- Carmela turned
towards the young man who was talking
with her, and saying a few words to him,
pointed with her finger to Teresa. The
young man looked, bowed in obedience,
and then went to Teresa, and invited her
to dance in a quadrille directed by the
count's daughter. Teresa felt a flush
pass over her face; she looked at Luigi,
who could not refuse his assent. Luigi
slowly relinquished Teresa's arm, which
he had held beneath his own, and Teresa,
accompanied by her elegant cavalier,
took her appointed place with much
agitation in the aristocratic quadrille.
Certainly, in the eyes of an artist, the
exact and strict costume of Teresa had a
very different character from that of
Carmela and her companions; and Teresa
was frivolous and coquettish, and thus
the embroidery and muslins, the cashmere
waist-girdles, all dazzled her, and the
reflection of sapphires and diamonds
almost turned her giddy brain.

"Luigi felt a sensation hitherto unknown
arising in his mind. It was like an
acute pain which gnawed at his heart,
and then thrilled through his whole
body. He followed with his eye each
movement of Teresa and her cavalier;
when their hands touched, he felt as
though he should swoon; every pulse beat
with violence, and it seemed as though a
bell were ringing in his ears. When they
spoke, although Teresa listened timidly
and with downcast eyes to the
conversation of her cavalier, as Luigi
could read in the ardent looks of the
good-looking young man that his language
was that of praise, it seemed as if the
whole world was turning round with him,
and all the voices of hell were
whispering in his ears ideas of murder
and assassination. Then fearing that his
paroxysm might get the better of him, he
clutched with one hand the branch of a
tree against which he was leaning, and
with the other convulsively grasped the
dagger with a carved handle which was in
his belt, and which, unwittingly, he
drew from the scabbard from time to
time. Luigi was jealous! He felt that,
influenced by her ambitions and
coquettish disposition, Teresa might
escape him.

"The young peasant girl, at first timid
and scared, soon recovered herself. We
have said that Teresa was handsome, but
this is not all; Teresa was endowed with
all those wild graces which are so much
more potent than our affected and
studied elegancies. She had almost all
the honors of the quadrille, and if she
were envious of the Count of
San-Felice's daughter, we will not
undertake to say that Carmela was not
jealous of her. And with overpowering
compliments her handsome cavalier led
her back to the place whence he had
taken her, and where Luigi awaited her.
Twice or thrice during the dance the
young girl had glanced at Luigi, and
each time she saw that he was pale and
that his features were agitated, once
even the blade of his knife, half drawn
from its sheath, had dazzled her eyes
with its sinister glare. Thus, it was
almost tremblingly that she resumed her
lover's arm. The quadrille had been most
perfect, and it was evident there was a
great demand for a repetition, Carmela
alone objecting to it, but the Count of
San-Felice besought his daughter so
earnestly, that she acceded. One of the
cavaliers then hastened to invite
Teresa, without whom it was impossible
for the quadrille to be formed, but the
young girl had disappeared. The truth
was, that Luigi had not felt the
strength to support another such trial,
and, half by persuasion and half by
force, he had removed Teresa toward
another part of the garden. Teresa had
yielded in spite of herself, but when
she looked at the agitated countenance
of the young man, she understood by his
silence and trembling voice that
something strange was passing within
him. She herself was not exempt from
internal emotion, and without having
done anything wrong, yet fully
comprehended that Luigi was right in
reproaching her. Why, she did not know,
but yet she did not the less feel that
these reproaches were merited. However,
to Teresa's great astonishment, Luigi
remained mute, and not a word escaped
his lips the rest of the evening. When
the chill of the night had driven away
the guests from the gardens, and the
gates of the villa were closed on them
for the festa in-doors, he took Teresa
quite away, and as he left her at her
home, he said, --

"`Teresa, what were you thinking of as
you danced opposite the young Countess
of San-Felice?' -- `I thought,' replied
the young girl, with all the frankness
of her nature, `that I would give half
my life for a costume such as she wore.'

"`And what said your cavalier to
you?' -- `He said it only depended on
myself to have it, and I had only one
word to say.'

"`He was right,' said Luigi. `Do you
desire it as ardently as you say?' --
`Yes.' -- `Well, then, you shall have
it!'

"The young girl, much astonished, raised
her head to look at him, but his face
was so gloomy and terrible that her
words froze to her lips. As Luigi spoke
thus, he left her. Teresa followed him
with her eyes into the darkness as long
as she could, and when he had quite
disappeared, she went into the house
with a sigh.

"That night a memorable event occurred,
due, no doubt, to the imprudence of some
servant who had neglected to extinguish
the lights. The Villa of San-Felice took
fire in the rooms adjoining the very
apartment of the lovely Carmela.
Awakened in the night by the light of
the flames, she sprang out of bed,
wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, and
attempted to escape by the door, but the
corridor by which she hoped to fly was
already a prey to the flames. She then
returned to her room, calling for help
as loudly as she could, when suddenly
her window, which was twenty feet from
the ground, was opened, a young peasant
jumped into the chamber, seized her in
his arms, and with superhuman skill and
strength conveyed her to the turf of the
grass-plot, where she fainted. When she
recovered, her father was by her side.
All the servants surrounded her,
offering her assistance. An entire wing
of the villa was burnt down; but what of
that, as long as Carmela was safe and
uninjured? Her preserver was everywhere
sought for, but he did not appear; he
was inquired after, but no one had seen
him. Carmela was greatly troubled that
she had not recognized him. As the count
was immensely rich, excepting the danger
Carmela had run, -- and the marvellous
manner in which she had escaped, made
that appear to him rather a favor of
providence than a real misfortune, --
the loss occasioned by the conflagration
was to him but a trifle.

"The next day, at the usual hour, the
two young peasants were on the borders
of the forest. Luigi arrived first. He
came toward Teresa in high spirits, and
seemed to have completely forgotten the
events of the previous evening. The
young girl was very pensive, but seeing
Luigi so cheerful, she on her part
assumed a smiling air, which was natural
to her when she was not excited or in a
passion. Luigi took her arm beneath his
own, and led her to the door of the
grotto. Then he paused. The young girl,
perceiving that there was something
extraordinary, looked at him
steadfastly. `Teresa,' said Luigi,
`yesterday evening you told me you would
give all the world to have a costume
similar to that of the count's
daughter.' -- `Yes,' replied Teresa with
astonishment; `but I was mad to utter
such a wish.' -- `And I replied, "Very
well, you shall have it."' -- `Yes,'
replied the young girl, whose
astonishment increased at every word
uttered by Luigi, `but of course your
reply was only to please me.'

"`I have promised no more than I have
given you, Teresa,' said Luigi proudly.
`Go into the grotto and dress yourself.'
At these words he drew away the stone,
and showed Teresa the grotto, lighted up
by two wax lights, which burnt on each
side of a splendid mirror; on a rustic
table, made by Luigi, were spread out
the pearl necklace and the diamond pins,
and on a chair at the side was laid the
rest of the costume.

"Teresa uttered a cry of joy, and,
without inquiring whence this attire
came, or even thanking Luigi, darted
into the grotto, transformed into a
dressing-room. Luigi pushed the stone
behind her, for on the crest of a small
adjacent hill which cut off the view
toward Palestrina, he saw a traveller on
horseback, stopping a moment, as if
uncertain of his road, and thus
presenting against the blue sky that
perfect outline which is peculiar to
distant objects in southern climes. When
he saw Luigi, he put his horse into a
gallop and advanced toward him. Luigi
was not mistaken. The traveller, who was
going from Palestrina to Tivoli, had
mistaken his way; the young man directed
him; but as at a distance of a quarter
of a mile the road again divided into
three ways, and on reaching these the
traveller might again stray from his
route, he begged Luigi to be his guide.
Luigi threw his cloak on the ground,
placed his carbine on his shoulder, and
freed from his heavy covering, preceded
the traveller with the rapid step of a
mountaineer, which a horse can scarcely
keep up with. In ten minutes Luigi and
the traveller reached the cross-roads.
On arriving there, with an air as
majestic as that of an emperor, he
stretched his hand towards that one of
the roads which the traveller was to
follow. -- "That is your road,
excellency, and now you cannot again
mistake.' -- `And here is your
recompense,' said the traveller,
offering the young herdsman some small
pieces of money.

"`Thank you,' said Luigi, drawing back
his hand; `I render a service, I do not
sell it.' -- `Well,' replied the
traveller, who seemed used to this
difference between the servility of a
man of the cities and the pride of the
mountaineer, `if you refuse wages, you
will, perhaps, accept a gift.' -- `Ah,
yes, that is another thing.' -- `Then,'
said the traveller, `take these two
Venetian sequins and give them to your
bride, to make herself a pair of
earrings.'

"`And then do you take this poniard,'
said the young herdsman; `you will not
find one better carved between Albano
and Civita-Castellana.'

"`I accept it,' answered the traveller,
`but then the obligation will be on my
side, for this poniard is worth more
than two sequins.' -- `For a dealer
perhaps; but for me, who engraved it
myself, it is hardly worth a piastre.'

"`What is your name?' inquired the
traveller. -- `Luigi Vampa,' replied the
shepherd, with the same air as he would
have replied, Alexander, King of
Macedon. -- `And yours?' -- `I,' said
the traveller, `am called Sinbad the
Sailor.'" Franz d'Epinay started with
surprise.

"Sinbad the Sailor." he said.

"Yes," replied the narrator; "that was
the name which the traveller gave to
Vampa as his own."

"Well, and what may you have to say
against this name?" inquired Albert; "it
is a very pretty name, and the
adventures of the gentleman of that name
amused me very much in my youth, I must
confess." -- Franz said no more. The
name of Sinbad the Sailor, as may well
be supposed, awakened in him a world of
recollections, as had the name of the
Count of Monte Cristo on the previous
evening.

"Proceed!" said he to the host.

"Vampa put the two sequins haughtily
into his pocket, and slowly returned by
the way he had gone. As he came within
two or three hundred paces of the
grotto, he thought he heard a cry. He
listened to know whence this sound could
proceed. A moment afterwards he thought
he heard his own name pronounced
distinctly. The cry proceeded from the
grotto. He bounded like a chamois,
cocking his carbine as he went, and in a
moment reached the summit of a hill
opposite to that on which he had
perceived the traveller. Three cries for
help came more distinctly to his ear. He
cast his eyes around him and saw a man
carrying off Teresa, as Nessus, the
centaur, carried Dejanira. This man, who
was hastening towards the wood, was
already three-quarters of the way on the
road from the grotto to the forest.
Vampa measured the distance; the man was
at least two hundred paces in advance of
him, and there was not a chance of
overtaking him. The young shepherd
stopped, as if his feet had been rooted
to the ground; then he put the butt of
his carbine to his shoulder, took aim at
the ravisher, followed him for a second
in his track, and then fired. The
ravisher stopped suddenly, his knees
bent under him, and he fell with Teresa
in his arms. The young girl rose
instantly, but the man lay on the earth
struggling in the agonies of death.
Vampa then rushed towards Teresa; for at
ten paces from the dying man her legs
had failed her, and she had dropped on
her knees, so that the young man feared
that the ball that had brought down his
enemy, had also wounded his betrothed.
Fortunately, she was unscathed, and it
was fright alone that had overcome
Teresa. When Luigi had assured himself
that she was safe and unharmed, he
turned towards the wounded man. He had
just expired, with clinched hands, his
mouth in a spasm of agony, and his hair
on end in the sweat of death. His eyes
remained open and menacing. Vampa
approached the corpse, and recognized
Cucumetto. From the day on which the
bandit had been saved by the two young
peasants, he had been enamoured of
Teresa, and had sworn she should be his.
From that time he had watched them, and
profiting by the moment when her lover
had left her alone, had carried her off,
and believed he at length had her in his
power, when the ball, directed by the
unerring skill of the young herdsman,
had pierced his heart. Vampa gazed on
him for a moment without betraying the
slightest emotion; while, on the
contrary, Teresa, shuddering in every
limb, dared not approach the slain
ruffian but by degrees, and threw a
hesitating glance at the dead body over
the shoulder of her lover. Suddenly
Vampa turned toward his mistress: --
`Ah,' said he -- `good, good! You are
dressed; it is now my turn to dress
myself.'

"Teresa was clothed from head to foot in
the garb of the Count of San-Felice's
daughter. Vampa took Cucumetto's body in
his arms and conveyed it to the grotto,
while in her turn Teresa remained
outside. If a second traveller had
passed, he would have seen a strange
thing, -- a shepherdess watching her
flock, clad in a cashmere grown, with
ear-rings and necklace of pearls,
diamond pins, and buttons of sapphires,
emeralds, and rubies. He would, no
doubt, have believed that he had
returned to the times of Florian, and
would have declared, on reaching Paris,
that he had met an Alpine shepherdess
seated at the foot of the Sabine Hill.
At the end of a quarter of an hour Vampa
quitted the grotto; his costume was no
less elegant than that of Teresa. He
wore a vest of garnet-colored velvet,
with buttons of cut gold; a silk
waistcoat covered with embroidery; a
Roman scarf tied round his neck; a
cartridge-box worked with gold, and red
and green silk; sky-blue velvet
breeches, fastened above the knee with
diamond buckles; garters of deerskin,
worked with a thousand arabesques, and a
hat whereon hung ribbons of all colors;
two watches hung from his girdle, and a
splendid poniard was in his belt. Teresa
uttered a cry of admiration. Vampa in
this attire resembled a painting by
Leopold Robert, or Schnetz. He had
assumed the entire costume of Cucumetto.
The young man saw the effect produced on
his betrothed, and a smile of pride
passed over his lips. -- `Now,' he said
to Teresa, `are you ready to share my
fortune, whatever it may be?' -- `Oh,
yes!' exclaimed the young girl
enthusiastically. -- `And follow me
wherever I go?' -- `To the world's
end.' -- `Then take my arm, and let us
on; we have no time to lose.' -- The
young girl did so without questioning
her lover as to where he was conducting
her, for he appeared to her at this
moment as handsome, proud, and powerful
as a god. They went towards the forest,
and soon entered it. We need scarcely
say that all the paths of the mountain
were known to Vampa; he therefore went
forward without a moment's hesitation,
although there was no beaten track, but
he knew his path by looking at the trees
and bushes, and thus they kept on
advancing for nearly an hour and a half.
At the end of this time they had reached
the thickest of the forest. A torrent,
whose bed was dry, led into a deep
gorge. Vampa took this wild road, which,
enclosed between two ridges, and
shadowed by the tufted umbrage of the
pines, seemed, but for the difficulties
of its descent, that path to Avernus of
which Virgil speaks. Teresa had become
alarmed at the wild and deserted look of
the plain around her, and pressed
closely against her guide, not uttering
a syllable; but as she saw him advance
with even step and composed countenance,
she endeavored to repress her emotion.
Suddenly, about ten paces from them, a
man advanced from behind a tree and
aimed at Vampa. -- `Not another step,'
he said, `or you are a dead man.' --
`What, then,' said Vampa, raising his
hand with a gesture of disdain, while
Teresa, no longer able to restrain her
alarm, clung closely to him, `do wolves
rend each other?' -- `Who are you?'
inquired the sentinel. -- `I am Luigi
Vampa, shepherd of the San-Felice
farm.' -- `What do you want?' -- `I
would speak with your companions who are
in the glade at Rocca Bianca.' --
`Follow me, then,' said the sentinel;
`or, as you know your way, go first.' --
Vampa smiled disdainfully at this
precaution on the part of the bandit,
went before Teresa, and continued to
advance with the same firm and easy step
as before. At the end of ten minutes the
bandit made them a sign to stop. The two
young persons obeyed. Then the bandit
thrice imitated the cry of a crow; a
croak answered this signal. -- `Good!'
said the sentry, `you may now go on.' --
Luigi and Teresa again set forward; as
they went on Teresa clung tremblingly to
her lover at the sight of weapons and
the glistening of carbines through the
trees. The retreat of Rocca Bianca was
at the top of a small mountain, which no
doubt in former days had been a
volcano -- an extinct volcano before the
days when Remus and Romulus had deserted
Alba to come and found the city of Rome.
Teresa and Luigi reached the summit, and
all at once found themselves in the
presence of twenty bandits. `Here is a
young man who seeks and wishes to speak
to you,' said the sentinel. -- `What has
he to say?' inquired the young man who
was in command in the chief's
absence. -- `I wish to say that I am
tired of a shepherd's life,' was Vampa's
reply. -- `Ah, I understand,' said the
lieutenant; `and you seek admittance
into our ranks?' -- `Welcome!' cried
several bandits from Ferrusino,
Pampinara, and Anagni, who had
recognized Luigi Vampa. -- `Yes, but I
came to ask something more than to be
your companion.' -- `And what may that
be?' inquired the bandits with
astonishment. -- `I come to ask to be
your captain,' said the young man. The
bandits shouted with laughter. `And what
have you done to aspire to this honor?'
demanded the lieutenant. -- `I have
killed your chief, Cucumetto, whose
dress I now wear; and I set fire to the
villa San-Felice to procure a
wedding-dress for my betrothed.' An hour
afterwards Luigi Vampa was chosen
captain, vice Cucumetto deceased."

"Well, my dear Albert," said Franz,
turning towards his friend; "what think
you of citizen Luigi Vampa?"

"I say he is a myth," replied Albert,
"and never had an existence."

"And what may a myth be?" inquired
Pastrini.

"The explanation would be too long, my
dear landlord," replied Franz.

"And you say that Signor Vampa exercises
his profession at this moment in the
environs of Rome?"

"And with a boldness of which no bandit
before him ever gave an example."

"Then the police have vainly tried to
lay hands on him?"

"Why, you see, he has a good
understanding with the shepherds in the
plains, the fishermen of the Tiber, and
the smugglers of the coast. They seek
for him in the mountains, and he is on
the waters; they follow him on the
waters, and he is on the open sea; then
they pursue him, and he has suddenly
taken refuge in the islands, at Giglio,
Guanouti, or Monte Cristo; and when they
hunt for him there, he reappears
suddenly at Albano, Tivoli, or La
Riccia."

"And how does he behave towards
travellers?"

"Alas! his plan is very simple. It
depends on the distance he may be from
the city, whether he gives eight hours,
twelve hours, or a day wherein to pay
their ransom; and when that time has
elapsed he allows another hour's grace.
At the sixtieth minute of this hour, if
the money is not forthcoming, he blows
out the prisoner's brains with a
pistol-shot, or plants his dagger in his
heart, and that settles the account."

"Well, Albert," inquired Franz of his
companion, "are you still disposed to go
to the Colosseum by the outer wall?"

"Quite so," said Albert, "if the way be
picturesque." The clock struck nine as
the door opened, and a coachman
appeared. "Excellencies," said he, "the
coach is ready."

"Well, then," said Franz, "let us to the
Colosseum."

"By the Porta del Popolo or by the
streets, your excellencies?"

"By the streets, morbleu, by the
streets!" cried Franz.

"Ah, my dear fellow," said Albert,
rising, and lighting his third cigar,
"really, I thought you had more
courage." So saying, the two young men
went down the staircase, and got into
the carriage.



Chapter 34 The Colosseum.

Franz had so managed his route, that
during the ride to the Colosseum they
passed not a single ancient ruin, so
that no preliminary impression
interfered to mitigate the colossal
proportions of the gigantic building
they came to admire. The road selected
was a continuation of the Via Sistina;
then by cutting off the right angle of
the street in which stands Santa Maria
Maggiore and proceeding by the Via
Urbana and San Pietro in Vincoli, the
travellers would find themselves
directly opposite the Colosseum. This
itinerary possessed another great
advantage, -- that of leaving Franz at
full liberty to indulge his deep reverie
upon the subject of Signor Pastrini's
story, in which his mysterious host of
Monte Cristo was so strangely mixed up.
Seated with folded arms in a corner of
the carriage, he continued to ponder
over the singular history he had so
lately listened to, and to ask himself
an interminable number of questions
touching its various circumstances
without, however, arriving at a
satisfactory reply to any of them. One
fact more than the rest brought his
friend "Sinbad the Sailor" back to his
recollection, and that was the
mysterious sort of intimacy that seemed
to exist between the brigands and the
sailors; and Pastrini's account of
Vampa's having found refuge on board the
vessels of smugglers and fishermen,
reminded Franz of the two Corsican
bandits he had found supping so amicably
with the crew of the little yacht, which
had even deviated from its course and
touched at Porto-Vecchio for the sole
purpose of landing them. The very name
assumed by his host of Monte Cristo and
again repeated by the landlord of the
Hotel de Londres, abundantly proved to
him that his island friend was playing
his philanthropic part on the shores of
Piombino, Civita-Vecchio, Ostia, and
Gaeta, as on those of Corsica, Tuscany,
and Spain; and further, Franz bethought
him of having heard his singular
entertainer speak both of Tunis and
Palermo, proving thereby how largely his
circle of acquaintances extended.

But however the mind of the young man
might be absorbed in these reflections,
they were at once dispersed at the sight
of the dark frowning ruins of the
stupendous Colosseum, through the
various openings of which the pale
moonlight played and flickered like the
unearthly gleam from the eyes of the
wandering dead. The carriage stopped
near the Meta Sudans; the door was
opened, and the young men, eagerly
alighting, found themselves opposite a
cicerone, who appeared to have sprung up
from the ground, so unexpected was his
appearance.

The usual guide from the hotel having
followed them, they had paid two
conductors, nor is it possible, at Rome,
to avoid this abundant supply of guides;
besides the ordinary cicerone, who
seizes upon you directly you set foot in
your hotel, and never quits you while
you remain in the city, there is also a
special cicerone belonging to each
monument -- nay, almost to each part of
a monument. It may, therefore, be easily
imagined there is no scarcity of guides
at the Colosseum, that wonder of all
ages, which Martial thus eulogizes: "Let
Memphis cease to boast the barbarous
miracles of her pyramids, and the
wonders of Babylon be talked of no more
among us; all must bow to the
superiority of the gigantic labor of the
Caesars, and the many voices of Fame
spread far and wide the surpassing
merits of this incomparable monument."

As for Albert and Franz, they essayed
not to escape from their ciceronian
tyrants; and, indeed, it would have been
so much the more difficult to break
their bondage, as the guides alone are
permitted to visit these monuments with
torches in their hands. Thus, then, the
young men made no attempt at resistance,
but blindly and confidingly surrendered
themselves into the care and custody of
their conductors. Albert had already
made seven or eight similar excursions
to the Colosseum, while his less favored
companion trod for the first time in his
life the classic ground forming the
monument of Flavius Vespasian; and, to
his credit be it spoken, his mind, even
amid the glib loquacity of the guides,
was duly and deeply touched with awe and
enthusiastic admiration of all he saw;
and certainly no adequate notion of
these stupendous ruins can be formed
save by such as have visited them, and
more especially by moonlight, at which
time the vast proportions of the
building appear twice as large when
viewed by the mysterious beams of a
southern moonlit sky, whose rays are
sufficiently clear and vivid to light
the horizon with a glow equal to the
soft twilight of an eastern clime.
Scarcely, therefore, had the reflective
Franz walked a hundred steps beneath the
interior porticoes of the ruin, than,
abandoning Albert to the guides (who
would by no means yield their
prescriptive right of carrying their
victims through the routine regularly
laid down, and as regularly followed by
them, but dragged the unconscious
visitor to the various objects with a
pertinacity that admitted of no appeal,
beginning, as a matter of course, with
the Lions' Den, and finishing with
Caesar's "Podium,"), to escape a jargon
and mechanical survey of the wonders by
which he was surrounded, Franz ascended
a half-dilapidated staircase, and,
leaving them to follow their monotonous
round, seated himself at the foot of a
column, and immediately opposite a large
aperture, which permitted him to enjoy a
full and undisturbed view of the
gigantic dimensions of the majestic
ruin.

Franz had remained for nearly a quarter
of an hour perfectly hidden by the
shadow of the vast column at whose base
he had found a resting-place, and from
whence his eyes followed the motions of
Albert and his guides, who, holding
torches in their hands, had emerged from
a vomitarium at the opposite extremity
of the Colosseum, and then again
disappeared down the steps conducting to
the seats reserved for the Vestal
virgins, resembling, as they glided
along, some restless shades following
the flickering glare of so many
ignes-fatui. All at once his ear caught
a sound resembling that of a stone
rolling down the staircase opposite the
one by which he had himself ascended.
There was nothing remarkable in the
circumstance of a fragment of granite
giving way and falling heavily below;
but it seemed to him that the substance
that fell gave way beneath the pressure
of a foot, and also that some one, who
endeavored as much as possible to
prevent his footsteps from being heard,
was approaching the spot where he sat.
Conjecture soon became certainty, for
the figure of a man was distinctly
visible to Franz, gradually emerging
from the staircase opposite, upon which
the moon was at that moment pouring a
full tide of silvery brightness.

The stranger thus presenting himself was
probably a person who, like Franz,
preferred the enjoyment of solitude and
his own thoughts to the frivolous gabble
of the guides. And his appearance had
nothing extraordinary in it; but the
hesitation with which he proceeded,
stopping and listening with anxious
attention at every step he took,
convinced Franz that he expected the
arrival of some person. By a sort of
instinctive impulse, Franz withdrew as
much as possible behind his pillar.
About ten feet from the spot where he
and the stranger were, the roof had
given way, leaving a large round
opening, through which might be seen the
blue vault of heaven, thickly studded
with stars. Around this opening, which
had, possibly, for ages permitted a free
entrance to the brilliant moonbeams that
now illumined the vast pile, grew a
quantity of creeping plants, whose
delicate green branches stood out in
bold relief against the clear azure of
the firmament, while large masses of
thick, strong fibrous shoots forced
their way through the chasm, and hung
floating to and fro, like so many waving
strings. The person whose mysterious
arrival had attracted the attention of
Franz stood in a kind of half-light,
that rendered it impossible to
distinguish his features, although his
dress was easily made out. He wore a
large brown mantle, one fold of which,
thrown over his left shoulder, served
likewise to mask the lower part of his
countenance, while the upper part was
completely hidden by his broad-brimmed
hat. The lower part of his dress was
more distinctly visible by the bright
rays of the moon, which, entering
through the broken ceiling, shed their
refulgent beams on feet cased in
elegantly made boots of polished
leather, over which descended
fashionably cut trousers of black cloth.

From the imperfect means Franz had of
judging, he could only come to one
conclusion, -- that the person whom he
was thus watching certainly belonged to
no inferior station of life. Some few
minutes had elapsed, and the stranger
began to show manifest signs of
impatience, when a slight noise was
heard outside the aperture in the roof,
and almost immediately a dark shadow
seemed to obstruct the flood of light
that had entered it, and the figure of a
man was clearly seen gazing with eager
scrutiny on the immense space beneath
him; then, as his eye caught sight of
him in the mantle, he grasped a floating
mass of thickly matted boughs, and
glided down by their help to within
three or four feet of the ground, and
then leaped lightly on his feet. The man
who had performed this daring act with
so much indifference wore the
Transtevere costume. "I beg your
excellency's pardon for keeping you
waiting," said the man, in the Roman
dialect, "but I don't think I'm many
minutes after my time, ten o'clock has
just struck on the Lateran."

"Say not a word about being late,"
replied the stranger in purest Tuscan;
"'tis I who am too soon. But even if you
had caused me to wait a little while, I
should have felt quite sure that the
delay was not occasioned by any fault of
yours."

"Your excellency is perfectly right in
so thinking," said the man; "I came here
direct from the Castle of St. Angelo,
and I had an immense deal of trouble
before I could get a chance to speak to
Beppo."

"And who is Beppo?"

"Oh, Beppo is employed in the prison,
and I give him so much a year to let me
know what is going on within his
holiness's castle."

"Indeed! You are a provident person, I
see."

"Why, you see, no one knows what may
happen. Perhaps some of these days I may
be entrapped, like poor Peppino and may
be very glad to have some little
nibbling mouse to gnaw the meshes of my
net, and so help me out of prison."

"Briefly, what did you glean?"

"That two executions of considerable
interest will take place the day after
to-morrow at two o'clock, as is
customary at Rome at the commencement of
all great festivals. One of the culprits
will be mazzolato;* he is an atrocious
villain, who murdered the priest who
brought him up, and deserves not the
smallest pity. The other sufferer is
sentenced to be decapitato;** and he,
your excellency, is poor Peppino."

* Knocked on the head. ** Beheaded.

"The fact is, that you have inspired not
only the pontifical government, but also
the neighboring states, with such
extreme fear, that they are glad of all
opportunity of making an example."

"But Peppino did not even belong to my
band: he was merely a poor shepherd,
whose only crime consisted in furnishing
us with provisions."

"Which makes him your accomplice to all
intents and purposes. But mark the
distinction with which he is treated;
instead of being knocked on the head as
you would be if once they caught hold of
you, he is simply sentenced to be
guillotined, by which means, too, the
amusements of the day are diversified,
and there is a spectacle to please every
spectator."

"Without reckoning the wholly unexpected
one I am preparing to surprise them
with."

"My good friend," said the man in the
cloak, "excuse me for saying that you
seem to me precisely in the mood to
commit some wild or extravagant act."

"Perhaps I am; but one thing I have
resolved on, and that is, to stop at
nothing to restore a poor devil to
liberty, who has got into this scrape
solely from having served me. I should
hate and despise myself as a coward did
I desert the brave fellow in his present
extremity."

"And what do you mean to do?"

"To surround the scaffold with twenty of
my best men, who, at a signal from me,
will rush forward directly Peppino is
brought for execution, and, by the
assistance of their stilettos, drive
back the guard, and carry off the
prisoner."

"That seems to me as hazardous as
uncertain, and convinces me that my
scheme is far better than yours."

"And what is your excellency's project?"

"Just this. I will so advantageously
bestow 2,000 piastres, that the person
receiving them shall obtain a respite
till next year for Peppino; and during
that year, another skilfully placed
1,000 piastres will afford him the means
of escaping from his prison."

"And do you feel sure of succeeding?"

"Pardieu!" exclaimed the man in the
cloak, suddenly expressing himself in
French.

"What did your excellency say?" inquired
the other.

"I said, my good fellow, that I would do
more single-handed by the means of gold
than you and all your troop could effect
with stilettos, pistols, carbines, and
blunderbusses included. Leave me, then,
to act, and have no fears for the
result."

"At least, there can be no harm in
myself and party being in readiness, in
case your excellency should fail."

"None whatever. Take what precautions
you please, if it is any satisfaction to
you to do so; but rely upon my obtaining
the reprieve I seek."

"Remember, the execution is fixed for
the day after tomorrow, and that you
have but one day to work in."

"And what of that? Is not a day divided
into twenty-four hours, each hour into
sixty minutes, and every minute
sub-divided into sixty seconds? Now in
86,400 seconds very many things can be
done."

"And how shall I know whether your
excellency has succeeded or not."

"Oh, that is very easily arranged. I
have engaged the three lower windows at
the Cafe Rospoli; should I have obtained
the requisite pardon for Peppino, the
two outside windows will be hung with
yellow damasks, and the centre with
white, having a large cross in red
marked on it."

"And whom will you employ to carry the
reprieve to the officer directing the
execution?"

"Send one of your men, disguised as a
penitent friar, and I will give it to
him. His dress will procure him the
means of approaching the scaffold
itself, and he will deliver the official
order to the officer, who, in his turn,
will hand it to the executioner; in the
meantime, it will be as well to acquaint
Peppino with what we have determined on,
if it be only to prevent his dying of
fear or losing his senses, because in
either case a very useless expense will
have been incurred."

"Your excellency," said the man, "you
are fully persuaded of my entire
devotion to you, are you not?"

"Nay, I flatter myself that there can be
no doubt of it," replied the cavalier in
the cloak.

"Well, then, only fulfil your promise of
rescuing Peppino, and henceforward you
shall receive not only devotion, but the
most absolute obedience from myself and
those under me that one human being can
render to another."

"Have a care how far you pledge
yourself, my good friend, for I may
remind you of your promise at some,
perhaps, not very distant period, when
I, in my turn, may require your aid and
influence."

"Let that day come sooner or later, your
excellency will find me what I have
found you in this my heavy trouble; and
if from the other end of the world you
but write me word to do such or such a
thing, you may regard it as done, for
done it shall be, on the word and faith
of" --

"Hush!" interrupted the stranger; "I
hear a noise."

"'Tis some travellers, who are visiting
the Colosseum by torchlight."

"'Twere better we should not be seen
together; those guides are nothing but
spies, and might possibly recognize you;
and, however I may be honored by your
friendship, my worthy friend, if once
the extent of our intimacy were known, I
am sadly afraid both my reputation and
credit would suffer thereby."

"Well, then, if you obtain the
reprieve?"

"The middle window at the Cafe Rospoli
will be hung with white damask, bearing
a red cross."

"And if you fail?"

"Then all three windows will have yellow
draperies."

"And then?"

"And then, my good fellow, use your
daggers in any way you please, and I
further promise you to be there as a
spectator of your prowess."

"We understand each other perfectly,
then. Adieu, your excellency; depend
upon me as firmly as I do upon you."

Saying these words, the Transteverin
disappeared down the staircase, while
his companion, muffling his features
more closely than before in the folds of
his mantle, passed almost close to
Franz, and descended to the arena by an
outward flight of steps. The next minute
Franz heard himself called by Albert,
who made the lofty building re-echo with
the sound of his friend's name. Franz,
however, did not obey the summons till
he had satisfied himself that the two
men whose conversation he had overheard
were at a sufficient distance to prevent
his encountering them in his descent. In
ten minutes after the strangers had
departed, Franz was on the road to the
Piazza de Spagni, listening with studied
indifference to the learned dissertation
delivered by Albert, after the manner of
Pliny and Calpurnius, touching the
iron-pointed nets used to prevent the
ferocious beasts from springing on the
spectators. Franz let him proceed
without interruption, and, in fact, did
not hear what was said; he longed to be
alone, and free to ponder over all that
had occurred. One of the two men, whose
mysterious meeting in the Colosseum he
had so unintentionally witnessed, was an
entire stranger to him, but not so the
other; and though Franz had been unable
to distinguish his features, from his
being either wrapped in his mantle or
obscured by the shadow, the tones of his
voice had made too powerful an
impression on him the first time he had
heard them for him ever again to forget
them, hear them when or where he might.
It was more especially when this man was
speaking in a manner half jesting, half
bitter, that Franz's ear recalled most
vividly the deep sonorous, yet
well-pitched voice that had addressed
him in the grotto of Monte Cristo, and
which he heard for the second time amid
the darkness and ruined grandeur of the
Colosseum. And the more he thought, the
more entire was his conviction, that the
person who wore the mantle was no other
than his former host and entertainer,
"Sinbad the Sailor."

Under any other circumstances, Franz
would have found it impossible to resist
his extreme curiosity to know more of so
singular a personage, and with that
intent have sought to renew their short
acquaintance; but in the present
instance, the confidential nature of the
conversation he had overheard made him,
with propriety, judge that his
appearance at such a time would be
anything but agreeable. As we have seen,
therefore, he permitted his former host
to retire without attempting a
recognition, but fully promising himself
a rich indemnity for his present
forbearance should chance afford him
another opportunity. In vain did Franz
endeavor to forget the many perplexing
thoughts which assailed him; in vain did
he court the refreshment of sleep.
Slumber refused to visit his eyelids and
the night was passed in feverish
contemplation of the chain of
circumstances tending to prove the
identity of the mysterious visitant to
the Colosseum with the inhabitant of the
grotto of Monte Cristo; and the more he
thought, the firmer grew his opinion on
the subject. Worn out at length, he fell
asleep at daybreak, and did not awake
till late. Like a genuine Frenchman,
Albert had employed his time in
arranging for the evening's diversion;
he had sent to engage a box at the
Teatro Argentino; and Franz, having a
number of letters to write, relinquished
the carriage to Albert for the whole of
the day. At five o'clock Albert
returned, delighted with his day's work;
he had been occupied in leaving his
letters of introduction, and had
received in return more invitations to
balls and routs than it would be
possible for him to accept; besides
this, he had seen (as he called it) all
the remarkable sights at Rome. Yes, in a
single day he had accomplished what his
more serious-minded companion would have
taken weeks to effect. Neither had he
neglected to ascertain the name of the
piece to be played that night at the
Teatro Argentino, and also what
performers appeared in it.

The opera of "Parisina" was announced
for representation, and the principal
actors were Coselli, Moriani, and La
Specchia. The young men, therefore, had
reason to consider themselves fortunate
in having the opportunity of hearing one
of the best works by the composer of
"Lucia di Lammermoor," supported by
three of the most renowned vocalists of
Italy. Albert had never been able to
endure the Italian theatres, with their
orchestras from which it is impossible
to see, and the absence of balconies, or
open boxes; all these defects pressed
hard on a man who had had his stall at
the Bouffes, and had shared a lower box
at the Opera. Still, in spite of this,
Albert displayed his most dazzling and
effective costumes each time he visited
the theatres; but, alas, his elegant
toilet was wholly thrown away, and one
of the most worthy representatives of
Parisian fashion had to carry with him
the mortifying reflection that he had
nearly overrun Italy without meeting
with a single adventure.

Sometimes Albert would affect to make a
joke of his want of success; but
internally he was deeply wounded, and
his self-love immensely piqued, to think
that Albert de Morcerf, the most admired
and most sought after of any young
person of his day, should thus be passed
over, and merely have his labor for his
pains. And the thing was so much the
more annoying, as, according to the
characteristic modesty of a Frenchman,
Albert had quitted Paris with the full
conviction that he had only to show
himself in Italy to carry all before
him, and that upon his return he should
astonish the Parisian world with the
recital of his numerous love-affairs.
Alas, poor Albert! none of those
interesting adventures fell in his way;
the lovely Genoese, Florentines, and
Neapolitans were all faithful, if not to
their husbands, at least to their
lovers, and thought not of changing even
for the splendid appearance of Albert de
Morcerf; and all he gained was the
painful conviction that the ladies of
Italy have this advantage over those of
France, that they are faithful even in
their infidelity. Yet he could not
restrain a hope that in Italy, as
elsewhere, there might be an exception
to the general rule. Albert, besides
being an elegant, well-looking young
man, was also possessed of considerable
talent and ability; moreover, he was a
viscount -- a recently created one,
certainly, but in the present day it is
not necessary to go as far back as Noah
in tracing a descent, and a genealogical
tree is equally estimated, whether dated
from 1399 or merely 1815; but to crown
all these advantages, Albert de Morcerf
commanded an income of 50,000 livres, a
more than sufficient sum to render him a
personage of considerable importance in
Paris. It was therefore no small
mortification to him to have visited
most of the principal cities in Italy
without having excited the most trifling
observation. Albert, however, hoped to
indemnify himself for all these slights
and indifferences during the Carnival,
knowing full well that among the
different states and kingdoms in which
this festivity is celebrated, Rome is
the spot where even the wisest and
gravest throw off the usual rigidity of
their lives, and deign to mingle in the
follies of this time of liberty and
relaxation.

The Carnival was to commence on the
morrow; therefore Albert had not an
instant to lose in setting forth the
programme of his hopes, expectations,
and claims to notice. With this design
he had engaged a box in the most
conspicuous part of the theatre, and
exerted himself to set off his personal
attractions by the aid of the most rich
and elaborate toilet. The box taken by
Albert was in the first circle; although
each of the three tiers of boxes is
deemed equally aristocratic, and is, for
this reason, generally styled the
"nobility's boxes," and although the box
engaged for the two friends was
sufficiently capacious to contain at
least a dozen persons, it had cost less
than would be paid at some of the French
theatres for one admitting merely four
occupants. Another motive had influenced
Albert's selection of his seat, -- who
knew but that, thus advantageously
placed, he might not in truth attract
the notice of some fair Roman, and an
introduction might ensue that would
procure him the offer of a seat in a
carriage, or a place in a princely
balcony, from which he might behold the
gayeties of the Carnival? These united
considerations made Albert more lively
and anxious to please than he had
hitherto been. Totally disregarding the
business of the stage, he leaned from
his box and began attentively
scrutinizing the beauty of each pretty
woman, aided by a powerful opera-glass;
but, alas, this attempt to attract
notice wholly failed; not even curiosity
had been excited, and it was but too
apparent that the lovely creatures, into
whose good graces he was desirous of
stealing, were all so much engrossed
with themselves, their lovers, or their
own thoughts, that they had not so much
as noticed him or the manipulation of
his glass.

The truth was, that the anticipated
pleasures of the Carnival, with the
"holy week" that was to succeed it, so
filled every fair breast, as to prevent
the least attention being bestowed even
on the business of the stage. The actors
made their entries and exits unobserved
or unthought of; at certain conventional
moments, the spectators would suddenly
cease their conversation, or rouse
themselves from their musings, to listen
to some brilliant effort of Moriani's, a
well-executed recitative by Coselli, or
to join in loud applause at the
wonderful powers of La Specchia; but
that momentary excitement over, they
quickly relapsed into their former state
of preoccupation or interesting
conversation. Towards the close of the
first act, the door of a box which had
been hitherto vacant was opened; a lady
entered to whom Franz had been
introduced in Paris, where indeed, he
had imagined she still was. The quick
eye of Albert caught the involuntary
start with which his friend beheld the
new arrival, and, turning to him, he
said hastily, "Do you know the woman who
has just entered that box?"

"Yes; what do you think of her?"

"Oh, she is perfectly lovely -- what a
complexion! And such magnificent hair!
Is she French?"

"No; a Venetian."

"And her name is -- "

"Countess G---- ."

"Ah, I know her by name!" exclaimed
Albert; "she is said to possess as much
wit and cleverness as beauty. I was to
have been presented to her when I met
her at Madame Villefort's ball."

"Shall I assist you in repairing your
negligence?" asked Franz.

"My dear fellow, are you really on such
good terms with her as to venture to
take me to her box?"

"Why, I have only had the honor of being
in her society and conversing with her
three or four times in my life; but you
know that even such an acquaintance as
that might warrant my doing what you
ask." At that instant, the countess
perceived Franz, and graciously waved
her hand to him, to which he replied by
a respectful inclination of the head.
"Upon my word," said Albert, "you seem
to be on excellent terms with the
beautiful countess."

"You are mistaken in thinking so,"
returned Franz calmly; "but you merely
fall into the same error which leads so
many of our countrymen to commit the
most egregious blunders, -- I mean that
of judging the habits and customs of
Italy and Spain by our Parisian notions;
believe me, nothing is more fallacious
than to form any estimate of the degree
of intimacy you may suppose existing
among persons by the familiar terms they
seem upon; there is a similarity of
feeling at this instant between
ourselves and the countess -- nothing
more."

"Is there, indeed, my good fellow? Pray
tell me, is it sympathy of heart?"

"No; of taste," continued Franz gravely.

"And in what manner has this
congeniality of mind been evinced?"

"By the countess's visiting the
Colosseum, as we did last night, by
moonlight, and nearly alone."

"You were with her, then?"

"I was."

"And what did you say to her?"

"Oh, we talked of the illustrious dead
of whom that magnificent ruin is a
glorious monument!"

"Upon my word," cried Albert, "you must
have been a very entertaining companion
alone, or all but alone, with a
beautiful woman in such a place of
sentiment as the Colosseum, and yet to
find nothing better to talk about than
the dead! All I can say is, if ever I
should get such a chance, the living
should be my theme."

"And you will probably find your theme
ill-chosen."

"But," said Albert, breaking in upon his
discourse, "never mind the past; let us
only remember the present. Are you not
going to keep your promise of
introducing me to the fair subject of
our remarks?"

"Certainly, directly the curtain falls
on the stage."

"What a confounded time this first act
takes. I believe, on my soul, that they
never mean to finish it."

"Oh, yes, they will; only listen to that
charming finale. How exquisitely Coselli
sings his part."

"But what an awkward, inelegant fellow
he is."

"Well, then, what do you say to La
Specchia? Did you ever see anything more
perfect than her acting?"

"Why, you know, my dear fellow, when one
has been accustomed to Malibran and
Sontag, such singers as these don't make
the same impression on you they perhaps
do on others."

"At least, you must admire Moriani's
style and execution."

"I never fancied men of his dark,
ponderous appearance singing with a
voice like a woman's."

"My good friend," said Franz, turning to
him, while Albert continued to point his
glass at every box in the theatre, "you
seem determined not to approve; you are
really too difficult to please." The
curtain at length fell on the
performances, to the infinite
satisfaction of the Viscount of Morcerf,
who seized his hat, rapidly passed his
fingers through his hair, arranged his
cravat and wristbands, and signified to
Franz that he was waiting for him to
lead the way. Franz, who had mutely
interrogated the countess, and received
from her a gracious smile in token that
he would be welcome, sought not to
retard the gratification of Albert's
eager impatience, but began at once the
tour of the house, closely followed by
Albert, who availed himself of the few
minutes required to reach the opposite
side of the theatre to settle the height
and smoothness of his collar, and to
arrange the lappets of his coat. This
important task was just completed as
they arrived at the countess's box. At
the knock, the door was immediately
opened, and the young man who was seated
beside the countess, in obedience to the
Italian custom, instantly rose and
surrendered his place to the strangers,
who, in turn, would be expected to
retire upon the arrival of other
visitors.

Franz presented Albert as one of the
most distinguished young men of the day,
both as regarded his position in society
and extraordinary talents; nor did he
say more than the truth, for in Paris
and the circle in which the viscount
moved, he was looked upon and cited as a
model of perfection. Franz added that
his companion, deeply grieved at having
been prevented the honor of being
presented to the countess during her
sojourn in Paris, was most anxious to
make up for it, and had requested him
(Franz) to remedy the past misfortune by
conducting him to her box, and concluded
by asking pardon for his presumption in
having taken it upon himself to do so.
The countess, in reply, bowed gracefully
to Albert, and extended her hand with
cordial kindness to Franz; then,
inviting Albert to take the vacant seat
beside her, she recommended Franz to
take the next best, if he wished to view
the ballet, and pointed to the one
behind her own chair. Albert was soon
deeply engrossed in discoursing upon
Paris and Parisian matters, speaking to
the countess of the various persons they
both knew there. Franz perceived how
completely he was in his element; and,
unwilling to interfere with the pleasure
he so evidently felt, took up Albert's
glass, and began in his turn to survey
the audience. Sitting alone, in the
front of a box immediately opposite, but
situated on the third row, was a woman
of exquisite beauty, dressed in a Greek
costume, which evidently, from the ease
and grace with which she wore it, was
her national attire. Behind her, but in
deep shadow, was the outline of a
masculine figure; but the features of
this latter personage it was not
possible to distinguish. Franz could not
forbear breaking in upon the apparently
interesting conversation passing between
the countess and Albert, to inquire of
the former if she knew who was the fair
Albanian opposite, since beauty such as
hers was well worthy of being observed
by either sex. "All I can tell about
her," replied the countess, "is, that
she has been at Rome since the beginning
of the season; for I saw her where she
now sits the very first night of the
season, and since then she has never
missed a performance. Sometimes she is
accompanied by the person who is now
with her, and at others she is merely
attended by a black servant."

"And what do you think of her personal
appearance?"

"Oh, I consider her perfectly lovely --
she is just my idea of what Medora must
have been."

Franz and the countess exchanged a
smile, and then the latter resumed her
conversation with Albert, while Franz
returned to his previous survey of the
house and company. The curtain rose on
the ballet, which was one of those
excellent specimens of the Italian
school, admirably arranged and put on
the stage by Henri, who has established
for himself a great reputation
throughout Italy for his taste and skill
in the choregraphic art -- one of those
masterly productions of grace, method,
and elegance in which the whole corps de
ballet, from the principal dancers to
the humblest supernumerary, are all
engaged on the stage at the same time;
and a hundred and fifty persons may be
seen exhibiting the same attitude, or
elevating the same arm or leg with a
simultaneous movement, that would lead
you to suppose that but one mind, one
act of volition, influenced the moving
mass -- the ballet was called "Poliska."
However much the ballet might have
claimed his attention, Franz was too
deeply occupied with the beautiful Greek
to take any note of it; while she seemed
to experience an almost childlike
delight in watching it, her eager,
animated looks contrasting strongly with
the utter indifference of her companion,
who, during the whole time the piece
lasted, never even moved, not even when
the furious, crashing din produced by
the trumpets, cymbals, and Chinese bells
sounded their loudest from the
orchestra. Of this he took no heed, but
was, as far as appearances might be
trusted, enjoying soft repose and bright
celestial dreams. The ballet at length
came to a close, and the curtain fell
amid the loud, unanimous plaudits of an
enthusiastic and delighted audience.

Owing to the very judicious plan of
dividing the two acts of the opera with
a ballet, the pauses between the
performances are very short, the singers
in the opera having time to repose
themselves and change their costume,
when necessary, while the dancers are
executing their pirouettes and
exhibiting their graceful steps. The
overture to the second act began; and,
at the first sound of the leader's bow
across his violin, Franz observed the
sleeper slowly arise and approach the
Greek girl, who turned around to say a
few words to him, and then, leaning
forward again on the railing of her box,
she became as absorbed as before in what
was going on. The countenance of the
person who had addressed her remained so
completely in the shade, that, though
Franz tried his utmost, he could not
distinguish a single feature. The
curtain rose, and the attention of Franz
was attracted by the actors; and his
eyes turned from the box containing the
Greek girl and her strange companion to
watch the business of the stage.

Most of my readers are aware that the
second act of "Parisina" opens with the
celebrated and effective duet in which
Parisina, while sleeping, betrays to
Azzo the secret of her love for Ugo. The
injured husband goes through all the
emotions of jealousy, until conviction
seizes on his mind, and then, in a
frenzy of rage and indignation, he
awakens his guilty wife to tell her that
he knows her guilt and to threaten her
with his vengeance. This duet is one of
the most beautiful, expressive and
terrible conceptions that has ever
emanated from the fruitful pen of
Donizetti. Franz now listened to it for
the third time; yet it's notes, so
tenderly expressive and fearfully grand
as the wretched husband and wife give
vent to their different griefs and
passions, thrilled through the soul of
Franz with an effect equal to his first
emotions upon hearing it. Excited beyond
his usual calm demeanor, Franz rose with
the audience, and was about to join the
loud, enthusiastic applause that
followed; but suddenly his purpose was
arrested, his hands fell by his sides,
and the half-uttered "bravos" expired on
his lips. The occupant of the box in
which the Greek girl sat appeared to
share the universal admiration that
prevailed; for he left his seat to stand
up in front, so that, his countenance
being fully revealed, Franz had no
difficulty in recognizing him as the
mysterious inhabitant of Monte Cristo,
and the very same person he had
encountered the preceding evening in the
ruins of the Colosseum, and whose voice
and figure had seemed so familiar to
him. All doubt of his identity was now
at an end; his singular host evidently
resided at Rome. The surprise and
agitation occasioned by this full
confirmation of Franz's former suspicion
had no doubt imparted a corresponding
expression to his features; for the
countess, after gazing with a puzzled
look at his face, burst into a fit of
laughter, and begged to know what had
happened. "Countess," returned Franz,
totally unheeding her raillery, "I asked
you a short time since if you knew any
particulars respecting the Albanian lady
opposite; I must now beseech you to
inform me who and what is her husband?"

"Nay," answered the countess, "I know no
more of him than yourself."

"Perhaps you never before noticed him?"

"What a question -- so truly French! Do
you not know that we Italians have eyes
only for the man we love?"

"True," replied Franz.

"All I call say is," continued the
countess, taking up the lorgnette, and
directing it toward the box in question,
"that the gentleman, whose history I am
unable to furnish, seems to me as though
he had just been dug up; he looks more
like a corpse permitted by some friendly
grave-digger to quit his tomb for a
while, and revisit this earth of ours,
than anything human. How ghastly pale he
is!"

"Oh, he is always as colorless as you
now see him," said Franz.

"Then you know him?" almost screamed the
countess. "Oh, pray do, for heaven's
sake, tell us all about -- is he a
vampire, or a resuscitated corpse, or
what?"

"I fancy I have seen him before; and I
even think he recognizes me."

"And I can well understand," said the
countess, shrugging up her beautiful
shoulders, as though an involuntary
shudder passed through her veins, "that
those who have once seen that man will
never be likely to forget him." The
sensation experienced by Franz was
evidently not peculiar to himself;
another, and wholly uninterested person,
felt the same unaccountable awe and
misgiving. "Well." inquired Franz, after
the countess had a second time directed
her lorgnette at the box, "what do you
think of our opposite neighbor?"

"Why, that he is no other than Lord
Ruthven himself in a living form." This
fresh allusion to Byron* drew a smile to
Franz's countenance; although he could
but allow that if anything was likely to
induce belief in the existence of
vampires, it would be the presence of
such a man as the mysterious personage
before him.

"I must positively find out who and what
he is," said Franz, rising from his
seat.

"No, no," cried the countess; "you must
not leave me. I depend upon you to
escort me home. Oh, indeed, I cannot
permit you to go."

* Scott, of course: "The son of an
ill-fated sire, and the father of a yet
more unfortunate family, bore in his
looks that cast of inauspicious
melancholy by which the physiognomists
of that time pretended to distinguish
those who were predestined to a violent
and unhappy death." -- The Abbot, ch.
xxii.

"Is it possible," whispered Franz, "that
you entertain any fear?"

"I'll tell you," answered the countess.
"Byron had the most perfect belief in
the existence of vampires, and even
assured me that he had seen them. The
description he gave me perfectly
corresponds with the features and
character of the man before us. Oh, he
is the exact personification of what I
have been led to expect! The coal-black
hair, large bright, glittering eyes, in
which a wild, unearthly fire seems
burning, -- the same ghastly paleness.
Then observe, too, that the woman with
him is altogether unlike all others of
her sex. She is a foreigner -- a
stranger. Nobody knows who she is, or
where she comes from. No doubt she
belongs to the same horrible race he
does, and is, like himself, a dealer in
magical arts. I entreat of you not to go
near him -- at least to-night; and if
to-morrow your curiosity still continues
as great, pursue your researches if you
will; but to-night you neither can nor
shall. For that purpose I mean to keep
you all to myself." Franz protested he
could not defer his pursuit till the
following day, for many reasons. "Listen
to me," said the countess, "and do not
be so very headstrong. I am going home.
I have a party at my house to-night, and
therefore cannot possibly remain till
the end of the opera. Now, I cannot for
one instant believe you so devoid of
gallantry as to refuse a lady your
escort when she even condescends to ask
you for it."

There was nothing else left for Franz to
do but to take up his hat, open the door
of the box, and offer the countess his
arm. It was quite evident, by her
manner, that her uneasiness was not
feigned; and Franz himself could not
resist a feeling of superstitious
dread -- so much the stronger in him, as
it arose from a variety of corroborative
recollections, while the terror of the
countess sprang from an instinctive
belief, originally created in her mind
by the wild tales she had listened to
till she believed them truths. Franz
could even feel her arm tremble as he
assisted her into the carriage. Upon
arriving at her hotel, Franz perceived
that she had deceived him when she spoke
of expecting company; on the contrary,
her own return before the appointed hour
seemed greatly to astonish the servants.
"Excuse my little subterfuge," said the
countess, in reply to her companion's
half-reproachful observation on the
subject; "but that horrid man had made
me feel quite uncomfortable, and I
longed to be alone, that I might compose
my startled mind." Franz essayed to
smile. "Nay," said she, "do not smile;
it ill accords with the expression of
your countenance, and I am sure it does
not spring from your heart. however,
promise me one thing."

"What is it?"

"Promise me, I say."

"I will do anything you desire, except
relinquish my determination of finding
out who this man is. I have more reasons
than you can imagine for desiring to
know who he is, from whence he came, and
whither he is going."

"Where he comes from I am ignorant; but
I can readily tell you where he is going
to, and that is down below, without the
least doubt."

"Let us only speak of the promise you
wished me to make," said Franz.

"Well, then, you must give me your word
to return immediately to your hotel, and
make no attempt to follow this man
to-night. There are certain affinities
between the persons we quit and those we
meet afterwards. For heaven's sake, do
not serve as a conductor between that
man and me. Pursue your chase after him
to-morrow as eagerly as you please; but
never bring him near me, if you would
not see me die of terror. And now,
good-night; go to your rooms, and try to
sleep away all recollections of this
evening. For my own part, I am quite
sure I shall not be able to close my
eyes." So saying, the countess quitted
Franz, leaving him unable to decide
whether she were merely amusing herself
at his expense, or whether her fears and
agitations were genuine.

Upon his return to the hotel, Franz
found Albert in his dressing-gown and
slippers, listlessly extended on a sofa,
smoking a cigar. "My dear fellow." cried
he, springing up, "is it really you?
Why, I did not expect to see you before
to-morrow."

"My dear Albert," replied Franz, "I am
glad of this opportunity to tell you,
once and forever, that you entertain a
most erroneous notion concerning Italian
women. I should have thought the
continual failures you have met with in
all your own love affairs might have
taught you better by this time."

"Upon my soul, these women would puzzle
the very Devil to read them aright. Why,
here -- they give you their hand -- they
press yours in return -- they keep up a
whispering conversation -- permit you to
accompany them home. Why, if a Parisian
were to indulge in a quarter of these
marks of flattering attention, her
reputation would be gone forever."

"And the very reason why the women of
this fine country put so little
restraint on their words and actions, is
because they live so much in public, and
have really nothing to conceal. Besides,
you must have perceived that the
countess was really alarmed."

"At what? At the sight of that
respectable gentleman sitting opposite
to us in the same box with the lovely
Greek girl? Now, for my part, I met them
in the lobby after the conclusion of the
piece; and hang me, if I can guess where
you took your notions of the other world
from. I can assure you that this
hobgoblin of yours is a deuced
fine-looking fellow -- admirably
dressed. Indeed, I feel quite sure, from
the cut of his clothes, they are made by
a first-rate Paris tailor -- probably
Blin or Humann. He was rather too pale,
certainly; but then, you know, paleness
is always looked upon as a strong proof
of aristocratic descent and
distinguished breeding." Franz smiled;
for he well remembered that Albert
particularly prided himself on the
entire absence of color in his own
complexion.

"Well, that tends to confirm my own
ideas," said Franz, "that the countess's
suspicions were destitute alike of sense
and reason. Did he speak in your
hearing? and did you catch any of his
words?"

"I did; but they were uttered in the
Romaic dialect. I knew that from the
mixture of Greek words. I don't know
whether I ever told you that when I was
at college I was rather -- rather strong
in Greek."

"He spoke the Romaic language, did he?"

"I think so."

"That settles it," murmured Franz. "'Tis
he, past all doubt."

"What do you say?"

"Nothing, nothing. But tell me, what
were you thinking about when I came in?"

"Oh, I was arranging a little surprise
for you."

"Indeed. Of what nature?"

"Why, you know it is quite impossible to
procure a carriage."

"Certainly; and I also know that we have
done all that human means afforded to
endeavor to get one."

"Now, then, in this difficulty a bright
idea has flashed across my brain." Franz
looked at Albert as though he had not
much confidence in the suggestions of
his imagination. "I tell you what, Sir
Franz," cried Albert, "you deserve to be
called out for such a misgiving and
incredulous glance as that you were
pleased to bestow on me just now."

"And I promise to give you the
satisfaction of a gentleman if your
scheme turns out as ingenious as you
assert."

"Well, then, hearken to me."

"I listen."

"You agree, do you not, that obtaining a
carriage is out of the question?"

"I do."

"Neither can we procure horses?"

"True; we have offered any sum, but have
failed."

"Well, now, what do you say to a cart? I
dare say such a thing might be had."

"Very possibly."

"And a pair of oxen?"

"As easily found as the cart."

"Then you see, my good fellow, with a
cart and a couple of oxen our business
can be managed. The cart must be
tastefully ornamented; and if you and I
dress ourselves as Neapolitan reapers,
we may get up a striking tableau, after
the manner of that splendid picture by
Leopold Robert. It would add greatly to
the effect if the countess would join us
in the costume of a peasant from Puzzoli
or Sorrento. Our group would then be
quite complete, more especially as the
countess is quite beautiful enough to
represent a madonna."

"Well," said Franz, "this time, Albert,
I am bound to give you credit for having
hit upon a most capital idea."

"And quite a national one, too," replied
Albert with gratified pride. "A mere
masque borrowed from our own
festivities. Ha, ha, ye Romans! you
thought to make us, unhappy strangers,
trot at the heels of your processions,
like so many lazzaroni, because no
carriages or horses are to be had in
your beggarly city. But you don't know
us; when we can't have one thing we
invent another."

"And have you communicated your
triumphant idea to anybody?"

"Only to our host. Upon my return home I
sent for him, and I then explained to
him what I wished to procure. He assured
me that nothing would be easier than to
furnish all I desired. One thing I was
sorry for; when I bade him have the
horns of the oxen gilded, he told me
there would not be time, as it would
require three days to do that; so you
see we must do without this little
superfluity."

"And where is he now?"

"Who?"

"Our host."

"Gone out in search of our equipage, by
to-morrow it might be too late."

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

"Oh, I expect him every minute." At this
instant the door opened, and the head of
Signor Pastrini appeared. "Permesso?"
inquired he.

"Certainly -- certainly," cried Franz.
"Come in, mine host."

"Now, then," asked Albert eagerly, "have
you found the desired cart and oxen?"

"Better than that!" replied Signor
Pastrini, with the air of a man
perfectly well satisfied with himself.

"Take care, my worthy host," said
Albert, "better is a sure enemy to
well."

"Let your excellencies only leave the
matter to me," returned Signor Pastrini
in a tone indicative of unbounded
self-confidence.

"But what have you done?" asked Franz.
"Speak out, there's a worthy fellow."

"Your excellencies are aware," responded
the landlord, swelling with importance,
"that the Count of Monte Cristo is
living on the same floor with
yourselves!"

"I should think we did know it,"
exclaimed Albert, "since it is owing to
that circumstance that we are packed
into these small rooms, like two poor
students in the back streets of Paris."

"When, then, the Count of Monte Cristo,
hearing of the dilemma in which you are
placed, has sent to offer you seats in
his carriage and two places at his
windows in the Palazzo Rospoli." The
friends looked at each other with
unutterable surprise.

"But do you think," asked Albert, "that
we ought to accept such offers from a
perfect stranger?"

"What sort of person is this Count of
Monte Cristo?" asked Franz of his host.
"A very great nobleman, but whether
Maltese or Sicilian I cannot exactly
say; but this I know, that he is noble
as a Borghese and rich as a gold-mine."

"It seems to me," said Franz, speaking
in an undertone to Albert, "that if this
person merited the high panegyrics of
our landlord, he would have conveyed his
invitation through another channel, and
not permitted it to be brought to us in
this unceremonious way. He would have
written -- or" --

At this instant some one knocked at the
door. "Come in," said Franz. A servant,
wearing a livery of considerable style
and richness, appeared at the threshold,
and, placing two cards in the landlord's
hands, who forthwith presented them to
the two young men, he said, "Please to
deliver these, from the Count of Monte
Cristo to Viscomte Albert de Morcerf and
M. Franz d'Epinay. The Count of Monte
Cristo," continued the servant, "begs
these gentlemen's permission to wait
upon them as their neighbor, and he will
be honored by an intimation of what time
they will please to receive him."

"Faith, Franz," whispered Albert, "there
is not much to find fault with here."

"Tell the count," replied Franz, "that
we will do ourselves the pleasure of
calling on him." The servant bowed and
retired.

"That is what I call an elegant mode of
attack," said Albert, "You were quite
correct in what you said, Signor
Pastrini. The Count of Monte Cristo is
unquestionably a man of first-rate
breeding and knowledge of the world."

"Then you accept his offer?" said the
host.

"Of course we do," replied Albert.
"Still, I must own I am sorry to be
obliged to give up the cart and the
group of reapers -- it would have
produced such an effect! And were it not
for the windows at the Palazzo Rospoli,
by way of recompense for the loss of our
beautiful scheme, I don't know but what
I should have held on by my original
plan. What say you, Franz?"

"Oh, I agree with you; the windows in
the Palazzo Rospoli alone decided me."
The truth was, that the mention of two
places in the Palazzo Rospoli had
recalled to Franz the conversation he
had overheard the preceding evening in
the ruins of the Colosseum between the
mysterious unknown and the Transteverin,
in which the stranger in the cloak had
undertaken to obtain the freedom of a
condemned criminal; and if this
muffled-up individual proved (as Franz
felt sure he would) the same as the
person he had just seen in the Teatro
Argentino, then he should be able to
establish his identity, and also to
prosecute his researches respecting him
with perfect facility and freedom. Franz
passed the night in confused dreams
respecting the two meetings he had
already had with his mysterious
tormentor, and in waking speculations as
to what the morrow would produce. The
next day must clear up every doubt; and
unless his near neighbor and would-be
friend, the Count of Monte Cristo,
possessed the ring of Gyges, and by its
power was able to render himself
invisible, it was very certain he could
not escape this time. Eight o'clock
found Franz up and dressed, while
Albert, who had not the same motives for
early rising, was still soundly asleep.
The first act of Franz was to summon his
landlord, who presented himself with his
accustomed obsequiousness.

"Pray, Signor Pastrini," asked Franz,
"is not some execution appointed to take
place to-day?"

"Yes, your excellency; but if your
reason for inquiry is that you may
procure a window to view it from, you
are much too late."

"Oh, no," answered Franz, "I had no such
intention; and even if I had felt a wish
to witness the spectacle, I might have
done so from Monte Pincio -- could I
not?"

"Ah!" exclaimed mine host, "I did not
think it likely your excellency would
have chosen to mingle with such a rabble
as are always collected on that hill,
which, indeed, they consider as
exclusively belonging to themselves."

"Very possibly I may not go," answered
Franz; "but in case I feel disposed,
give me some particulars of to-day's
executions."

"What particulars would your excellency
like to hear?"

"Why, the number of persons condemned to
suffer, their names, and description of
the death they are to die."

"That happens just lucky, your
excellency! Only a few minutes ago they
brought me the tavolettas."

"What are they?"

"Sort of wooden tablets hung up at the
corners of streets the evening before an
execution, on which is pasted up a paper
containing the names of the condemned
persons, their crimes, and mode of
punishment. The reason for so publicly
announcing all this is, that all good
and faithful Catholics may offer up
their prayers for the unfortunate
culprits, and, above all, beseech of
heaven to grant them a sincere
repentance."

"And these tablets are brought to you
that you may add your prayers to those
of the faithful, are they?" asked Franz
somewhat incredulously.

"Oh, dear, no, your excellency! I have
not time for anybody's affairs but my
own and those of my honorable guests;
but I make an agreement with the man who
pastes up the papers, and he brings them
to me as he would the playbills, that in
case any person staying at my hotel
should like to witness an execution, he
may obtain every requisite information
concerning the time and place etc."

"Upon my word, that is a most delicate
attention on your part, Signor
Pastrini," cried Franz.

"Why, your excellency," returned the
landlord, chuckling and rubbing his
hands with infinite complacency, "I
think I may take upon myself to say I
neglect nothing to deserve the support
and patronage of the noble visitors to
this poor hotel."

"I see that plainly enough, my most
excellent host, and you may rely upon me
to proclaim so striking a proof of your
attention to your guests wherever I go.
Meanwhile, oblige me by a sight of one
of these tavolettas."

"Nothing can be easier than to comply
with your excellency's wish," said the
landlord, opening the door of the
chamber; "I have caused one to be placed
on the landing, close by your
apartment." Then, taking the tablet from
the wall, he handed it to Franz, who
read as follows: --

"`The public is informed that on
Wednesday, February 23d, being the first
day of the Carnival, executions will
take place in the Piazza del Popolo, by
order of the Tribunal of the Rota, of
two persons, named Andrea Rondola, and
Peppino, otherwise called Rocca Priori;
the former found guilty of the murder of
a venerable and exemplary priest, named
Don Cesare Torlini, canon of the church
of St. John Lateran; and the latter
convicted of being an accomplice of the
atrocious and sanguinary bandit, Luigi
Vampa, and his band. The first-named
malefactor will be subjected to the
mazzuola, the second culprit beheaded.
The prayers of all good Christians are
entreated for these unfortunate men,
that it may please God to awaken them to
a sense of their guilt, and to grant
them a hearty and sincere repentance for
their crimes.'"

This was precisely what Franz had heard
the evening before in the ruins of the
Colosseum. No part of the programme
differed, -- the names of the condemned
persons, their crimes, and mode of
punishment, all agreed with his previous
information. In all probability,
therefore, the Transteverin was no other
than the bandit Luigi Vampa himself, and
the man shrouded in the mantle the same
he had known as "Sinbad the Sailor," but
who, no doubt, was still pursuing his
philanthropic expedition in Rome, as he
had already done at Porto-Vecchio and
Tunis. Time was getting on, however, and
Franz deemed it advisable to awaken
Albert; but at the moment he prepared to
proceed to his chamber, his friend
entered the room in perfect costume for
the day. The anticipated delights of the
Carnival had so run in his head as to
make him leave his pillow long before
his usual hour. "Now, my excellent
Signor Pastrini," said Franz, addressing
his landlord, "since we are both ready,
do you think we may proceed at once to
visit the Count of Monte Cristo?"

"Most assuredly," replied he. "The Count
of Monte Cristo is always an early
riser; and I can answer for his having
been up these two hours."

"Then you really consider we shall not
be intruding if we pay our respects to
him directly?"

"Oh, I am quite sure. I will take all
the blame on myself if you find I have
led you into an error."

"Well, then, if it be so, are you ready,
Albert?"

"Perfectly."

"Let us go and return our best thanks
for his courtesy."

"Yes, let us do so." The landlord
preceded the friends across the landing,
which was all that separated them from
the apartments of the count, rang at the
bell, and, upon the door being opened by
a servant, said, "I signori Francesi."

The domestic bowed respectfully, and
invited them to enter. They passed
through two rooms, furnished in a
luxurious manner they had not expected
to see under the roof of Signor
Pastrini, and were shown into an
elegantly fitted-up drawing-room. The
richest Turkey carpets covered the
floor, and the softest and most inviting
couches, easy-chairs, and sofas, offered
their high-piled and yielding cushions
to such as desired repose or
refreshment. Splendid paintings by the
first masters were ranged against the
walls, intermingled with magnificent
trophies of war, while heavy curtains of
costly tapestry were suspended before
the different doors of the room. "If
your excellencies will please to be
seated," said the man, "I will let the
count know that you are here."

And with these words he disappeared
behind one of the tapestried portieres.
As the door opened, the sound of a guzla
reached the ears of the young men, but
was almost immediately lost, for the
rapid closing of the door merely allowed
one rich swell of harmony to enter.
Franz and Albert looked inquiringly at
each other, then at the gorgeous
furnishings of the apartment. Everything
seemed more magnificent at a second view
than it had done at their first rapid
survey.

"Well," said Franz to his friend, "what
think you of all this?"

"Why, upon my soul, my dear fellow, it
strikes me that our elegant and
attentive neighbor must either be some
successful stock-jobber who has
speculated in the fall of the Spanish
funds, or some prince travelling incog."

"Hush, hush!" replied Franz; "we shall
ascertain who and what he is -- he
comes!" As Franz spoke, he heard the
sound of a door turning on its hinges,
and almost immediately afterwards the
tapestry was drawn aside, and the owner
of all these riches stood before the two
young men. Albert instantly rose to meet
him, but Franz remained, in a manner,
spellbound on his chair; for in the
person of him who had just entered he
recognized not only the mysterious
visitant to the Colosseum, and the
occupant of the box at the Teatro
Argentino, but also his extraordinary
host of Monte Cristo.



Chapter 35 La Mazzolata.

"Gentlemen," said the Count of Monte
Cristo as he entered, "I pray you excuse
me for suffering my visit to be
anticipated; but I feared to disturb you
by presenting myself earlier at your
apartments; besides, you sent me word
that you would come to me, and I have
held myself at your disposal."

"Franz and I have to thank you a
thousand times, count," returned Albert;
"you extricated us from a great dilemma,
and we were on the point of inventing a
very fantastic vehicle when your
friendly invitation reached us."

"Indeed," returned the count, motioning
the two young men to sit down. "It was
the fault of that blockhead Pastrini,
that I did not sooner assist you in your
distress. He did not mention a syllable
of your embarrassment to me, when he
knows that, alone and isolated as I am,
I seek every opportunity of making the
acquaintance of my neighbors. As soon as
I learned I could in any way assist you,
I most eagerly seized the opportunity of
offering my services." The two young men
bowed. Franz had, as yet, found nothing
to say; he had come to no determination,
and as nothing in the count's manner
manifested the wish that he should
recognize him, he did not know whether
to make any allusion to the past, or
wait until he had more proof; besides,
although sure it was he who had been in
the box the previous evening, he could
not be equally positive that this was
the man he had seen at the Colosseum. He
resolved, therefore, to let things take
their course without making any direct
overture to the count. Moreover, he had
this advantage, he was master of the
count's secret, while the count had no
hold on Franz, who had nothing to
conceal. However, he resolved to lead
the conversation to a subject which
might possibly clear up his doubts.

"Count," said he, "you have offered us
places in your carriage, and at your
windows in the Rospoli Palace. Can you
tell us where we can obtain a sight of
the Piazza del Popolo?"

"Ah," said the count negligently,
looking attentively at Morcerf, "is
there not something like an execution
upon the Piazza del Popolo?"

"Yes," returned Franz, finding that the
count was coming to the point he wished.

"Stay, I think I told my steward
yesterday to attend to this; perhaps I
can render you this slight service
also." He extended his hand, and rang
the bell thrice. "Did you ever occupy
yourself," said he to Franz, "with the
employment of time and the means of
simplifying the summoning your servants?
I have. When I ring once, it is for my
valet; twice, for my majordomo; thrice,
for my steward, -- thus I do not waste a
minute or a word. Here he is." A man of
about forty-five or fifty entered,
exactly resembling the smuggler who had
introduced Franz into the cavern; but he
did not appear to recognize him. It was
evident he had his orders. "Monsieur
Bertuccio," said the count, "you have
procured me windows looking on the
Piazza del Popolo, as I ordered you
yesterday "

"Yes, excellency," returned the steward;
"but it was very late."

"Did I not tell you I wished for one?"
replied the count, frowning.

"And your excellency has one, which was
let to Prince Lobanieff; but I was
obliged to pay a hundred" --

"That will do -- that will do, Monsieur
Bertuccio; spare these gentlemen all
such domestic arrangements. You have the
window, that is sufficient. Give orders
to the coachman; and be in readiness on
the stairs to conduct us to it." The
steward bowed, and was about to quit the
room. "Ah," continued the count, "be
good enough to ask Pastrini if he has
received the tavoletta, and if he can
send us an account of the execution."

"There is no need to do that," said
Franz, taking out his tablets; "for I
saw the account, and copied it down."

"Very well, you can retire, M.
Bertuccio; but let us know when
breakfast is ready. These gentlemen,"
added he, turning to the two friends,
"will, I trust, do me the honor to
breakfast with me?"

"But, my dear count," said Albert, "we
shall abuse your kindness."

"Not at all; on the contrary, you will
give me great pleasure. You will, one or
other of you, perhaps both, return it to
me at Paris. M. Bertuccio, lay covers
for three." He then took Franz's tablets
out of his hand. "`We announce,' he
read, in the same tone with which he
would have read a newspaper, `that
to-day, the 23d of February, will be
executed Andrea Rondolo, guilty of
murder on the person of the respected
and venerated Don Cesare Torlini, canon
of the church of St. John Lateran, and
Peppino, called Rocca Priori, convicted
of complicity with the detestable bandit
Luigi Vampa, and the men of his band.'
Hum! `The first will be mazzolato, the
second decapitato.' Yes," continued the
count, "it was at first arranged in this
way; but I think since yesterday some
change has taken place in the order of
the ceremony."

"Really?" said Franz.

"Yes, I passed the evening at the
Cardinal Rospigliosi's, and there
mention was made of something like a
pardon for one of the two men."

"For Andrea Rondolo?" asked Franz.

"No," replied the count, carelessly;
"for the other (he glanced at the
tablets as if to recall the name), for
Peppino, called Rocca Priori. You are
thus deprived of seeing a man
guillotined; but the mazzuola still
remains, which is a very curious
punishment when seen for the first time,
and even the second, while the other, as
you must know, is very simple. The
mandaia* never fails, never trembles,
never strikes thirty times
ineffectually, like the soldier who
beheaded the Count of Chalais, and to
whose tender mercy Richelieu had
doubtless recommended the sufferer. Ah,"
added the count, in a contemptuous tone,
"do not tell me of European punishments,
they are in the infancy, or rather the
old age, of cruelty."

* Guillotine.

"Really, count," replied Franz, "one
would think that you had studied the
different tortures of all the nations of
the world."

"There are, at least, few that I have
not seen," said the count coldly.

"And you took pleasure in beholding
these dreadful spectacles?"

"My first sentiment was horror, the
second indifference, the third
curiosity."

"Curiosity -- that is a terrible word."

"Why so? In life, our greatest
preoccupation is death; is it not then,
curious to study the different ways by
which the soul and body can part; and
how, according to their different
characters, temperaments, and even the
different customs of their countries,
different persons bear the transition
from life to death, from existence to
annihilation? As for myself, I can
assure you of one thing, -- the more men
you see die, the easier it becomes to
die yourself; and in my opinion, death
may be a torture, but it is not an
expiation."

"I do not quite understand you," replied
Franz; "pray explain your meaning, for
you excite my curiosity to the highest
pitch."

"Listen," said the count, and deep
hatred mounted to his face, as the blood
would to the face of any other. "If a
man had by unheard-of and excruciating
tortures destroyed your father, your
mother, your betrothed, -- a being who,
when torn from you, left a desolation, a
wound that never closes, in your
breast, -- do you think the reparation
that society gives you is sufficient
when it interposes the knife of the
guillotine between the base of the
occiput and the trapezal muscles of the
murderer, and allows him who has caused
us years of moral sufferings to escape
with a few moments of physical pain?"

"Yes, I know," said Franz, "that human
justice is insufficient to console us;
she can give blood in return for blood,
that is all; but you must demand from
her only what it is in her power to
grant."

"I will put another case to you,"
continued the count; "that where
society, attacked by the death of a
person, avenges death by death. But are
there not a thousand tortures by which a
man may be made to suffer without
society taking the least cognizance of
them, or offering him even the
insufficient means of vengeance, of
which we have just spoken? Are there not
crimes for which the impalement of the
Turks, the augers of the Persians, the
stake and the brand of the Iroquois
Indians, are inadequate tortures, and
which are unpunished by society? Answer
me, do not these crimes exist?"

"Yes," answered Franz; "and it is to
punish them that duelling is tolerated."

"Ah, duelling," cried the count; "a
pleasant manner, upon my soul, of
arriving at your end when that end is
vengeance! A man has carried off your
mistress, a man has seduced your wife, a
man has dishonored your daughter; he has
rendered the whole life of one who had
the right to expect from heaven that
portion of happiness God his promised to
every one of his creatures, an existence
of misery and infamy; and you think you
are avenged because you send a ball
through the head, or pass a sword
through the breast, of that man who has
planted madness in your brain, and
despair in your heart. And remember,
moreover, that it is often he who comes
off victorious from the strife, absolved
of all crime in the eyes of the world.
No, no," continued the count, "had I to
avenge myself, it is not thus I would
take revenge."

"Then you disapprove of duelling? You
would not fight a duel?" asked Albert in
his turn, astonished at this strange
theory.

"Oh, yes," replied the count;
"understand me, I would fight a duel for
a trifle, for an insult, for a blow; and
the more so that, thanks to my skill in
all bodily exercises, and the
indifference to danger I have gradually
acquired, I should be almost certain to
kill my man. Oh, I would fight for such
a cause; but in return for a slow,
profound, eternal torture, I would give
back the same, were it possible; an eye
for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as the
Orientalists say, -- our masters in
everything, -- those favored creatures
who have formed for themselves a life of
dreams and a paradise of realities."

"But," said Franz to the count, "with
this theory, which renders you at once
judge and executioner of your own cause,
it would be difficult to adopt a course
that would forever prevent your falling
under the power of the law. Hatred is
blind, rage carries you away; and he who
pours out vengeance runs the risk of
tasting a bitter draught."

"Yes, if he be poor and inexperienced,
not if he be rich and skilful; besides,
the worst that could happen to him would
be the punishment of which we have
already spoken, and which the
philanthropic French Revolution has
substituted for being torn to pieces by
horses or broken on the wheel. What
matters this punishment, as long as he
is avenged? On my word, I almost regret
that in all probability this miserable
Peppino will not be beheaded, as you
might have had an opportunity then of
seeing how short a time the punishment
lasts, and whether it is worth even
mentioning; but, really this is a most
singular conversation for the Carnival,
gentlemen; how did it arise? Ah, I
recollect, you asked for a place at my
window; you shall have it; but let us
first sit down to table, for here comes
the servant to inform us that breakfast
is ready." As he spoke, a servant opened
one of the four doors of the apartment,
saying -- "Al suo commodo!" The two
young men arose and entered the
breakfast-room.

During the meal, which was excellent,
and admirably served, Franz looked
repeatedly at Albert, in order to
observe the impressions which he doubted
not had been made on him by the words of
their entertainer; but whether with his
usual carelessness he had paid but
little attention to him, whether the
explanation of the Count of Monte Cristo
with regard to duelling had satisfied
him, or whether the events which Franz
knew of had had their effect on him
alone, he remarked that his companion
did not pay the least regard to them,
but on the contrary ate like a man who
for the last four or five months had
been condemned to partake of Italian
cookery -- that is, the worst in the
world. As for the count, he just touched
the dishes; he seemed to fulfil the
duties of a host by sitting down with
his guests, and awaited their departure
to be served with some strange or more
delicate food. This brought back to
Franz, in spite of himself, the
recollection of the terror with which
the count had inspired the Countess
G---- , and her firm conviction that the
man in the opposite box was a vampire.
At the end of the breakfast Franz took
out his watch. "Well," said the count,
"what are you doing?"

"You must excuse us, count," returned
Franz, "but we have still much to do."

"What may that be?"

"We have no masks, and it is absolutely
necessary to procure them."

"Do not concern yourself about that; we
have, I think, a private room in the
Piazza del Popolo; I will have whatever
costumes you choose brought to us, and
you can dress there."

"After the execution?" cried Franz.

"Before or after, whichever you please."

"Opposite the scaffold?"

"The scaffold forms part of the fete."

"Count, I have reflected on the matter,"
said Franz, "I thank you for your
courtesy, but I shall content myself
with accepting a place in your carriage
and at your window at the Rospoli
Palace, and I leave you at liberty to
dispose of my place at the Piazza del
Popolo."

"But I warn you, you will lose a very
curious sight," returned the count.

"You will describe it to me," replied
Franz, "and the recital from your lips
will make as great an impression on me
as if I had witnessed it. I have more
than once intended witnessing an
execution, but I have never been able to
make up my mind; and you, Albert?"

"I," replied the viscount, -- "I saw
Castaing executed, but I think I was
rather intoxicated that day, for I had
quitted college the same morning, and we
had passed the previous night at a
tavern."

"Besides, it is no reason because you
have not seen an execution at Paris,
that you should not see one anywhere
else; when you travel, it is to see
everything. Think what a figure you will
make when you are asked, `How do they
execute at Rome?' and you reply, `I do
not know'! And, besides, they say that
the culprit is an infamous scoundrel,
who killed with a log of wood a worthy
canon who had brought him up like his
own son. Diable, when a churchman is
killed, it should be with a different
weapon than a log, especially when he
has behaved like a father. If you went
to Spain, would you not see the
bull-fight? Well, suppose it is a
bull-fight you are going to see?
Recollect the ancient Romans of the
Circus, and the sports where they killed
three hundred lions and a hundred men.
Think of the eighty thousand applauding
spectators, the sage matrons who took
their daughters, and the charming
Vestals who made with the thumb of their
white hands the fatal sign that said,
`Come, despatch the dying.'"

"Shall you go, then, Albert?" asked
Franz.

"Ma foi, yes; like you, I hesitated, but
the count's eloquence decides me."

"Let us go, then," said Franz, "since
you wish it; but on our way to the
Piazza del Popolo, I wish to pass
through the Corso. Is this possible,
count?"

"On foot, yes, in a carriage, no."

"I will go on foot, then."

"Is it important that you should go that
way?"

"Yes, there is something I wish to see."

"Well, we will go by the Corso. We will
send the carriage to wait for us on the
Piazza del Popolo, by the Strada del
Babuino, for I shall be glad to pass,
myself, through the Corso, to see if
some orders I have given have been
executed."

"Excellency," said a servant, opening
the door, "a man in the dress of a
penitent wishes to speak to you."

"Ah, yes" returned the count, "I know
who he is, gentlemen; will you return to
the salon? you will find good cigars on
the centre table. I will be with you
directly." The young men rose and
returned into the salon, while the
count, again apologizing, left by
another door. Albert, who was a great
smoker, and who had considered it no
small sacrifice to be deprived of the
cigars of the Cafe de Paris, approached
the table, and uttered a cry of joy at
perceiving some veritable puros.

"Well," asked Franz, "what think you of
the Count of Monte Cristo?"

"What do I think?" said Albert,
evidently surprised at such a question
from his companion; "I think he is a
delightful fellow, who does the honors
of his table admirably; who has
travelled much, read much, is, like
Brutus, of the Stoic school, and
moreover," added he, sending a volume of
smoke up towards the ceiling, "that he
has excellent cigars." Such was Albert's
opinion of the count, and as Franz well
knew that Albert professed never to form
an opinion except upon long reflection,
he made no attempt to change it. "But,"
said he, "did you observe one very
singular thing?"

"What?"

"How attentively he looked at you."

"At me?"

"Yes." -- Albert reflected. "Ah,"
replied he, sighing, "that is not very
surprising; I have been more than a year
absent from Paris, and my clothes are of
a most antiquated cut; the count takes
me for a provincial. The first
opportunity you have, undeceive him, I
beg, and tell him I am nothing of the
kind." Franz smiled; an instant after
the count entered.

"I am now quite at your service,
gentlemen," said he. "The carriage is
going one way to the Piazza del Popolo,
and we will go another; and, if you
please, by the Corso. Take some more of
these cigars, M. de Morcerf."

"With all my heart," returned Albert;
"Italian cigars are horrible. When you
come to Paris, I will return all this."

"I will not refuse; I intend going there
soon, and since you allow me, I will pay
you a visit. Come, we have not any time
to lose, it is half-past twelve -- let
us set off." All three descended; the
coachman received his master's orders,
and drove down the Via del Babuino.
While the three gentlemen walked along
the Piazza de Spagni and the Via
Frattina, which led directly between the
Fiano and Rospoli palaces, Franz's
attention was directed towards the
windows of that last palace, for he had
not forgotten the signal agreed upon
between the man in the mantle and the
Transtevere peasant. "Which are your
windows?" asked he of the count, with as
much indifference as he could assume.
"The three last," returned he, with a
negligence evidently unaffected, for he
could not imagine with what intention
the question was put. Franz glanced
rapidly towards the three windows. The
side windows were hung with yellow
damask, and the centre one with white
damask and a red cross. The man in the
mantle had kept his promise to the
Transteverin, and there could now be no
doubt that he was the count. The three
windows were still untenanted.
Preparations were making on every side;
chairs were placed, scaffolds were
raised, and windows were hung with
flags. The masks could not appear; the
carriages could not move about; but the
masks were visible behind the windows,
the carriages, and the doors.

Franz, Albert, and the count continued
to descend the Corso. As they approached
the Piazza del Popolo, the crowd became
more dense, and above the heads of the
multitude two objects were visible: the
obelisk, surmounted by a cross, which
marks the centre of the square, and in
front of the obelisk, at the point where
the three streets, del Babuino, del
Corso, and di Ripetta, meet, the two
uprights of the scaffold, between which
glittered the curved knife of the
mandaia. At the corner of the street
they met the count's steward, who was
awaiting his master. The window, let at
an exorbitant price, which the count had
doubtless wished to conceal from his
guests, was on the second floor of the
great palace, situated between the Via
del Babuino and the Monte Pincio. It
consisted, as we have said, of a small
dressing-room, opening into a bedroom,
and, when the door of communication was
shut, the inmates were quite alone. On
chairs were laid elegant masquerade
costumes of blue and white satin. "As
you left the choice of your costumes to
me," said the count to the two friends,
"I have had these brought, as they will
be the most worn this year; and they are
most suitable, on account of the
confetti (sweetmeats), as they do not
show the flour."

Franz heard the words of the count but
imperfectly, and he perhaps did not
fully appreciate this new attention to
their wishes; for he was wholly absorbed
by the spectacle that the Piazza del
Popolo presented, and by the terrible
instrument that was in the centre. It
was the first time Franz had ever seen a
guillotine, -- we say guillotine,
because the Roman mandaia is formed on
almost the same model as the French
instrument.* The knife, which is shaped
like a crescent, that cuts with the
convex side, falls from a less height,
and that is all the difference. Two men,
seated on the movable plank on which the
victim is laid, were eating their
breakfasts, while waiting for the
criminal. Their repast consisted
apparently of bread and sausages. One of
them lifted the plank, took out a flask
of wine, drank some, and then passed it
to his companion. These two men were the
executioner's assistants. At this sight
Franz felt the perspiration start forth
upon his brow. The prisoners,
transported the previous evening from
the Carcere Nuovo to the little church
of Santa Maria del Popolo, had passed
the night, each accompanied by two
priests, in a chapel closed by a
grating, before which were two
sentinels, who were relieved at
intervals. A double line of carbineers,
placed on each side of the door of the
church, reached to the scaffold, and
formed a circle around it, leaving a
path about ten feet wide, and around the
guillotine a space of nearly a hundred
feet. All the rest of the square was
paved with heads. Many women held their
infants on their shoulders, and thus the
children had the best view. The Monte
Pincio seemed a vast amphitheatre filled
with spectators; the balconies of the
two churches at the corner of the Via
del Babuino and the Via di Ripetta were
crammed; the steps even seemed a
parti-colored sea, that was impelled
towards the portico; every niche in the
wall held its living statue. What the
count said was true -- the most curious
spectacle in life is that of death. And
yet, instead of the silence and the
solemnity demanded by the occasion,
laughter and jests arose from the crowd.
It was evident that the execution was,
in the eyes of the people, only the
commencement of the Carnival. Suddenly
the tumult ceased, as if by magic, and
the doors of the church opened. A
brotherhood of penitents, clothed from
head to foot in robes of gray sackcloth,
with holes for the eyes, and holding in
their hands lighted tapers, appeared
first; the chief marched at the head.
Behind the penitents came a man of vast
stature and proportions. He was naked,
with the exception of cloth drawers at
the left side of which hung a large
knife in a sheath, and he bore on his
right shoulder a heavy iron
sledge-hammer. This man was the
executioner. He had, moreover, sandals
bound on his feet by cords. Behind the
executioner came, in the order in which
they were to die, first Peppino and then
Andrea. Each was accompanied by two
priests. Neither had his eyes bandaged.
Peppino walked with a firm step,
doubtless aware of what awaited him.
Andrea was supported by two priests.
Each of them, from time to time, kissed
the crucifix a confessor held out to
them. At this sight alone Franz felt his
legs tremble under him. He looked at
Albert -- he was as white as his shirt,
and mechanically cast away his cigar,
although he had not half smoked it. The
count alone seemed unmoved -- nay, more,
a slight color seemed striving to rise
in his pale cheeks. His nostrils dilated
like those of a wild beast that scents
its prey, and his lips, half opened,
disclosed his white teeth, small and
sharp like those of a jackal. And yet
his features wore an expression of
smiling tenderness, such as Franz had
never before witnessed in them; his
black eyes especially were full of
kindness and pity. However, the two
culprits advanced, and as they
approached their faces became visible.
Peppino was a handsome young man of four
or five and twenty, bronzed by the sun;
he carried his head erect, and seemed on
the watch to see on which side his
liberator would appear. Andrea was short
and fat; his visage, marked with brutal
cruelty, did not indicate age; he might
be thirty. In prison he had suffered his
beard to grow; his head fell on his
shoulder, his legs bent beneath him, and
his movements were apparently automatic
and unconscious.

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

"I thought," said Franz to the count,
"that you told me there would be but one
execution."

"I told you true," replied he coldly.

"And yet here are two culprits."

"Yes; but only one of these two is about
to die; the other has many years to
live."

"If the pardon is to come, there is no
time to lose."

"And see, here it is," said the count.
At the moment when Peppino reached the
foot of the mandaia, a priest arrived in
some haste, forced his way through the
soldiers, and, advancing to the chief of
the brotherhood, gave him a folded
paper. The piercing eye of Peppino had
noticed all. The chief took the paper,
unfolded it, and, raising his hand,
"Heaven be praised, and his holiness
also," said he in a loud voice; "here is
a pardon for one of the prisoners!"

"A pardon!" cried the people with one
voice -- "a pardon!" At this cry Andrea
raised his head. "Pardon for whom?"
cried he.

Peppino remained breathless. "A pardon
for Peppino, called Rocca Priori," said
the principal friar. And he passed the
paper to the officer commanding the
carbineers, who read and returned it to
him.

"For Peppino!" cried Andrea, who seemed
roused from the torpor in which he had
been plunged. "Why for him and not for
me? We ought to die together. I was
promised he should die with me. You have
no right to put me to death alone. I
will not die alone -- I will not!" And
he broke from the priests struggling and
raving like a wild beast, and striving
desperately to break the cords that
bound his hands. The executioner made a
sign, and his two assistants leaped from
the scaffold and seized him. "What is
going on?" asked Franz of the count;
for, as all the talk was in the Roman
dialect, he had not perfectly understood
it. "Do you not see?" returned the
count, "that this human creature who is
about to die is furious that his
fellow-sufferer does not perish with
him? and, were he able, he would rather
tear him to pieces with his teeth and
nails than let him enjoy the life he
himself is about to be deprived of. Oh,
man, man -- race of crocodiles," cried
the count, extending his clinched hands
towards the crowd, "how well do I
recognize you there, and that at all
times you are worthy of yourselves!"
Meanwhile Andrea and the two
executioners were struggling on the
ground, and he kept exclaiming, "He
ought to die! -- he shall die! -- I will
not die alone!"

"Look, look," cried the count. seizing
the young men's hands -- "look, for on
my soul it is curious. Here is a man who
had resigned himself to his fate, who
was going to the scaffold to die -- like
a coward, it is true, but he was about
to die without resistance. Do you know
what gave him strength? -- do you know
what consoled him? It was, that another
partook of his punishment -- that
another partook of his anguish -- that
another was to die before him. Lead two
sheep to the butcher's, two oxen to the
slaughterhouse, and make one of them
understand that his companion will not
die; the sheep will bleat for pleasure,
the ox will bellow with joy. But man --
man, whom God created in his own
image -- man, upon whom God has laid his
first, his sole commandment, to love his
neighbor -- man, to whom God has given a
voice to express his thoughts -- what is
his first cry when he hears his
fellow-man is saved? A blasphemy. Honor
to man, this masterpiece of nature, this
king of the creation!" And the count
burst into a laugh; a terrible laugh,
that showed he must have suffered
horribly to be able thus to laugh.
However, the struggle still continued,
and it was dreadful to witness. The
people all took part against Andrea, and
twenty thousand voices cried, "Put him
to death! put him to death!" Franz
sprang back, but the count seized his
arm, and held him before the window.
"What are you doing?" said he. "Do you
pity him? If you heard the cry of `Mad
dog!' you would take your gun -- you
would unhesitatingly shoot the poor
beast, who, after all, was only guilty
of having been bitten by another dog.
And yet you pity a man who, without
being bitten by one of his race, has yet
murdered his benefactor; and who, now
unable to kill any one, because his
hands are bound, wishes to see his
companion in captivity perish. No, no --
look, look!"

The command was needless. Franz was
fascinated by the horribly spectacle.
The two assistants had borne Andrea to
the scaffold, and there, in spite of his
struggles, his bites, and his cries, had
forced him to his knees. During this
time the executioner had raised his
mace, and signed to them to get out of
the way; the criminal strove to rise,
but, ere he had time, the mace fell on
his left temple. A dull and heavy sound
was heard, and the man dropped like an
ox on his face, and then turned over on
his back. The executioner let fall his
mace, drew his knife, and with one
stroke opened his throat, and mounting
on his stomach, stamped violently on it
with his feet. At every stroke a jet of
blood sprang from the wound.

This time Franz could contain himself no
longer, but sank, half fainting, into a
seat. Albert, with his eyes closed, was
standing grasping the window-curtains.
The count was erect and triumphant, like
the Avenging Angel!



Chapter 36 The Carnival at Rome.

When Franz recovered his senses, he saw
Albert drinking a glass of water, of
which, to judge from his pallor, he
stood in great need; and the count, who
was assuming his masquerade costume. He
glanced mechanically towards the
square -- the scene was wholly changed;
scaffold, executioners, victims, all had
disappeared; only the people remained,
full of noise and excitement. The bell
of Monte Citorio, which only sounds on
the pope's decease and the opening of
the Carnival, was ringing a joyous peal.
"Well," asked he of the count, "what
has, then, happened?"

"Nothing," replied the count; "only, as
you see, the Carnival his commenced.
Make haste and dress yourself."

"In fact," said Franz, "this horrible
scene has passed away like a dream."

"It is but a dream, a nightmare, that
has disturbed you."

"Yes, that I have suffered; but the
culprit?"

"That is a dream also; only he has
remained asleep, while you have
awakened; and who knows which of you is
the most fortunate?"

"But Peppino -- what has become of him?"

"Peppino is a lad of sense, who, unlike
most men, who are happy in proportion as
they are noticed, was delighted to see
that the general attention was directed
towards his companion. He profited by
this distraction to slip away among the
crowd, without even thanking the worthy
priests who accompanied him. Decidedly
man is an ungrateful and egotistical
animal. But dress yourself; see, M. de
Morcerf sets you the example." Albert
was drawing on the satin pantaloon over
his black trousers and varnished boots.
"Well, Albert," said Franz, "do you feel
much inclined to join the revels? Come,
answer frankly."

"Ma foi, no," returned Albert. "But I am
really glad to have seen such a sight;
and I understand what the count said --
that when you have once habituated
yourself to a similar spectacle, it is
the only one that causes you any
emotion."

"Without reflecting that this is the
only moment in which you can study
character," said the count; "on the
steps of the scaffold death tears off
the mask that has been worn through
life, and the real visage is disclosed.
It must be allowed that Andrea was not
very handsome, the hideous scoundrel!
Come, dress yourselves, gentlemen, dress
yourselves." Franz felt it would be
ridiculous not to follow his two
companions' example. He assumed his
costume, and fastened on the mask that
scarcely equalled the pallor of his own
face. Their toilet finished, they
descended; the carriage awaited them at
the door, filled with sweetmeats and
bouquets. They fell into the line of
carriages. It is difficult to form an
idea of the perfect change that had
taken place. Instead of the spectacle of
gloomy and silent death, the Piazza del
Popolo presented a spectacle of gay and
noisy mirth and revelry. A crowd of
masks flowed in from all sides, emerging
from the doors, descending from the
windows. From every street and every
corner drove carriages filled with
clowns, harlequins, dominoes, mummers,
pantomimists, Transteverins, knights,
and peasants, screaming, fighting,
gesticulating, throwing eggs filled with
flour, confetti, nosegays, attacking,
with their sarcasms and their missiles,
friends and foes, companions and
strangers, indiscriminately, and no one
took offence, or did anything but laugh.
Franz and Albert were like men who, to
drive away a violent sorrow, have
recourse to wine, and who, as they drink
and become intoxicated, feel a thick
veil drawn between the past and the
present. They saw, or rather continued
to see, the image of what they had
witnessed; but little by little the
general vertigo seized them, and they
felt themselves obliged to take part in
the noise and confusion. A handful of
confetti that came from a neighboring
carriage, and which, while it covered
Morcerf and his two companions with
dust, pricked his neck and that portion
of his face uncovered by his mask like a
hundred pins, incited him to join in the
general combat, in which all the masks
around him were engaged. He rose in his
turn, and seizing handfuls of confetti
and sweetmeats, with which the carriage
was filled, cast them with all the force
and skill he was master of.

The strife had fairly begun, and the
recollection of what they had seen half
an hour before was gradually effaced
from the young men's minds, so much were
they occupied by the gay and glittering
procession they now beheld. As for the
Count of Monte Cristo, he had never for
an instant shown any appearance of
having been moved. Imagine the large and
splendid Corso, bordered from one end to
the other with lofty palaces, with their
balconies hung with carpets, and their
windows with flags. At these balconies
are three hundred thousand spectators --
Romans, Italians, strangers from all
parts of the world, the united
aristocracy of birth, wealth, and
genius. Lovely women, yielding to the
influence of the scene, bend over their
balconies, or lean from their windows,
and shower down confetti, which are
returned by bouquets; the air seems
darkened with the falling confetti and
flying flowers. In the streets the
lively crowd is dressed in the most
fantastic costumes -- gigantic cabbages
walk gravely about, buffaloes' heads
below from men's shoulders, dogs walk on
their hind legs; in the midst of all
this a mask is lifted, and, as in
Callot's Temptation of St. Anthony, a
lovely face is exhibited, which we would
fain follow, but from which we are
separated by troops of fiends. This will
give a faint idea of the Carnival at
Rome. At the second turn the Count
stopped the carriage, and requested
permission to withdraw, leaving the
vehicle at their disposal. Franz looked
up -- they were opposite the Rospoli
Palace. At the centre window, the one
hung with white damask with a red cross,
was a blue domino, beneath which Franz's
imagination easily pictured the
beautiful Greek of the Argentina.
"Gentlemen," said the count, springing
out, "when you are tired of being
actors, and wish to become spectators of
this scene, you know you have places at
my windows. In the meantime, dispose of
my coachman, my carriage, and my
servants." We have forgotten to mention,
that the count's coachman was attired in
a bear-skin, exactly resembling Odry's
in "The Bear and the Pasha;" and the two
footmen behind were dressed up as green
monkeys, with spring masks, with which
they made grimaces at every one who
passed. Franz thanked the count for his
attention. As for Albert, he was busily
occupied throwing bouquets at a carriage
full of Roman peasants that was passing
near him. Unfortunately for him, the
line of carriages moved on again, and
while he descended the Piazza del
Popolo, the other ascended towards the
Palazzo di Venezia. "Ah, my dear
fellow," said he to Franz; "you did not
see?"

"What?"

"There, -- that calash filled with Roman
peasants."

"No."

"Well, I am convinced they are all
charming women."

"How unfortunate that you were masked,
Albert," said Franz; "here was an
opportunity of making up for past
disappointments."

"Oh," replied he, half laughing, half
serious; "I hope the Carnival will not
pass without some amends in one shape or
the other."

But, in spite of Albert's hope, the day
passed unmarked by any incident,
excepting two or three encounters with
the carriage full of Roman peasants. At
one of these encounters, accidentally or
purposely, Albert's mask fell off. He
instantly rose and cast the remainder of
the bouquets into the carriage.
Doubtless one of the charming females
Albert had detected beneath their
coquettish disguise was touched by his
gallantry; for, as the carriage of the
two friends passed her, she threw a
bunch of violets. Albert seized it, and
as Franz had no reason to suppose it was
meant for him, he suffered Albert to
retain it. Albert placed it in his
button-hole, and the carriage went
triumphantly on.

"Well," said Franz to him; "there is the
beginning of an adventure."

"Laugh if you please -- I really think
so. So I will not abandon this bouquet."

"Pardieu," returned Franz, laughing, "in
token of your ingratitude." The jest,
however, soon appeared to become
earnest; for when Albert and Franz again
encountered the carriage with the
contadini, the one who had thrown the
violets to Albert, clapped her hands
when she beheld them in his button-hole.
"Bravo, bravo," said Franz; "things go
wonderfully. Shall I leave you? Perhaps
you would prefer being alone?"

"No," replied he; "I will not be caught
like a fool at a first disclosure by a
rendezvous under the clock, as they say
at the opera-balls. If the fair peasant
wishes to carry matters any further, we
shall find her, or rather, she will find
us to-morrow; then she will give me some
sign or other, and I shall know what I
have to do."

"On my word," said Franz, "you are wise
as Nestor and prudent as Ulysses, and
your fair Circe must be very skilful or
very powerful if she succeed in changing
you into a beast of any kind." Albert
was right; the fair unknown had
resolved, doubtless, to carry the
intrigue no farther; for although the
young men made several more turns, they
did not again see the calash, which had
turned up one of the neighboring
streets. Then they returned to the
Rospoli Palace; but the count and the
blue domino had also disappeared; the
two windows, hung with yellow damask,
were still occupied by the persons whom
the count had invited. At this moment
the same bell that had proclaimed the
beginning of the mascherata sounded the
retreat. The file on the Corso broke the
line, and in a second all the carriages
had disappeared. Franz and Albert were
opposite the Via delle Maratte; the
coachman, without saying a word, drove
up it, passed along the Piazza di Spagni
and the Rospoli Palace and stopped at
the door of the hotel. Signor Pastrini
came to the door to receive his guests.
Franz hastened to inquire after the
count, and to express regret that he had
not returned in sufficient time; but
Pastrini reassured him by saying that
the Count of Monte Cristo had ordered a
second carriage for himself, and that it
had gone at four o'clock to fetch him
from the Rospoli Palace. The count had,
moreover, charged him to offer the two
friends the key of his box at the
Argentina. Franz questioned Albert as to
his intentions; but Albert had great
projects to put into execution before
going to the theatre; and instead of
making any answer, he inquired if Signor
Pastrini could procure him a tailor. "A
tailor," said the host; "and for what?"

"To make us between now and to-morrow
two Roman peasant costumes," returned
Albert. The host shook his head. "To
make you two costumes between now and
to-morrow? I ask your excellencies'
pardon, but this is quite a French
demand; for the next week you will not
find a single tailor who would consent
to sew six buttons on a waistcoat if you
paid him a crown a piece for each
button."

"Then I must give up the idea?"

"No; we have them ready-made. Leave all
to me; and to-morrow, when you awake,
you shall find a collection of costumes
with which you will be satisfied."

"My dear Albert," said Franz, "leave all
to our host; he has already proved
himself full of resources; let us dine
quietly, and afterwards go and see `The
Algerian Captive.'"

"Agreed," returned Albert; "but
remember, Signor Pastrini, that both my
friend and myself attach the greatest
importance to having to-morrow the
costumes we have asked for." The host
again assured them they might rely on
him, and that their wishes should be
attended to; upon which Franz and Albert
mounted to their apartments, and
proceeded to disencumber themselves of
their costumes. Albert, as he took off
his dress, carefully preserved the bunch
of violets; it was his token reserved
for the morrow. The two friends sat down
to table; but they could not refrain
from remarking the difference between
the Count of Monte Cristo's table and
that of Signor Pastrini. Truth compelled
Franz, in spite of the dislike he seemed
to have taken to the count, to confess
that the advantage was not on Pastrini's
side. During dessert, the servant
inquired at what time they wished for
the carriage. Albert and Franz looked at
each other, fearing really to abuse the
count's kindness. The servant understood
them. "His excellency the Count of Monte
Cristo had," he said, "given positive
orders that the carriage was to remain
at their lordships' orders all day, and
they could therefore dispose of it
without fear of indiscretion."

They resolved to profit by the count's
courtesy, and ordered the horses to be
harnessed, while they substituted
evening dress for that which they had
on, and which was somewhat the worse for
the numerous combats they had sustained.
This precaution taken, they went to the
theatre, and installed themselves in the
count's box. During the first act, the
Countess G---- entered. Her first look
was at the box where she had seen the
count the previous evening, so that she
perceived Franz and Albert in the place
of the very person concerning whom she
had expressed so strange an opinion to
Franz. Her opera-glass was so fixedly
directed towards them, that Franz saw it
would be cruel not to satisfy her
curiosity; and, availing himself of one
of the privileges of the spectators of
the Italian theatres, who use their
boxes to hold receptions, the two
friends went to pay their respects to
the countess. Scarcely had they entered,
when she motioned to Franz to assume the
seat of honor. Albert, in his turn, sat
behind.

"Well," said she, hardly giving Franz
time to sit down, "it seems you have
nothing better to do than to make the
acquaintance of this new Lord Ruthven,
and you are already the best friends in
the world."

"Without being so far advanced as that,
my dear countess," returned Franz, "I
cannot deny that we have abused his good
nature all day."

"All day?"

"Yes; this morning we breakfasted with
him; we rode in his carriage all day,
and now we have taken possession of his
box."

"You know him, then?"

"Yes, and no."

"How so?"

"It is a long story."

'Tell it to me."

"It would frighten you too much."

"So much the more reason."

"At least wait until the story has a
conclusion."

"Very well; I prefer complete histories;
but tell me how you made his
acquaintance? Did any one introduce you
to him?"

"No; it was he who introduced himself to
us."

"When?"

"Last night, after we left you."

"Through what medium?"

"The very prosaic one of our landlord."

"He is staying, then, at the Hotel de
Londres with you?"

"Not only in the same hotel, but on the
same floor."

"What is his name -- for, of course, you
know?"

"The Count of Monte Cristo."

"That is not a family name?"

"No, it is the name of the island he has
purchased."

"And he is a count?"

"A Tuscan count."

"Well, we must put up with that," said
the countess, who was herself from one
of the oldest Venetian families. "What
sort of a man is he?"

"Ask the Vicomte de Morcerf."

"You hear, M. de Morcerf, I am referred
to you," said the countess.

"We should be very hard to please,
madam," returned Albert, "did we not
think him delightful. A friend of ten
years' standing could not have done more
for us, or with a more perfect
courtesy."

"Come," observed the countess, smiling,
"I see my vampire is only some
millionaire, who has taken the
appearance of Lara in order to avoid
being confounded with M. de Rothschild;
and you have seen her?"

"Her?"

"The beautiful Greek of yesterday."

"No; we heard, I think, the sound of her
guzla, but she remained perfectly
invisible."

"When you say invisible," interrupted
Albert, "it is only to keep up the
mystery; for whom do you take the blue
domino at the window with the white
curtains?"

"Where was this window with white
hangings?" asked the countess.

"At the Rospoli Palace."

"The count had three windows at the
Rospoli Palace?"

"Yes. Did you pass through the Corso?"

"Yes."

"Well, did you notice two windows hung
with yellow damask, and one with white
damask with a red cross? Those were the
count's windows?"

"Why, he must be a nabob. Do you know
what those three windows were worth?"

"Two or three hundred Roman crowns?"

"Two or three thousand."

"The deuce."

"Does his island produce him such a
revenue?"

"It does not bring him a baiocco."

"Then why did he purchase it?"

"For a whim."

"He is an original, then?"

"In reality," observed Albert, "he
seemed to me somewhat eccentric; were he
at Paris, and a frequenter of the
theatres, I should say he was a poor
devil literally mad. This morning he
made two or three exits worthy of Didier
or Anthony." At this moment a fresh
visitor entered, and, according to
custom, Franz gave up his seat to him.
This circumstance had, moreover, the
effect of changing the conversation; an
hour afterwards the two friends returned
to their hotel. Signor Pastrini had
already set about procuring their
disguises for the morrow; and he assured
them that they would be perfectly
satisfied. The next morning, at nine
o'clock, he entered Franz's room,
followed by a tailor, who had eight or
ten Roman peasant costumes on his arm;
they selected two exactly alike, and
charged the tailor to sew on each of
their hats about twenty yards of ribbon,
and to procure them two of the long silk
sashes of different colors with which
the lower orders decorate themselves on
fete-days. Albert was impatient to see
how he looked in his new dress -- a
jacket and breeches of blue velvet, silk
stockings with clocks, shoes with
buckles, and a silk waistcoat. This
picturesque attire set him off to great
advantage; and when he had bound the
scarf around his waist, and when his
hat, placed coquettishly on one side,
let fall on his shoulder a stream of
ribbons, Franz was forced to confess
that costume has much to do with the
physical superiority we accord to
certain nations. The Turks used to be so
picturesque with their long and flowing
robes, but are they not now hideous with
their blue frocks buttoned up to the
chin, and their red caps, which make
them look like a bottle of wine with a
red seal? Franz complimented Albert, who
looked at himself in the glass with an
unequivocal smile of satisfaction. They
were thus engaged when the Count of
Monte Cristo entered.

"Gentlemen," said he, "although a
companion is agreeable, perfect freedom
is sometimes still more agreeable. I
come to say that to-day, and for the
remainder of the Carnival, I leave the
carriage entirely at your disposal. The
host will tell you I have three or four
more, so that you will not inconvenience
me in any way. Make use of it, I pray
you, for your pleasure or your
business."

The young men wished to decline, but
they could find no good reason for
refusing an offer which was so agreeable
to them. The Count of Monte Cristo
remained a quarter of an hour with them,
conversing on all subjects with the
greatest ease. He was, as we have
already said, perfectly well acquainted
with the literature of all countries. A
glance at the walls of his salon proved
to Franz and Albert that he was a
connoisseur of pictures. A few words he
let fall showed them that he was no
stranger to the sciences, and he seemed
much occupied with chemistry. The two
friends did not venture to return the
count the breakfast he had given them;
it would have been too absurd to offer
him in exchange for his excellent table
the very inferior one of Signor
Pastrini. They told him so frankly, and
he received their excuses with the air
of a man who appreciated their delicacy.
Albert was charmed with the count's
manners, and he was only prevented from
recognizing him for a perfect gentleman
by reason of his varied knowledge. The
permission to do what he liked with the
carriage pleased him above all, for the
fair peasants had appeared in a most
elegant carriage the preceding evening,
and Albert was not sorry to be upon an
equal footing with them. At half-past
one they descended, the coachman and
footman had put on their livery over
their disguises, which gave them a more
ridiculous appearance than ever, and
which gained them the applause of Franz
and Albert. Albert had fastened the
faded bunch of violets to his
button-hole. At the first sound of the
bell they hastened into the Corso by the
Via Vittoria. At the second turn, a
bunch of fresh violets, thrown from a
carriage filled with harlequins,
indicated to Albert that, like himself
and his friend, the peasants had changed
their costume, also; and whether it was
the result of chance, or whether a
similar feeling had possessed them both,
while he had changed his costume they
had assumed his.

Albert placed the fresh bouquet in his
button-hole, but he kept the faded one
in his hand; and when he again met the
calash, he raised it to his lips, an
action which seemed greatly to amuse not
only the fair lady who had thrown it,
but her joyous companions also. The day
was as gay as the preceding one, perhaps
even more animated and noisy; the count
appeared for an instant at his window.
but when they again passed he had
disappeared. It is almost needless to
say that the flirtation between Albert
and the fair peasant continued all day.
In the evening, on his return, Franz
found a letter from the embassy,
informing him that he would have the
honor of being received by his holiness
the next day. At each previous visit he
had made to Rome, he had solicited and
obtained the same favor; and incited as
much by a religious feeling as by
gratitude, he was unwilling to quit the
capital of the Christian world without
laying his respectful homage at the feet
of one of St. Peter's successors who has
set the rare example of all the virtues.
He did not then think of the Carnival,
for in spite of his condescension and
touching kindness, one cannot incline
one's self without awe before the
venerable and noble old man called
Gregory XVI. On his return from the
Vatican, Franz carefully avoided the
Corso; he brought away with him a
treasure of pious thoughts, to which the
mad gayety of the maskers would have
been profanation. At ten minutes past
five Albert entered overjoyed. The
harlequin had reassumed her peasant's
costume, and as she passed she raised
her mask. She was charming. Franz
congratulated Albert, who received his
congratulations with the air of a man
conscious that they are merited. He had
recognized by certain unmistakable
signs, that his fair incognita belonged
to the aristocracy. He had made up his
mind to write to her the next day. Franz
remarked, while he gave these details,
that Albert seemed to have something to
ask of him, but that he was unwilling to
ask it. He insisted upon it, declaring
beforehand that he was willing to make
any sacrifice the other wished. Albert
let himself be pressed just as long as
friendship required, and then avowed to
Franz that he would do him a great favor
by allowing him to occupy the carriage
alone the next day. Albert attributed to
Franz's absence the extreme kindness of
the fair peasant in raising her mask.
Franz was not sufficiently egotistical
to stop Albert in the middle of an
adventure that promised to prove so
agreeable to his curiosity and so
flattering to his vanity. He felt
assured that the perfect indiscretion of
his friend would duly inform him of all
that happened; and as, during three
years that he had travelled all over
Italy, a similar piece of good fortune
had never fallen to his share, Franz was
by no means sorry to learn how to act on
such an occasion. He therefore promised
Albert that he would content himself the
morrow with witnessing the Carnival from
the windows of the Rospoli Palace.

The next morning he saw Albert pass and
repass, holding an enormous bouquet,
which he doubtless meant to make the
bearer of his amorous epistle. This
belief was changed into certainty when
Franz saw the bouquet (conspicuous by a
circle of white camellias) in the hand
of a charming harlequin dressed in
rose-colored satin. The evening was no
longer joy, but delirium. Albert nothing
doubted but that the fair unknown would
reply in the same manner. Franz
anticipated his wishes by saying that
the noise fatigued him, and that he
should pass the next day in writing and
looking over his journal. Albert was not
deceived, for the next evening Franz saw
him enter triumphantly shaking a folded
paper which he held by one corner.
"Well," said he, "was I mistaken?"

"She has answered you!" cried Franz.

"Read." This word was pronounced in a
manner impossible to describe. Franz
took the letter, and read: --

Tuesday evening, at seven o'clock,
descend from your carriage opposite the
Via dei Pontefici, and follow the Roman
peasant who snatches your torch from
you. When you arrive at the first step
of the church of San Giacomo, be sure to
fasten a knot of rose-colored ribbons to
the shoulder of your harlequin costume,
in order that you may be recognized.
Until then you will not see me.

Constancy and Discretion.

"Well," asked he, when Franz had
finished, "what do you think of that?"

"I think that the adventure is assuming
a very agreeable appearance."

"I think so, also," replied Albert; "and
I very much fear you will go alone to
the Duke of Bracciano's ball." Franz and
Albert had received that morning an
invitation from the celebrated Roman
banker. "Take care, Albert," said Franz.
"All the nobility of Rome will be
present, and if your fair incognita
belong to the higher class of society,
she must go there."

"Whether she goes there or not, my
opinion is still the same," returned
Albert. "You have read the letter?"

"Yes."

"You know how imperfectly the women of
the mezzo cito are educated in Italy?"
(This is the name of the lower class.)

"Yes."

"Well, read the letter again. Look at
the writing, and find if you can, any
blemish in the language or orthography."
(The writing was, in reality, charming,
and the orthography irreproachable.)
"You are born to good fortune," said
Franz, as he returned the letter.

"Laugh as much as you will," replied
Albert, "I am in love."

"You alarm me," cried Franz. "I see that
I shall not only go alone to the Duke of
Bracciano's, but also return to Florence
alone."

"If my unknown be as amiable as she is
beautiful," said Albert, "I shall fix
myself at Rome for six weeks, at least.
I adore Rome, and I have always had a
great taste for archaeology."

"Come, two or three more such
adventures, and I do not despair of
seeing you a member of the Academy."
Doubtless Albert was about to discuss
seriously his right to the academic
chair when they were informed that
dinner was ready. Albert's love had not
taken away his appetite. He hastened
with Franz to seat himself, free to
recommence the discussion after dinner.
After dinner, the Count of Monte Cristo
was announced. They had not seen him for
two days. Signor Pastrini informed them
that business had called him to Civita
Vecchia. He had started the previous
evening, and had only returned an hour
since. He was charming. Whether he kept
a watch over himself, or whether by
accident he did not sound the
acrimonious chords that in other
circumstances had been touched, he was
to-night like everybody else. The man
was an enigma to Franz. The count must
feel sure that Franz recognized him; and
yet he had not let fall a single word
indicating any previous acquaintance
between them. On his side, however great
Franz's desire was to allude to their
former interview, the fear of being
disagreeable to the man who had loaded
him and his friend with kindness
prevented him from mentioning it. The
count had learned that the two friends
had sent to secure a box at the
Argentina Theatre, and were told they
were all let. In consequence, he brought
them the key of his own -- at least such
was the apparent motive of his visit.
Franz and Albert made some difficulty,
alleging their fear of depriving him of
it; but the count replied that, as he
was going to the Palli Theatre, the box
at the Argentina Theatre would he lost
if they did not profit by it. This
assurance determined the two friends to
accept it.

Franz had by degrees become accustomed
to the count's pallor, which had so
forcibly struck him at their first
meeting. He could not refrain from
admiring the severe beauty of his
features, the only defect, or rather the
principal quality of which was the
pallor. Truly, a Byronic hero! Franz
could not, we will not say see him, but
even think of him without imagining his
stern head upon Manfred's shoulders, or
beneath Lara's helmet. His forehead was
marked with the line that indicates the
constant presence of bitter thoughts; he
had the fiery eyes that seem to
penetrate to the very soul, and the
haughty and disdainful upper lip that
gives to the words it utters a peculiar
character that impresses them on the
minds of those to whom they are
addressed. The count was no longer
young. He was at least forty; and yet it
was easy to understand that he was
formed to rule the young men with whom
he associated at present. And, to
complete his resemblance with the
fantastic heroes of the English poet,
the count seemed to have the power of
fascination. Albert was constantly
expatiating on their good fortune in
meeting such a man. Franz was less
enthusiastic; but the count exercised
over him also the ascendency a strong
mind always acquires over a mind less
domineering. He thought several times of
the project the count had of visiting
Paris; and he had no doubt but that,
with his eccentric character, his
characteristic face, and his colossal
fortune, he would produce a great effect
there. And yet he did not wish to be at
Paris when the count was there. The
evening passed as evenings mostly pass
at Italian theatres; that is, not in
listening to the music, but in paying
visits and conversing. The Countess
G---- wished to revive the subject of
the count, but Franz announced he had
something far newer to tell her, and, in
spite of Albert's demonstrations of
false modesty, he informed the countess
of the great event which had preoccupied
them for the last three days. As similar
intrigues are not uncommon in Italy, if
we may credit travellers, the comtess
did not manifest the least incredulity,
but congratulated Albert on his success.
They promised, upon separating, to meet
at the Duke of Bracciano's ball, to
which all Rome was invited. The heroine
of the bouquet kept her word; she gave
Albert no sign of her existence the
morrow or the day after.

At length Tuesday came, the last and
most tumultuous day of the Carnival. On
Tuesday, the theatres open at ten
o'clock in the morning, as Lent begins
after eight at night. On Tuesday, all
those who through want of money, time,
or enthusiasm, have not been to see the
Carnival before, mingle in the gayety,
and contribute to the noise and
excitement. From two o'clock till five
Franz and Albert followed in the fete,
exchanging handfuls of confetti with the
other carriages and the pedestrians, who
crowded amongst the horses' feet and the
carriage wheels without a single
accident, a single dispute, or a single
fight. The fetes are veritable pleasure
days to the Italians. The author of this
history, who has resided five or six
years in Italy, does not recollect to
have ever seen a ceremony interrupted by
one of those events so common in other
countries. Albert was triumphant in his
harlequin costume. A knot of
rose-colored ribbons fell from his
shoulder almost to the ground. In order
that there might be no confusion, Franz
wore his peasant's costume.

As the day advanced, the tumult became
greater. There was not on the pavement,
in the carriages, at the windows, a
single tongue that was silent, a single
arm that did not move. It was a human
storm, made up of a thunder of cries,
and a hail of sweetmeats, flowers, eggs,
oranges, and nosegays. At three o'clock
the sound of fireworks, let off on the
Piazza del Popolo and the Piazza di
Venezia (heard with difficulty amid the
din and confusion) announced that the
races were about to begin. The races,
like the moccoli, are one of the
episodes peculiar to the last days of
the Carnival. At the sound of the
fireworks the carriages instantly broke
ranks, and retired by the adjacent
streets. All these evolutions are
executed with an inconceivable address
and marvellous rapidity, without the
police interfering in the matter. The
pedestrians ranged themselves against
the walls; then the trampling of horses
and the clashing of steel were heard. A
detachment of carbineers, fifteen
abreast, galloped up the Corso in order
to clear it for the barberi. When the
detachment arrived at the Piazza di
Venezia, a second volley of fireworks
was discharged, to announce that the
street was clear. Almost instantly, in
the midst of a tremendous and general
outcry, seven or eight horses, excited
by the shouts of three hundred thousand
spectators, passed by like lightning.
Then the Castle of Saint Angelo fired
three cannon to indicate that number
three had won. Immediately, without any
other signal, the carriages moved on,
flowing on towards the Corso, down all
the streets, like torrents pent up for a
while, which again flow into the parent
river; and the immense stream again
continued its course between its two
granite banks.

A new source of noise and movement was
added to the crowd. The sellers of
moccoletti entered on the scene. The
moccoli, or moccoletti, are candles
which vary in size from the pascal taper
to the rushlight, and which give to each
actor in the great final scene of the
Carnival two very serious problems to
grapple with, -- first, how to keep his
own moccoletto alight; and secondly, how
to extinguish the moccoletti of others.
The moccoletto is like life: man has
found but one means of transmitting it,
and that one comes from God. But he has
discovered a thousand means of taking it
away, and the devil has somewhat aided
him. The moccoletto is kindled by
approaching it to a light. But who can
describe the thousand means of
extinguishing the moccoletto? -- the
gigantic bellows, the monstrous
extinguishers, the superhuman fans.
Every one hastened to purchase
moccoletti -- Franz and Albert among the
rest.

The night was rapidly approaching; and
already, at the cry of "Moccoletti!"
repeated by the shrill voices of a
thousand vendors, two or three stars
began to burn among the crowd. It was a
signal. At the end of ten minutes fifty
thousand lights glittered, descending
from the Palazzo di Venezia to the
Piazza del Popolo, and mounting from the
Piazzo del Popolo to the Palazzo di
Venezia. It seemed like the fete of
jack-o'-lanterns. It is impossible to
form any idea of it without having seen
it. Suppose that all the stars had
descended from the sky and mingled in a
wild dance on the face of the earth; the
whole accompanied by cries that were
never heard in any other part of the
world. The facchino follows the prince,
the Transteverin the citizen, every one
blowing, extinguishing, relighting. Had
old AEolus appeared at this moment, he
would have been proclaimed king of the
moccoli, and Aquilo the heir-presumptive
to the throne. This battle of folly and
flame continued for two hours; the Corso
was light as day; the features of the
spectators on the third and fourth
stories were visible. Every five minutes
Albert took out his watch; at length it
pointed to seven. The two friends were
in the Via dei Pontefici. Albert sprang
out, bearing his moccoletto in his hand.
Two or three masks strove to knock his
moccoletto out of his hand; but Albert,
a first-rate pugilist, sent them rolling
in the street, one after the other, and
continued his course towards the church
of San Giacomo. The steps were crowded
with masks, who strove to snatch each
other's torches. Franz followed Albert
with his eyes, and saw him mount the
first step. Instantly a mask, wearing
the well-known costume of a peasant
woman, snatched his moccoletto from him
without his offering any resistance.
Franz was too far off to hear what they
said; but, without doubt, nothing
hostile passed, for he saw Albert
disappear arm-in-arm with the peasant
girl. He watched them pass through the
crowd for some time, but at length he
lost sight of them in the Via Macello.
Suddenly the bell that gives the signal
for the end of the carnival sounded, and
at the same instant all the moccoletti
were extinguished as if by enchantment.
It seemed as though one immense blast of
the wind had extinguished every one.
Franz found himself in utter darkness.
No sound was audible save that of the
carriages that were carrying the maskers
home; nothing was visible save a few
lights that burnt behind the windows.
The Carnival was over.



Chapter 37 The Catacombs of Saint
Sebastian.

In his whole life, perhaps, Franz had
never before experienced so sudden an
impression, so rapid a transition from
gayety to sadness, as in this moment. It
seemed as though Rome, under the magic
breath of some demon of the night, had
suddenly changed into a vast tomb. By a
chance, which added yet more to the
intensity of the darkness, the moon,
which was on the wane, did not rise
until eleven o'clock, and the streets
which the young man traversed were
plunged in the deepest obscurity. The
distance was short, and at the end of
ten minutes his carriage, or rather the
count's, stopped before the Hotel de
Londres. Dinner was waiting, but as
Albert had told him that he should not
return so soon, Franz sat down without
him. Signor Pastrini, who had been
accustomed to see them dine together,
inquired into the cause of his absence,
but Franz merely replied that Albert had
received on the previous evening an
invitation which he had accepted. The
sudden extinction of the moccoletti, the
darkness which had replaced the light,
and the silence which had succeeded the
turmoil, had left in Franz's mind a
certain depression which was not free
from uneasiness. He therefore dined very
silently, in spite of the officious
attention of his host, who presented
himself two or three times to inquire if
he wanted anything.

Franz resolved to wait for Albert as
late as possible. He ordered the
carriage, therefore, for eleven o'clock,
desiring Signor Pastrini to inform him
the moment that Albert returned to the
hotel. At eleven o'clock Albert had not
come back. Franz dressed himself, and
went out, telling his host that he was
going to pass the night at the Duke of
Bracciano's. The house of the Duke of
Bracciano is one of the most delightful
in Rome, the duchess, one of the last
heiresses of the Colonnas, does its
honors with the most consummate grace,
and thus their fetes have a European
celebrity. Franz and Albert had brought
to Rome letters of introduction to them,
and their first question on his arrival
was to inquire the whereabouts of his
travelling companion. Franz replied that
he had left him at the moment they were
about to extinguish the moccoli, and
that he had lost sight of him in the Via
Macello. "Then he has not returned?"
said the duke.

"I waited for him until this hour,"
replied Franz.

"And do you know whither he went?"

"No, not precisely; however, I think it
was something very like a rendezvous."

"Diavolo!" said the duke, "this is a bad
day, or rather a bad night, to be out
late; is it not, countess!" These words
were addressed to the Countess G---- ,
who had just arrived, and was leaning on
the arm of Signor Torlonia, the duke's
brother.

"I think, on the contrary, that it is a
charming night," replied the countess,
"and those who are here will complain of
but one thing -- its too rapid flight."

"I am not speaking," said the duke with
a smile, "of the persons who are here;
the men run no other danger than that of
falling in love with you, and the women
of falling ill of jealousy at seeing you
so lovely; I meant persons who were out
in the streets of Rome."

"Ah," asked the countess, "who is out in
the streets of Rome at this hour, unless
it be to go to a ball?"

"Our friend, Albert de Morcerf,
countess, whom I left in pursuit of his
unknown about seven o'clock this
evening," said Franz, "and whom I have
not seen since."

"And don't you know where he is?"

"Not at all."

"Is he armed?"

"He is in masquerade."

"You should not have allowed him to go,"
said the duke to Franz; "you, who know
Rome better than he does."

"You might as well have tried to stop
number three of the barberi, who gained
the prize in the race to-day," replied
Franz; "and then moreover, what could
happen to him?"

"Who can tell? The night is gloomy, and
the Tiber is very near the Via Macello."
Franz felt a shudder run through his
veins at observing that the feeling of
the duke and the countess was so much in
unison with his own personal
disquietude. "I informed them at the
hotel that I had the honor of passing
the night here, duke," said Franz, "and
desired them to come and inform me of
his return."

"Ah," replied the duke, "here I think,
is one of my servants who is seeking
you."

The duke was not mistaken; when he saw
Franz, the servant came up to him. "Your
excellency," he said, "the master of the
Hotel de Londres has sent to let you
know that a man is waiting for you with
a letter from the Viscount of Morcerf."

"A letter from the viscount!" exclaimed
Franz.

"Yes."

"And who is the man?"

"I do not know."

"Why did he not bring it to me here?"

"The messenger did not say."

"And where is the messenger?"

"He went away directly he saw me enter
the ball-room to find you."

"Oh," said the countess to Franz, "go
with all speed -- poor young man!
Perhaps some accident has happened to
him."

"I will hasten," replied Franz.

"Shall we see you again to give us any
information?" inquired the countess.

"Yes, if it is not any serious affair,
otherwise I cannot answer as to what I
may do myself."

"Be prudent, in any event," said the
countess.

"Oh, pray be assured of that." Franz
took his hat and went away in haste. He
had sent away his carriage with orders
for it to fetch him at two o'clock;
fortunately the Palazzo Bracciano, which
is on one side in the Corso, and on the
other in the Square of the Holy
Apostles, is hardly ten minutes' walk
from the Hotel de Londres. As he came
near the hotel, Franz saw a man in the
middle of the street. He had no doubt
that it was the messenger from Albert.
The man was wrapped up in a large cloak.
He went up to him, but, to his extreme
astonishment, the stranger first
addressed him. "What wants your
excellency of me?" inquired the man,
retreating a step or two, as if to keep
on his guard.

"Are not you the person who brought me a
letter," inquired Franz, "from the
Viscount of Morcerf?"

"Your excellency lodges at Pastrini's
hotel?"

"I do."

"Your excellency is the travelling
companion of the viscount?"

"I am."

"Your excellency's name" --

"Is the Baron Franz d'Epinay."

"Then it is to your excellency that this
letter is addressed."

"Is there any answer?" inquired Franz,
taking the letter from him.

"Yes -- your friend at least hopes so."

"Come up-stairs with me, and I will give
it to you."

"I prefer waiting here," said the
messenger, with a smile.

"And why?"

"Your excellency will know when you have
read the letter."

"Shall I find you here, then?"

"Certainly."

Franz entered the hotel. On the
staircase he met Signor Pastrini.
"Well?" said the landlord.

"Well -- what?" responded Franz.

"You have seen the man who desired to
speak with you from your friend?" he
asked of Franz.

"Yes, I have seen him," he replied, "and
he has handed this letter to me. Light
the candles in my apartment, if you
please." The inn-keeper gave orders to a
servant to go before Franz with a light.
The young man had found Signor Pastrini
looking very much alarmed, and this had
only made him the more anxious to read
Albert's letter; and so he went
instantly towards the waxlight, and
unfolded it. It was written and signed
by Albert. Franz read it twice before he
could comprehend what it contained. It
was thus worded: --

My Dear Fellow, -- The moment you have
received this, have the kindness to take
the letter of credit from my
pocket-book, which you will find in the
square drawer of the secretary; add your
own to it, if it be not sufficient. Run
to Torlonia, draw from him instantly
four thousand piastres, and give them to
the bearer. It is urgent that I should
have this money without delay. I do not
say more, relying on you as you may rely
on me. Your friend,

Albert de Morcerf.

P.S. -- I now believe in Italian
banditti.

Below these lines were written, in a
strange hand, the following in
Italian: --

Se alle sei della mattina le quattro
mile piastre non sono nelle mie mani,
alla sette il conte Alberto avra cessato
di vivere.

Luigi Vampa.

"If by six in the morning the four
thousand piastres are not in my hands,
by seven o'clock the Count Albert will
have ceased to live."

This second signature explained
everything to Franz, who now understood
the objection of the messenger to coming
up into the apartment; the street was
safer for him. Albert, then, had fallen
into the hands of the famous bandit
chief, in whose existence he had for so
long a time refused to believe. There
was no time to lose. He hastened to open
the secretary, and found the pocket-book
in the drawer, and in it the letter of
credit. There were in all six thousand
piastres, but of these six thousand
Albert had already expended three
thousand. As to Franz, he had no letter
of credit, as he lived at Florence, and
had only come to Rome to pass seven or
eight days; he had brought but a hundred
louis, and of these he had not more than
fifty left. Thus seven or eight hundred
piastres were wanting to them both to
make up the sum that Albert required.
True, he might in such a case rely on
the kindness of Signor Torlonia. He was,
therefore, about to return to the
Palazzo Bracciano without loss of time,
when suddenly a luminous idea crossed
his mind. He remembered the Count of
Monte Cristo. Franz was about to ring
for Signor Pastrini, when that worthy
presented himself. "My dear sir," he
said, hastily, "do you know if the count
is within?"

"Yes, your excellency; he has this
moment returned."

"Is he in bed?"

"I should say no."

"Then ring at his door, if you please,
and request him to be so kind as to give
me an audience." Signor Pastrini did as
he was desired, and returning five
minutes after, he said, -- "The count
awaits your excellency." Franz went
along the corridor, and a servant
introduced him to the count. He was in a
small room which Franz had not yet seen,
and which was surrounded with divans.
The count came towards him. "Well, what
good wind blows you hither at this
hour?" said he; "have you come to sup
with me? It would be very kind of you."

"No; I have come to speak to you of a
very serious matter."

"A serious matter," said the count,
looking at Franz with the earnestness
usual to him; "and what may it be?"

"Are we alone?"

"Yes," replied the count, going to the
door, and returning. Franz gave him
Albert's letter. "Read that," he said.
The count read it.

"Well, well!" said he.

"Did you see the postscript?"

"I did, indeed.

"`Se alle sei della mattina le quattro
mile piastre non sono nelle mie mani,
alla sette il conte Alberto avra cessato
di vivere.

"`Luigi Vampa.'"

"What think you of that?" inquired
Franz.

"Have you the money he demands?"

"Yes, all but eight hundred piastres."
The count went to his secretary, opened
it, and pulling out a drawer filled with
gold, said to Franz, -- "I hope you will
not offend me by applying to any one but
myself."

"You see, on the contrary, I come to you
first and instantly," replied Franz.

"And I thank you; have what you will;
"and he made a sign to Franz to take
what he pleased.

"Is it absolutely necessary, then, to
send the money to Luigi Vampa?" asked
the young man, looking fixedly in his
turn at the count.

"Judge for yourself," replied he. "The
postscript is explicit."

"I think that if you would take the
trouble of reflecting, you could find a
way of simplifying the negotiation,"
said Franz.

"How so?" returned the count, with
surprise.

"If we were to go together to Luigi
Vampa, I am sure he would not refuse you
Albert's freedom."

"What influence can I possibly have over
a bandit?"

"Have you not just rendered him a
service that can never be forgotten?"

"What is that?"

"Have you not saved Peppino's life?"

"Well, well, said the count, "who told
you that?"

"No matter; I know it." The count knit
his brows, and remained silent an
instant. "And if I went to seek Vampa,
would you accompany me?"

"If my society would not be
disagreeable."

"Be it so. It is a lovely night, and a
walk without Rome will do us both good."

"Shall I take any arms?"

"For what purpose?"

"Any money?"

"It is useless. Where is the man who
brought the letter?"

"In the street."

"He awaits the answer?"

"Yes."

"I must learn where we are going. I will
summon him hither."

"It is useless; he would not come up."

"To your apartments, perhaps; but he
will not make any difficulty at entering
mine." The count went to the window of
the apartment that looked on to the
street, and whistled in a peculiar
manner. The man in the mantle quitted
the wall, and advanced into the middle
of the street. "Salite!" said the count,
in the same tone in which he would have
given an order to his servant. The
messenger obeyed without the least
hesitation, but rather with alacrity,
and, mounting the steps at a bound,
entered the hotel; five seconds
afterwards he was at the door of the
room. "Ah, it is you, Peppino," said the
count. But Peppino, instead of
answering, threw himself on his knees,
seized the count's hand, and covered it
with kisses. "Ah," said the count, "you
have, then, not forgotten that I saved
your life; that is strange, for it is a
week ago."

"No, excellency; and never shall I
forget it," returned Peppino, with an
accent of profound gratitude.

"Never? That is a long time; but it is
something that you believe so. Rise and
answer." Peppino glanced anxiously at
Franz. "Oh, you may speak before his
excellency," said he; "he is one of my
friends. You allow me to give you this
title?" continued the count in French,
"it is necessary to excite this man's
confidence."

"You can speak before me," said Franz;
"I am a friend of the count's."

"Good!" returned Peppino. "I am ready to
answer any questions your excellency may
address to me."

"How did the Viscount Albert fall into
Luigi's hands?"

"Excellency, the Frenchman's carriage
passed several times the one in which
was Teresa."

"The chief's mistress?"

"Yes. The Frenchman threw her a bouquet;
Teresa returned it -- all this with the
consent of the chief, who was in the
carriage."

"What?" cried Franz, "was Luigi Vampa in
the carriage with the Roman peasants?"

"It was he who drove, disguised as the
coachman," replied Peppino.

"Well?" said the count.

"Well, then, the Frenchman took off his
mask; Teresa, with the chief's consent,
did the same. The Frenchman asked for a
rendezvous; Teresa gave him one -- only,
instead of Teresa, it was Beppo who was
on the steps of the church of San
Giacomo."

"What!" exclaimed Franz, "the peasant
girl who snatched his mocoletto from
him" --

"Was a lad of fifteen," replied Peppino.
"But it was no disgrace to your friend
to have been deceived; Beppo has taken
in plenty of others."

"And Beppo led him outside the walls?"
said the count.

"Exactly so; a carriage was waiting at
the end of the Via Macello. Beppo got
in, inviting the Frenchman to follow
him, and he did not wait to be asked
twice. He gallantly offered the
right-hand seat to Beppo, and sat by
him. Beppo told him he was going to take
him to a villa a league from Rome; the
Frenchman assured him he would follow
him to the end of the world. The
coachman went up the Via di Ripetta and
the Porta San Paola; and when they were
two hundred yards outside, as the
Frenchman became somewhat too forward,
Beppo put a brace of pistols to his
head, the coachman pulled up and did the
same. At the same time, four of the
band, who were concealed on the banks of
the Almo, surrounded the carriage. The
Frenchman made some resistance, and
nearly strangled Beppo; but he could not
resist five armed men. and was forced to
yield. They made him get out, walk along
the banks of the river, and then brought
him to Teresa and Luigi, who were
waiting for him in the catacombs of St.
Sebastian."

"Well," said the count, turning towards
Franz, "it seems to me that this is a
very likely story. What do you say to
it?"

"Why, that I should think it very
amusing," replied Franz, "if it had
happened to any one but poor Albert."

"And, in truth, if you had not found me
here," said the count, "it might have
proved a gallant adventure which would
have cost your friend dear; but now, be
assured, his alarm will be the only
serious consequence."

"And shall we go and find him?" inquired
Franz.

"Oh, decidedly, sir. He is in a very
picturesque place -- do you know the
catacombs of St. Sebastian?"

"I was never in them; but I have often
resolved to visit them."

"Well, here is an opportunity made to
your hand, and it would be difficult to
contrive a better. Have you a carriage?"

"No."

"That is of no consequence; I always
have one ready, day and night."

"Always ready?"

"Yes. I am a very capricious being, and
I should tell you that sometimes when I
rise, or after my dinner, or in the
middle of the night, I resolve on
starting for some particular point, and
away I go." The count rang, and a
footman appeared. "Order out the
carriage," he said, "and remove the
pistols which are in the holsters. You
need not awaken the coachman; Ali will
drive." In a very short time the noise
of wheels was heard, and the carriage
stopped at the door. The count took out
his watch. "Half-past twelve," he said.
"We might start at five o'clock and be
in time, but the delay may cause your
friend to pass an uneasy night, and
therefore we had better go with all
speed to extricate him from the hands of
the infidels. Are you still resolved to
accompany me?"

"More determined than ever."

"Well, then, come along."

Franz and the count went downstairs,
accompanied by Peppino. At the door they
found the carriage. Ali was on the box,
in whom Franz recognized the dumb slave
of the grotto of Monte Cristo. Franz and
the count got into the carriage. Peppino
placed himself beside Ali, and they set
off at a rapid pace. Ali had received
his instructions, and went down the
Corso, crossed the Campo Vaccino, went
up the Strada San Gregorio, and reached
the gates of St. Sebastian. Then the
porter raised some difficulties, but the
Count of Monte Cristo produced a permit
from the governor of Rome, allowing him
to leave or enter the city at any hour
of the day or night; the portcullis was
therefore raised, the porter had a louis
for his trouble, and they went on their
way. The road which the carriage now
traversed was the ancient Appian Way,
and bordered with tombs. From time to
time, by the light of the moon, which
began to rise, Franz imagined that he
saw something like a sentinel appear at
various points among the ruins, and
suddenly retreat into the darkness on a
signal from Peppino. A short time before
they reached the Baths of Caracalla the
carriage stopped, Peppino opened the
door, and the count and Franz alighted.

"In ten minutes," said the count to his
companion, "we shall be there."

He then took Peppino aside, gave him an
order in a low voice, and Peppino went
away, taking with him a torch, brought
with them in the carriage. Five minutes
elapsed, during which Franz saw the
shepherd going along a narrow path that
led over the irregular and broken
surface of the Campagna; and finally he
disappeared in the midst of the tall red
herbage, which seemed like the bristling
mane of an enormous lion. "Now," said
the count, "let us follow him." Franz
and the count in their turn then
advanced along the same path, which, at
the distance of a hundred paces, led
them over a declivity to the bottom of a
small valley. They then perceived two
men conversing in the obscurity. "Ought
we to go on?" asked Franz of the count;
"or shall we wait awhile?"

"Let us go on; Peppino will have warned
the sentry of our coming." One of the
two men was Peppino, and the other a
bandit on the lookout. Franz and the
count advanced, and the bandit saluted
them. "Your excellency," said Peppino,
addressing the count, "if you will
follow me, the opening of the catacombs
is close at hand."

"Go on, then," replied the count. They
came to an opening behind a clump of
bushes and in the midst of a pile of
rocks, by which a man could scarcely
pass. Peppino glided first into this
crevice; after they got along a few
paces the passage widened. Peppino
passed, lighted his torch, and turned to
see if they came after him. The count
first reached an open space and Franz
followed him closely. The passageway
sloped in a gentle descent, enlarging as
they proceeded; still Franz and the
count were compelled to advance in a
stooping posture, and were scarcely able
to proceed abreast of one another. They
went on a hundred and fifty paces in
this way, and then were stopped by, "Who
comes there?" At the same time they saw
the reflection of a torch on a carbine
barrel.

"A friend!" responded Peppino; and,
advancing alone towards the sentry, he
said a few words to him in a low tone;
and then he, like the first, saluted the
nocturnal visitors, making a sign that
they might proceed.

Behind the sentinel was a staircase with
twenty steps. Franz and the count
descended these, and found themselves in
a mortuary chamber. Five corridors
diverged like the rays of a star, and
the walls, dug into niches, which were
arranged one above the other in the
shape of coffins, showed that they were
at last in the catacombs. Down one of
the corridors, whose extent it was
impossible to determine, rays of light
were visible. The count laid his hand on
Franz's shoulder. "Would you like to see
a camp of bandits in repose?" he
inquired.

"Exceedingly," replied Franz.

"Come with me, then. Peppino, put out
the torch." Peppino obeyed, and Franz
and the count were in utter darkness,
except that fifty paces in advance of
them a reddish glare, more evident since
Peppino had put out his torch, was
visible along the wall. They advanced
silently, the count guiding Franz as if
he had the singular faculty of seeing in
the dark. Franz himself, however, saw
his way more plainly in proportion as he
went on towards the light, which served
in some manner as a guide. Three arcades
were before them, and the middle one was
used as a door. These arcades opened on
one side into the corridor where the
count and Franz were, and on the other
into a large square chamber, entirely
surrounded by niches similar to those of
which we have spoken. In the midst of
this chamber were four stones, which had
formerly served as an altar, as was
evident from the cross which still
surmounted them. A lamp, placed at the
base of a pillar, lighted up with its
pale and flickering flame the singular
scene which presented itself to the eyes
of the two visitors concealed in the
shadow. A man was seated with his elbow
leaning on the column, and was reading
with his back turned to the arcades,
through the openings of which the
newcomers contemplated him. This was the
chief of the band, Luigi Vampa. Around
him, and in groups, according to their
fancy, lying in their mantles, or with
their backs against a sort of stone
bench, which went all round the
columbarium, were to be seen twenty
brigands or more, each having his
carbine within reach. At the other end,
silent, scarcely visible, and like a
shadow, was a sentinel, who was walking
up and down before a grotto, which was
only distinguishable because in that
spot the darkness seemed more dense than
elsewhere. When the count thought Franz
had gazed sufficiently on this
picturesque tableau, he raised his
finger to his lips, to warn him to be
silent, and, ascending the three steps
which led to the corridor of the
columbarium, entered the chamber by the
middle arcade, and advanced towards
Vampa, who was so intent on the book
before him that he did not hear the
noise of his footsteps.

"Who comes there?" cried the sentinel,
who was less abstracted, and who saw by
the lamp-light a shadow approaching his
chief. At this challenge, Vampa rose
quickly, drawing at the same moment a
pistol from his girdle. In a moment all
the bandits were on their feet, and
twenty carbines were levelled at the
count. "Well," said he in a voice
perfectly calm, and no muscle of his
countenance disturbed, "well, my dear
Vampa, it appears to me that you receive
a friend with a great deal of ceremony."

"Ground arms," exclaimed the chief, with
an imperative sign of the hand, while
with the other he took off his hat
respectfully; then, turning to the
singular personage who had caused this
scene, he said, "Your pardon, your
excellency, but I was so far from
expecting the honor of a visit, that I
did not really recognize you."

"It seems that your memory is equally
short in everything, Vampa," said the
count, "and that not only do you forget
people's faces, but also the conditions
you make with them."

"What conditions have I forgotten, your
excellency?" inquired the bandit, with
the air of a man who, having committed
an error, is anxious to repair it.

"Was it not agreed," asked the count,
"that not only my person, but also that
of my friends, should be respected by
you?"

"And how have I broken that treaty, your
excellency?"

"You have this evening carried off and
conveyed hither the Vicomte Albert de
Morcerf. Well," continued the count, in
a tone that made Franz shudder, "this
young gentleman is one of my friends --
this young gentleman lodges in the same
hotel as myself -- this young gentleman
has been up and down the Corso for eight
hours in my private carriage, and yet, I
repeat to you, you have carried him off,
and conveyed him hither, and," added the
count, taking the letter from his
pocket, "you have set a ransom on him,
as if he were an utter stranger."

"Why did you not tell me all this --
you?" inquired the brigand chief,
turning towards his men, who all
retreated before his look. "Why have you
caused me thus to fail in my word
towards a gentleman like the count, who
has all our lives in his hands? By
heavens, if I thought one of you knew
that the young gentleman was the friend
of his excellency, I would blow his
brains out with my own hand!"

"Well," said the count, turning towards
Franz, "I told you there was some
mistake in this."

"Are you not alone?" asked Vampa with
uneasiness.

"I am with the person to whom this
letter was addressed, and to whom I
desired to prove that Luigi Vampa was a
man of his word. Come, your excellency,"
the count added, turning to Franz, "here
is Luigi Vampa, who will himself express
to you his deep regret at the mistake he
has committed." Franz approached, the
chief advancing several steps to meet
him. "Welcome among us, your
excellency," he said to him; "you heard
what the count just said, and also my
reply; let me add that I would not for
the four thousand piastres at which I
had fixed your friend's ransom, that
this had happened."

"But," said Franz, looking round him
uneasily, "where is the Viscount? -- I
do not see him."

"Nothing has happened to him, I hope,"
said the count frowningly.

"The prisoner is there," replied Vampa,
pointing to the hollow space in front of
which the bandit was on guard, "and I
will go myself and tell him he is free."
The chief went towards the place he had
pointed out as Albert's prison, and
Franz and the count followed him. "What
is the prisoner doing?" inquired Vampa
of the sentinel.

"Ma foi, captain," replied the sentry,
"I do not know; for the last hour I have
not heard him stir."

"Come in, your excellency," said Vampa.
The count and Franz ascended seven or
eight steps after the chief, who drew
back a bolt and opened a door. Then, by
the gleam of a lamp, similar to that
which lighted the columbarium, Albert
was to be seen wrapped up in a cloak
which one of the bandits had lent him,
lying in a corner in profound slumber.
"Come," said the count, smiling with his
own peculiar smile, "not so bad for a
man who is to be shot at seven o'clock
to-morrow morning." Vampa looked at
Albert with a kind of admiration; he was
not insensible to such a proof of
courage.

"You are right, your excellency," he
said; "this must be one of your
friends." Then going to Albert, he
touched him on the shoulder, saying,
"Will your excellency please to awaken?"
Albert stretched out his arms, rubbed
his eyelids, and opened his eyes. "Oh,"
said he, "is it you, captain? You should
have allowed me to sleep. I had such a
delightful dream. I was dancing the
galop at Torlonia's with the Countess
G---- ." Then he drew his watch from his
pocket, that he might see how time sped.

"Half-past one only?" said he. "Why the
devil do you rouse me at this hour?"

"To tell you that you are free, your
excellency."

"My dear fellow," replied Albert, with
perfect ease of mind, "remember, for the
future, Napoleon's maxim, `Never awaken
me but for bad news;' if you had let me
sleep on, I should have finished my
galop, and have been grateful to you all
my life. So, then, they have paid my
ransom?"

"No, your excellency."

"Well, then, how am I free?"

"A person to whom I can refuse nothing
has come to demand you."

"Come hither?"

"Yes, hither."

"Really? Then that person is a most
amiable person." Albert looked around
and perceived Franz. "What," said he,
"is it you, my dear Franz, whose
devotion and friendship are thus
displayed?"

"No, not I," replied Franz, "but our
neighbor, the Count of Monte Cristo."

"Oh. my dear count." said Albert gayly,
arranging his cravat and wristbands,
"you are really most kind, and I hope
you will consider me as under eternal
obligations to you, in the first place
for the carriage, and in the next for
this visit," and he put out his hand to
the Count, who shuddered as he gave his
own, but who nevertheless did give it.
The bandit gazed on this scene with
amazement; he was evidently accustomed
to see his prisoners tremble before him,
and yet here was one whose gay
temperament was not for a moment
altered; as for Franz, he was enchanted
at the way in which Albert had sustained
the national honor in the presence of
the bandit. "My dear Albert," he said,
"if you will make haste, we shall yet
have time to finish the night at
Torlonia's. You may conclude your
interrupted galop, so that you will owe
no ill-will to Signor Luigi, who has,
indeed, throughout this whole affair
acted like a gentleman."

"You are decidedly right, and we may
reach the Palazzo by two o'clock. Signor
Luigi," continued Albert, "is there any
formality to fulfil before I take leave
of your excellency?"

"None, sir," replied the bandit, "you
are as free as air."

"Well, then, a happy and merry life to
you. Come, gentlemen, come."

And Albert, followed by Franz and the
count, descended the staircase, crossed
the square chamber, where stood all the
bandits, hat in hand. "Peppino," said
the brigand chief, "give me the torch."

"What are you going to do?" inquired the
count.

"l will show you the way back myself,"
said the captain; "that is the least
honor that I can render to your
excellency." And taking the lighted
torch from the hands of the herdsman, he
preceded his guests, not as a servant
who performs an act of civility, but
like a king who precedes ambassadors. On
reaching the door, he bowed. "And now,
your excellency," added he, "allow me to
repeat my apologies, and I hope you will
not entertain any resentment at what has
occurred."

"No, my dear Vampa," replied the count;
"besides, you compensate for your
mistakes in so gentlemanly a way, that
one almost feels obliged to you for
having committed them."

"Gentlemen," added the chief, turning
towards the young men, "perhaps the
offer may not appear very tempting to
you; but if you should ever feel
inclined to pay me a second visit,
wherever I may be, you shall be
welcome." Franz and Albert bowed. The
count went out first, then Albert. Franz
paused for a moment. "Has your
excellency anything to ask me?" said
Vampa with a smile.

"Yes, I have," replied Franz; "I am
curious to know what work you were
perusing with so much attention as we
entered."

"Caesar's `Commentaries,'" said the
bandit, "it is my favorite work."

"Well, are you coming?" asked Albert.

"Yes," replied Franz, "here I am," and
he, in his turn, left the caves. They
advanced to the plain. "Ah, your
pardon," said Albert, turning round;
"will you allow me, captain?" And he
lighted his cigar at Vampa's torch.
"Now, my dear count," he said, "let us
on with all the speed we may. I am
enormously anxious to finish my night at
the Duke of Bracciano's." They found the
carriage where they had left it. The
count said a word in Arabic to Ali, and
the horses went on at great speed. It
was just two o'clock by Albert's watch
when the two friends entered into the
dancing-room. Their return was quite an
event, but as they entered together, all
uneasiness on Albert's account ceased
instantly. "Madame," said the Viscount
of Morcerf, advancing towards the
countess, "yesterday you were so
condescending as to promise me a galop;
I am rather late in claiming this
gracious promise, but here is my friend,
whose character for veracity you well
know, and he will assure you the delay
arose from no fault of mine." And as at
this moment the orchestra gave the
signal for the waltz, Albert put his arm
round the waist of the countess, and
disappeared with her in the whirl of
dancers. In the meanwhile Franz was
considering the singular shudder that
had passed over the Count of Monte
Cristo at the moment when he had been,
in some sort, forced to give his hand to
Albert.



Chapter 38 The Compact.

The first words that Albert uttered to
his friend, on the following morning,
contained a request that Franz would
accompany him on a visit to the count;
true, the young man had warmly and
energetically thanked the count on the
previous evening; but services such as
he had rendered could never be too often
acknowledged. Franz, who seemed
attracted by some invisible influence
towards the count, in which terror was
strangely mingled, felt an extreme
reluctance to permit his friend to be
exposed alone to the singular
fascination that this mysterious
personage seemed to exercise over him,
and therefore made no objection to
Albert's request, but at once
accompanied him to the desired spot,
and, after a short delay, the count
joined them in the salon. "My dear
count," said Albert, advancing to meet
him, "permit me to repeat the poor
thanks I offered last night, and to
assure you that the remembrance of all I
owe to you will never be effaced from my
memory; believe me, as long as I live, I
shall never cease to dwell with grateful
recollection on the prompt and important
service you rendered me; and also to
remember that to you I am indebted even
for my life."

"My very good friend and excellent
neighbor," replied the count, with a
smile, "you really exaggerate my
trifling exertions. You owe me nothing
but some trifle of 20,000 francs, which
you have been saved out of your
travelling expenses, so that there is
not much of a score between us; -- but
you must really permit me to
congratulate you on the ease and
unconcern with which you resigned
yourself to your fate, and the perfect
indifference you manifested as to the
turn events might take."

"Upon my word," said Albert, "I deserve
no credit for what I could not help,
namely, a determination to take
everything as I found it, and to let
those bandits see, that although men get
into troublesome scrapes all over the
world, there is no nation but the French
that can smile even in the face of grim
Death himself. All that, however, has
nothing to do with my obligations to
you, and I now come to ask you whether,
in my own person, my family, or
connections, I can in any way serve you?
My father, the Comte de Morcerf,
although of Spanish origin, possesses
considerable influence, both at the
court of France and Madrid, and I
unhesitatingly place the best services
of myself, and all to whom my life is
dear, at your disposal."

"Monsieur de Morcerf," replied the
count, "your offer, far from surprising
me, is precisely what I expected from
you, and I accept it in the same spirit
of hearty sincerity with which it is
made; -- nay, I will go still further,
and say that I had previously made up my
mind to ask a great favor at your
hands."

"Oh, pray name it."

"I am wholly a stranger to Paris -- it
is a city I have never yet seen."

"Is it possible," exclaimed Albert,
"that you have reached your present age
without visiting the finest capital in
the world? I can scarcely credit it."

"Nevertheless, it is quite true; still,
I agree with you in thinking that my
present ignorance of the first city in
Europe is a reproach to me in every way,
and calls for immediate correction; but,
in all probability, I should have
performed so important, so necessary a
duty, as that of making myself
acquainted with the wonders and beauties
of your justly celebrated capital, had I
known any person who would have
introduced me into the fashionable
world, but unfortunately I possessed no
acquaintance there, and, of necessity,
was compelled to abandon the idea."

"So distinguished an individual as
yourself," cried Albert, "could scarcely
have required an introduction."

"You are most kind; but as regards
myself, I can find no merit I possess,
save that, as a millionaire, I might
have become a partner in the
speculations of M. Aguado and M.
Rothschild; but as my motive in
travelling to your capital would not
have been for the pleasure of dabbling
in stocks, I stayed away till some
favorable chance should present itself
of carrying my wish into execution. Your
offer, however, smooths all
difficulties, and I have only to ask
you, my dear M. de Morcerf" (these words
were accompanied by a most peculiar
smile), "whether you undertake, upon my
arrival in France, to open to me the
doors of that fashionable world of which
I know no more than a Huron or a native
of Cochin-China?"

"Oh, that I do, and with infinite
pleasure," answered Albert; "and so much
the more readily as a letter received
this morning from my father summons me
to Paris, in consequence of a treaty of
marriage (my dear Franz, do not smile, I
beg of you) with a family of high
standing, and connected with the very
cream of Parisian society."

"Connected by marriage, you mean," said
Franz, laughingly.

"Well, never mind how it is," answered
Albert, "it comes to the same thing in
the end. Perhaps by the time you return
to Paris, I shall be quite a sober,
staid father of a family! A most
edifying representative I shall make of
all the domestic virtues -- don't you
think so? But as regards your wish to
visit our fine city, my dear count, I
can only say that you may command me and
mine to any extent you please."

"Then it is settled," said the count,
"and I give you my solemn assurance that
I only waited an opportunity like the
present to realize plans that I have
long meditated." Franz did not doubt
that these plans were the same
concerning which the count had dropped a
few words in the grotto of Monte Cristo,
and while the Count was speaking the
young man watched him closely, hoping to
read something of his purpose in his
face, but his countenance was
inscrutable especially when, as in the
present case, it was veiled in a
sphinx-like smile. "But tell me now,
count," exclaimed Albert, delighted at
the idea of having to chaperon so
distinguished a person as Monte Cristo;
"tell me truly whether you are in
earnest, or if this project of visiting
Paris is merely one of the chimerical
and uncertain air castles of which we
make so many in the course of our lives,
but which, like a house built on the
sand, is liable to be blown over by the
first puff of wind?"

"I pledge you my honor," returned the
count, "that I mean to do as I have
said; both inclination and positive
necessity compel me to visit Paris."

"When do you propose going thither?"

"Have you made up your mind when you
shall be there yourself?"

"Certainly I have; in a fortnight or
three weeks' time, that is to say, as
fast as I can get there!"

"Nay," said the Count; "I will give you
three months ere I join you; you see I
make an ample allowance for all delays
and difficulties.

"And in three months' time," said
Albert, "you will be at my house?"

"Shall we make a positive appointment
for a particular day and hour?" inquired
the count; "only let me warn you that I
am proverbial for my punctilious
exactitude in keeping my engagements."

"Day for day, hour for hour," said
Albert; "that will suit me to a dot."

"So be it, then," replied the count, and
extending his hand towards a calendar,
suspended near the chimney-piece, he
said, "to-day is the 21st of February;"
and drawing out his watch, added, "it is
exactly half-past ten o'clock. Now
promise me to remember this, and expect
me the 21st of May at the same hour in
the forenoon."

"Capital," exclaimed Albert; "your
breakfast shall be waiting."

"Where do you live?"

"No. 27, Rue du Helder."

"Have you bachelor's apartments there? I
hope my coming will not put you to any
inconvenience."

"I reside in my father's house, but
occupy a pavilion at the farther side of
the court-yard, entirely separated from
the main building."

"Quite sufficient," replied the count,
as, taking out his tablets, he wrote
down "No. 27, Rue du Helder, 21st May,
half-past ten in the morning."

"Now then," said the count, returning
his tablets to his pocket, "make
yourself perfectly easy; the hand of
your time-piece will not be more
accurate in marking the time than
myself."

"Shall I see you again ere my
departure?" asked Albert.

"That depends; when do you leave?"

"To-morrow evening, at five o'clock."

"In that case I must say adieu to you,
as I am compelled to go to Naples, and
shall not return hither before Saturday
evening or Sunday morning. And you,
baron," pursued the count, addressing
Franz, "do you also depart to-morrow?"

"Yes."

"For France?"

"No, for Venice; I shall remain in Italy
for another year or two."

"Then we shall not meet in Paris?"

"I fear I shall not have that honor."

"Well, since we must part," said the
count, holding out a hand to each of the
young men, "allow me to wish you both a
safe and pleasant journey." It was the
first time the hand of Franz had come in
contact with that of the mysterious
individual before him, and unconsciously
he shuddered at its touch, for it felt
cold and icy as that of a corpse. "Let
us understand each other," said Albert;
"it is agreed -- is it not? -- that you
are to be at No. 27, in the Rue du
Helder, on the 21st of May, at half-past
ten in the morning, and your word of
honor passed for your punctuality?"

"The 21st of May, at half-past ten in
the morning, Rue du Helder, No. 27,"
replied the Count. The young men then
rose, and bowing to the count, quitted
the room. "What is the matter?" asked
Albert of Franz, when they had returned
to their own apartments; "you seem more
than commonly thoughtful."

"I will confess to you, Albert," replied
Franz, "the count is a very singular
person, and the appointment you have
made to meet him in Paris fills me with
a thousand apprehensions."

"My dear fellow," exclaimed Albert,
"what can there possibly be in that to
excite uneasiness? Why, you must have
lost your senses."

"Whether I am in my senses or not,"
answered Franz, "that is the way I
feel."

"Listen to me, Franz," said Albert; "I
am glad that the occasion has presented
itself for saying this to you, for I
have noticed how cold you are in your
bearing towards the count, while he, on
the other hand, has always been courtesy
itself to us. Have you anything
particular against him?"

"Possibly."

"Did you ever meet him previously to
coming hither?"

"I have."

"And where?"

"Will you promise me not to repeat a
single word of what I am about to tell
you?"

"I promise."

"Upon your honor?"

"Upon my honor."

"Then listen to me." Franz then related
to his friend the history of his
excursion to the Island of Monte Cristo
and of his finding a party of smugglers
there, and the two Corsican bandits with
them. He dwelt with considerable force
and energy on the almost magical
hospitality he had received from the
count, and the magnificence of his
entertainment in the grotto of the
"Thousand and One Nights." He recounted,
with circumstantial exactitude, all the
particulars of the supper, the hashish,
the statues, the dream, and how, at his
awakening, there remained no proof or
trace of all these events, save the
small yacht, seen in the distant horizon
driving under full sail toward
Porto-Vecchio. Then he detailed the
conversation overheard by him at the
Colosseum, between the count and Vampa,
in which the count had promised to
obtain the release of the bandit
Peppino, -- an engagement which, as our
readers are aware, he most faithfully
fulfilled. At last he arrived at the
adventure of the preceding night, and
the embarrassment in which he found
himself placed by not having sufficient
cash by six or seven hundred piastres to
make up the sum required, and finally of
his application to the count and the
picturesque and satisfactory result that
followed. Albert listened with the most
profound attention. "Well," said he,
when Franz had concluded, "what do you
find to object to in all you have
related? The count is fond of
travelling, and, being rich, possesses a
vessel of his own. Go but to Portsmouth
or Southampton, and you will find the
harbors crowded with the yachts
belonging to such of the English as can
afford the expense, and have the same
liking for this amusement. Now, by way
of having a resting-place during his
excursions, avoiding the wretched
cookery -- which has been trying its
best to poison me during the last four
months, while you have manfully resisted
its effects for as many years, -- and
obtaining a bed on which it is possible
to slumber, Monte Cristo has furnished
for himself a temporary abode where you
first found him; but, to prevent the
possibility of the Tuscan government
taking a fancy to his enchanted palace,
and thereby depriving him of the
advantages naturally expected from so
large an outlay of capital, he has
wisely enough purchased the island, and
taken its name. Just ask yourself, my
good fellow, whether there are not many
persons of our acquaintance who assume
the names of lands and properties they
never in their lives were masters of?"

"But," said Franz, "the Corsican bandits
that were among the crew of his vessel?"

"Why, really the thing seems to me
simple enough. Nobody knows better than
yourself that the bandits of Corsica are
not rogues or thieves, but purely and
simply fugitives, driven by some
sinister motive from their native town
or village, and that their fellowship
involves no disgrace or stigma; for my
own part, I protest that, should I ever
go to Corsica, my first visit, ere even
I presented myself to the mayor or
prefect, should be to the bandits of
Colomba, if I could only manage to find
them; for, on my conscience, they are a
race of men I admire greatly."

"Still," persisted Franz, "I suppose you
will allow that such men as Vampa and
his band are regular villains, who have
no other motive than plunder when they
seize your person. How do you explain
the influence the count evidently
possessed over those ruffians?"

"My good friend, as in all probability I
own my present safety to that influence,
it would ill become me to search too
closely into its source; therefore,
instead of condemning him for his
intimacy with outlaws, you must give me
leave to excuse any little irregularity
there may be in such a connection; not
altogether for preserving my life, for
my own idea was that it never was in
much danger, but certainly for saving me
4,000 piastres, which, being translated,
means neither more nor less than 24,000
livres of our money -- a sum at which,
most assuredly, I should never have been
estimated in France, proving most
indisputably," added Albert with a
laugh, "that no prophet is honored in
his own country."

"Talking of countries," replied Franz,
"of what country is the count, what is
his native tongue, whence does he derive
his immense fortune, and what were those
events of his early life -- a life as
marvellous as unknown -- that have
tinctured his succeeding years with so
dark and gloomy a misanthropy? Certainly
these are questions that, in your place,
I should like to have answered."

"My dear Franz," replied Albert, "when,
upon receipt of my letter, you found the
necessity of asking the count's
assistance, you promptly went to him,
saying, `My friend Albert de Morcerf is
in danger; help me to deliver him.' Was
not that nearly what you said?"

"It was."

"Well, then, did he ask you, `Who is M.
Albert de Morcerf? how does he come by
his name -- his fortune? what are his
means of existence? what is his
birthplace! of what country is he a
native?' Tell me, did he put all these
questions to you?"

"I confess he asked me none."

"No; he merely came and freed me from
the hands of Signor Vampa, where, I can
assure you, in spite of all my outward
appearance of ease and unconcern, I did
not very particularly care to remain.
Now, then, Franz, when, for services so
promptly and unhesitatingly rendered, he
but asks me in return to do for him what
is done daily for any Russian prince or
Italian nobleman who may pass through
Paris -- merely to introduce him into
society -- would you have me refuse? My
good fellow, you must have lost your
senses to think it possible I could act
with such cold-blooded policy." And this
time it must be confessed that, contrary
to the usual state of affairs in
discussions between the young men, the
effective arguments were all on Albert's
side.

"Well," said Franz with a sigh, "do as
you please my dear viscount, for your
arguments are beyond my powers of
refutation. Still, in spite of all, you
must admit that this Count of Monte
Cristo is a most singular personage."

"He is a philanthropist," answered the
other; "and no doubt his motive in
visiting Paris is to compete for the
Monthyon prize, given, as you are aware,
to whoever shall be proved to have most
materially advanced the interests of
virtue and humanity. If my vote and
interest can obtain it for him, I will
readily give him the one and promise the
other. And now, my dear Franz, let us
talk of something else. Come, shall we
take our luncheon, and then pay a last
visit to St. Peter's?" Franz silently
assented; and the following afternoon,
at half-past five o'clock, the young men
parted. Albert de Morcerf to return to
Paris, and Franz d'Epinay to pass a
fortnight at Venice. But, ere he entered
his travelling carriage, Albert, fearing
that his expected guest might forget the
engagement he had entered into, placed
in the care of a waiter at the hotel a
card to be delivered to the Count of
Monte Cristo, on which, beneath the name
of Vicomte Albert de Morcerf, he had
written in pencil -- "27, Rue du Helder,
on the 21st May, half-past ten A.M."



Chapter 39 The Guests.

In the house in the Rue du Helder, where
Albert had invited the Count of Monte
Cristo, everything was being prepared on
the morning of the 21st of May to do
honor to the occasion. Albert de Morcerf
inhabited a pavilion situated at the
corner of a large court, and directly
opposite another building, in which were
the servants' apartments. Two windows
only of the pavilion faced the street;
three other windows looked into the
court, and two at the back into the
garden. Between the court and the
garden, built in the heavy style of the
imperial architecture, was the large and
fashionable dwelling of the Count and
Countess of Morcerf. A high wall
surrounded the whole of the hotel,
surmounted at intervals by vases filled
with flowers, and broken in the centre
by a large gate of gilded iron, which
served as the carriage entrance. A small
door, close to the lodge of the
concierge, gave ingress and egress to
the servants and masters when they were
on foot.

It was easy to discover that the
delicate care of a mother, unwilling to
part from her son, and yet aware that a
young man of the viscount's age required
the full exercise of his liberty, had
chosen this habitation for Albert. There
were not lacking, however, evidences of
what we may call the intelligent egoism
of a youth who is charmed with the
indolent, careless life of an only son,
and who lives as it were in a gilded
cage. By means of the two windows
looking into the street, Albert could
see all that passed; the sight of what
is going on is necessary to young men,
who always want to see the world
traverse their horizon, even if that
horizon is only a public thoroughfare.
Then, should anything appear to merit a
more minute examination, Albert de
Morcerf could follow up his researches
by means of a small gate, similar to
that close to the concierge's door, and
which merits a particular description.
It was a little entrance that seemed
never to have been opened since the
house was built, so entirely was it
covered with dust and dirt; but the
well-oiled hinges and locks told quite
another story. This door was a mockery
to the concierge, from whose vigilance
and jurisdiction it was free, and, like
that famous portal in the "Arabian
Nights," opening at the "Sesame" of Ali
Baba, it was wont to swing backward at a
cabalistic word or a concerted tap from
without from the sweetest voices or
whitest fingers in the world. At the end
of a long corridor, with which the door
communicated, and which formed the
ante-chamber, was, on the right,
Albert's breakfast-room, looking into
the court, and on the left the salon,
looking into the garden. Shrubs and
creeping plants covered the windows, and
hid from the garden and court these two
apartments, the only rooms into which,
as they were on the ground-floor, the
prying eyes of the curious could
penetrate. On the floor above were
similar rooms, with the addition of a
third, formed out of the ante-chamber;
these three rooms were a salon, a
boudoir, and a bedroom. The salon
down-stairs was only an Algerian divan,
for the use of smokers. The boudoir
up-stairs communicated with the
bed-chamber by an invisible door on the
staircase; it was evident that every
precaution had been taken. Above this
floor was a large atelier, which had
been increased in size by pulling down
the partitions -- a pandemonium, in
which the artist and the dandy strove
for preeminence. There were collected
and piled up all Albert's successive
caprices, hunting-horns, bass-viols,
flutes -- a whole orchestra, for Albert
had had not a taste but a fancy for
music; easels, palettes, brushes,
pencils -- for music had been succeeded
by painting; foils, boxing-gloves,
broadswords, and single-sticks -- for,
following the example of the fashionable
young men of the time, Albert de Morcerf
cultivated, with far more perseverance
than music and drawing, the three arts
that complete a dandy's education, i.e.,
fencing, boxing, and single-stick; and
it was here that he received Grisier,
Cook, and Charles Leboucher. The rest of
the furniture of this privileged
apartment consisted of old cabinets,
filled with Chinese porcelain and
Japanese vases, Lucca della Robbia
faience, and Palissy platters; of old
arm-chairs, in which perhaps had sat
Henry IV. or Sully, Louis XIII. or
Richelieu -- for two of these
arm-chairs, adorned with a carved
shield, on which were engraved the
fleur-de-lis of France on an azure field
evidently came from the Louvre, or, at
least, some royal residence. Over these
dark and sombre chairs were thrown
splendid stuffs, dyed beneath Persia's
sun, or woven by the fingers of the
women of Calcutta or of Chandernagor.
What these stuffs did there, it was
impossible to say; they awaited, while
gratifying the eyes, a destination
unknown to their owner himself; in the
meantime they filled the place with
their golden and silky reflections. In
the centre of the room was a Roller and
Blanchet "baby grand" piano in rosewood,
but holding the potentialities of an
orchestra in its narrow and sonorous
cavity, and groaning beneath the weight
of the chefs-d'oeuvre of Beethoven,
Weber, Mozart, Haydn, Gretry, and
Porpora. On the walls, over the doors,
on the ceiling, were swords, daggers,
Malay creeses, maces, battle-axes;
gilded, damasked, and inlaid suits of
armor; dried plants, minerals, and
stuffed birds, their flame-colored wings
outspread in motionless flight, and
their beaks forever open. This was
Albert's favorite lounging place.

However, the morning of the appointment,
the young man had established himself in
the small salon down-stairs. There, on a
table, surrounded at some distance by a
large and luxurious divan, every species
of tobacco known, -- from the yellow
tobacco of Petersburg to the black of
Sinai, and so on along the scale from
Maryland and Porto-Rico, to Latakia, --
was exposed in pots of crackled
earthenware of which the Dutch are so
fond; beside them, in boxes of fragrant
wood, were ranged, according to their
size and quality, pueros, regalias,
havanas, and manillas; and, in an open
cabinet, a collection of German pipes,
of chibouques, with their amber
mouth-pieces ornamented with coral, and
of narghiles, with their long tubes of
morocco, awaiting the caprice or the
sympathy of the smokers. Albert had
himself presided at the arrangement, or,
rather, the symmetrical derangement,
which, after coffee, the guests at a
breakfast of modern days love to
contemplate through the vapor that
escapes from their mouths, and ascends
in long and fanciful wreaths to the
ceiling. At a quarter to ten, a valet
entered; he composed, with a little
groom named John, and who only spoke
English, all Albert's establishment,
although the cook of the hotel was
always at his service, and on great
occasions the count's chasseur also.
This valet, whose name was Germain, and
who enjoyed the entire confidence of his
young master, held in one hand a number
of papers, and in the other a packet of
letters, which he gave to Albert. Albert
glanced carelessly at the different
missives, selected two written in a
small and delicate hand, and enclosed in
scented envelopes, opened them and
perused their contents with some
attention. "How did these letters come?"
said he.

"One by the post, Madame Danglars'
footman left the other."

"Let Madame Danglars know that I accept
the place she offers me in her box.
Wait; then, during the day, tell Rosa
that when I leave the Opera I will sup
with her as she wishes. Take her six
bottles of different wine -- Cyprus,
sherry, and Malaga, and a barrel of
Ostend oysters; get them at Borel's, and
be sure you say they are for me."

"At what o'clock, sir, do you
breakfast?"

"What time is it now?"

"A quarter to ten."

"Very well, at half past ten. Debray
will, perhaps, be obliged to go to the
minister -- and besides" (Albert looked
at his tablets), "it is the hour I told
the count, 21st May, at half past ten;
and though I do not much rely upon his
promise, I wish to be punctual. Is the
countess up yet?"

"If you wish, I will inquire."

"Yes, ask her for one of her liqueur
cellarets, mine is incomplete; and tell
her I shall have the honor of seeing her
about three o'clock, and that I request
permission to introduce some one to
her." The valet left the room. Albert
threw himself on the divan, tore off the
cover of two or three of the papers,
looked at the theatre announcements,
made a face seeing they gave an opera,
and not a ballet; hunted vainly amongst
the advertisements for a new
tooth-powder of which he had heard, and
threw down, one after the other, the
three leading papers of Paris,
muttering, "These papers become more and
more stupid every day." A moment after,
a carriage stopped before the door, and
the servant announced M. Lucien Debray.
A tall young man, with light hair, clear
gray eyes, and thin and compressed lips,
dressed in a blue coat with beautifully
carved gold buttons, a white neckcloth,
and a tortoiseshell eye-glass suspended
by a silken thread, and which, by an
effort of the superciliary and zygomatic
muscles, he fixed in his eye, entered,
with a half-official air, without
smiling or speaking. "Good-morning,
Lucien, good-morning," said Albert;
"your punctuality really alarms me. What
do I say? punctuality! You, whom I
expected last, you arrive at five
minutes to ten, when the time fixed was
half-past! Has the ministry resigned?"

"No, my dear fellow," returned the young
man, seating himself on the divan;
"reassure yourself; we are tottering
always, but we never fall, and I begin
to believe that we shall pass into a
state of immobility, and then the
affairs of the Peninsula will completely
consolidate us."

"Ah, true; you drive Don Carlos out of
Spain."

"No, no, my dear fellow, do not confound
our plans. We take him to the other side
of the French frontier, and offer him
hospitality at Bourges."

"At Bourges?"

"Yes, he has not much to complain of;
Bourges is the capital of Charles VII.
Do you not know that all Paris knew it
yesterday, and the day before it had
already transpired on the Bourse, and M.
Danglars (I do not know by what means
that man contrives to obtain
intelligence as soon as we do) made a
million!"

"And you another order, for I see you
have a blue ribbon at your button-hole."

"Yes; they sent me the order of Charles
III.," returned Debray, carelessly.

"Come, do not affect indifference, but
confess you were pleased to have it."

"Oh, it is very well as a finish to the
toilet. It looks very neat on a black
coat buttoned up."

"And makes you resemble the Prince of
Wales or the Duke of Reichstadt."

"It is for that reason you see me so
early."

"Because you have the order of Charles
III., and you wish to announce the good
news to me?"

"No, because I passed the night writing
letters, -- five and twenty despatches.
I returned home at daybreak, and strove
to sleep; but my head ached and I got up
to have a ride for an hour. At the Bois
de Boulogne, ennui and hunger attacked
me at once, -- two enemies who rarely
accompany each other, and who are yet
leagued against me, a sort of
Carlo-republican alliance. I then
recollected you gave a breakfast this
morning, and here I am. I am hungry,
feed me; I am bored, amuse me."

"It is my duty as your host," returned
Albert, ringing the bell, while Lucien
turned over, with his gold-mounted cane,
the papers that lay on the table.
"Germain, a glass of sherry and a
biscuit. In the meantime. my dear
Lucien, here are cigars -- contraband,
of course -- try them, and persuade the
minister to sell us such instead of
poisoning us with cabbage leaves."

"Peste, I will do nothing of the kind;
the moment they come from government you
would find them execrable. Besides, that
does not concern the home but the
financial department. Address yourself
to M. Humann, section of the indirect
contributions, corridor A., No. 26."

"On my word," said Albert, "you astonish
me by the extent of your knowledge. Take
a cigar."

"Really, my dear Albert," replied
Lucien, lighting a manilla at a
rose-colored taper that burnt in a be
beautifully enamelled stand -- "how
happy you are to have nothing to do. You
do not know your own good fortune!"

"And what would you do, my dear
diplomatist," replied Morcerf, with a
slight degree of irony in his voice, "if
you did nothing? What? private secretary
to a minister, plunged at once into
European cabals and Parisian intrigues;
having kings, and, better still, queens,
to protect, parties to unite, elections
to direct; making more use of your
cabinet with your pen and your telegraph
than Napoleon did of his battle-fields
with his sword and his victories;
possessing five and twenty thousand
francs a year, besides your place; a
horse, for which Chateau-Renaud offered
you four hundred louis, and which you
would not part with; a tailor who never
disappoints you; with the opera, the
jockey-club, and other diversions, can
you not amuse yourself? Well, I will
amuse you."

"How?"

"By introducing to you a new
acquaintance."

"A man or a woman?"

"A man."

"I know so many men already."

"But you do not know this man."

"Where does he come from -- the end of
the world?"

"Farther still, perhaps."

"The deuce! I hope he does not bring our
breakfast with him."

"Oh, no; our breakfast comes from my
father's kitchen. Are you hungry?"

"Humiliating as such a confession is, I
am. But I dined at M. de Villefort's,
and lawyers always give you very bad
dinners. You would think they felt some
remorse; did you ever remark that?"

"Ah, depreciate other persons' dinners;
you ministers give such splendid ones."

"Yes; but we do not invite people of
fashion. If we were not forced to
entertain a parcel of country boobies
because they think and vote with us, we
should never dream of dining at home, I
assure you."

"Well, take another glass of sherry and
another biscuit."

"Willingly. Your Spanish wine is
excellent. You see we were quite right
to pacify that country."

"Yes; but Don Carlos?"

"Well, Don Carlos will drink Bordeaux,
and in ten years we will marry his son
to the little queen."

"You will then obtain the Golden Fleece,
if you are still in the ministry."

"I think, Albert, you have adopted the
system of feeding me on smoke this
morning."

"Well, you must allow it is the best
thing for the stomach; but I hear
Beauchamp in the next room; you can
dispute together, and that will pass
away the time."

"About what?"

"About the papers."

"My dear friend," said Lucien with an
air of sovereign contempt, "do I ever
read the papers?"

"Then you will dispute the more."

"M. Beauchamp," announced the servant.
"Come in, come in," said Albert, rising
and advancing to meet the young man.
"Here is Debray, who detests you without
reading you, so he says."

"He is quite right," returned Beauchamp;
"for I criticise him without knowing
what he does. Good-day, commander!"

"Ah, you know that already," said the
private secretary, smiling and shaking
hands with him.

"Pardieu?"

"And what do they say of it in the
world?"

"In which world? we have so many worlds
in the year of grace 1838."

"In the entire political world, of which
you are one of the leaders."

"They say that it is quite fair, and
that sowing so much red, you ought to
reap a little blue."

"Come, come, that is not bad!" said
Lucien. "Why do you not join our party,
my dear Beauchamp? With your talents you
would make your fortune in three or four
years."

"I only await one thing before following
your advice; that is, a minister who
will hold office for six months. My dear
Albert, one word, for I must give poor
Lucien a respite. Do we breakfast or
dine? I must go to the Chamber, for our
life is not an idle one."

"You only breakfast; I await two
persons, and the instant they arrive we
shall sit down to table."



Chapter 40 The Breakfast.

"And what sort of persons do you expect
to breakfast?" said Beauchamp.

"A gentleman, and a diplomatist."

"Then we shall have to wait two hours
for the gentleman, and three for the
diplomatist. I shall come back to
dessert; keep me some strawberries,
coffee, and cigars. I shall take a
cutlet on my way to the Chamber."

"Do not do anything of the sort; for
were the gentleman a Montmorency, and
the diplomatist a Metternich, we will
breakfast at eleven; in the meantime,
follow Debray's example, and take a
glass of sherry and a biscuit."

"Be it so; I will stay; I must do
something to distract my thoughts."

"You are like Debray, and yet it seems
to me that when the minister is out of
spirits, the opposition ought to be
joyous."

"Ah, you do not know with what I am
threatened. I shall hear this morning
that M. Danglars make a speech at the
Chamber of Deputies, and at his wife's
this evening I shall hear the tragedy of
a peer of France. The devil take the
constitutional government, and since we
had our choice, as they say, at least,
how could we choose that?"

"I understand; you must lay in a stock
of hilarity."

"Do not run down M. Danglars' speeches,"
said Debray; "he votes for you, for he
belongs to the opposition."

"Pardieu, that is exactly the worst of
all. I am waiting until you send him to
speak at the Luxembourg, to laugh at my
ease."

"My dear friend," said Albert to
Beauchamp, "it is plain that the affairs
of Spain are settled, for you are most
desperately out of humor this morning.
Recollect that Parisian gossip has
spoken of a marriage between myself and
Mlle. Eugenie Danglars; I cannot in
conscience, therefore, let you run down
the speeches of a man who will one day
say to me, `Vicomte, you know I give my
daughter two millions.'"

"Ah, this marriage will never take
place," said Beauchamp. "The king has
made him a baron, and can make him a
peer, but he cannot make him a
gentleman, and the Count of Morcerf is
too aristocratic to consent, for the
paltry sum of two million francs, to a
mesalliance. The Viscount of Morcerf can
only wed a marchioness."

"But two million francs make a nice
little sum," replied Morcerf.

"It is the social capital of a theatre
on the boulevard, or a railroad from the
Jardin des Plantes to La Rapee."

"Never mind what he says, Morcerf," said
Debray, "do you marry her. You marry a
money-bag label, it is true; well, but
what does that matter? It is better to
have a blazon less and a figure more on
it. You have seven martlets on your
arms; give three to your wife, and you
will still have four; that is one more
than M. de Guise had, who so nearly
became King of France, and whose cousin
was Emperor of Germany."

"On my word, I think you are right,
Lucien," said Albert absently.

"To be sure; besides, every millionaire
is as noble as a bastard -- that is, he
can be."

"Do not say that, Debray," returned
Beauchamp, laughing, "for here is
Chateau-Renaud, who, to cure you of your
mania for paradoxes, will pass the sword
of Renaud de Montauban, his ancestor,
through your body."

"He will sully it then," returned
Lucien; "for I am low -- very low."

"Oh, heavens," cried Beauchamp, "the
minister quotes Beranger, what shall we
come to next?"

"M. de Chateau-Renaud -- M. Maximilian
Morrel," said the servant, announcing
two fresh guests.

"Now, then, to breakfast," said
Beauchamp; "for, if I remember, you told
me you only expected two persons,
Albert."

"Morrel," muttered Albert -- "Morrel --
who is he?" But before he had finished,
M. de Chateau-Renaud, a handsome young
man of thirty, gentleman all over, --
that is, with the figure of a Guiche and
the wit of a Mortemart, -- took Albert's
hand. "My dear Albert," said he, "let me
introduce to you M. Maximilian Morrel,
captain of Spahis, my friend; and what
is more -- however the man speaks for
himself ---my preserver. Salute my hero,
viscount." And he stepped on one side to
give place to a young man of refined and
dignified bearing, with large and open
brow, piercing eyes, and black mustache,
whom our readers have already seen at
Marseilles, under circumstances
sufficiently dramatic not to be
forgotten. A rich uniform, half French,
half Oriental, set off his graceful and
stalwart figure, and his broad chest was
decorated with the order of the Legion
of Honor. The young officer bowed with
easy and elegant politeness. "Monsieur,"
said Albert with affectionate courtesy,
"the count of Chateau-Renaud knew how
much pleasure this introduction would
give me; you are his friend, be ours
also."

"Well said," interrupted Chateau-Renaud;
"and pray that, if you should ever be in
a similar predicament, he may do as much
for you as he did for me."

"What has he done?" asked Albert.

"Oh, nothing worth speaking of," said
Morrel; "M. de Chateau-Renaud
exaggerates."

"Not worth speaking of?" cried
Chateau-Renaud; "life is not worth
speaking of! -- that is rather too
philosophical, on my word, Morrel. It is
very well for you, who risk your life
every day, but for me, who only did so
once" --

"We gather from all this, baron, that
Captain Morrel saved your life."

"Exactly so."

"On what occasion?" asked Beauchamp.

"Beauchamp, my good fellow, you know I
am starving," said Debray: "do not set
him off on some long story."

"Well, I do not prevent your sitting
down to table," replied Beauchamp,
"Chateau-Renaud can tell us while we eat
our breakfast."

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

"Ah, true, a diplomatist!" observed
Debray.

"Diplomat or not, I don't know; I only
know that he charged himself on my
account with a mission, which he
terminated so entirely to my
satisfaction, that had I been king, I
should have instantly created him knight
of all my orders, even had I been able
to offer him the Golden Fleece and the
Garter."

"Well, since we are not to sit down to
table," said Debray, "take a glass of
sherry, and tell us all about it."

"You all know that I had the fancy of
going to Africa."

"It is a road your ancestors have traced
for you," said Albert gallantly.

"Yes? but I doubt that your object was
like theirs -- to rescue the Holy
Sepulchre."

"You are quite right, Beauchamp,"
observed the young aristocrat. "It was
only to fight as an amateur. I cannot
bear duelling since two seconds, whom I
had chosen to arrange an affair, forced
me to break the arm of one of my best
friends, one whom you all know -- poor
Franz d'Epinay."

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

"The devil take me, if I remember,"
returned Chateau-Renaud. "But I
recollect perfectly one thing, that,
being unwilling to let such talents as
mine sleep, I wished to try upon the
Arabs the new pistols that had been
given to me. In consequence I embarked
for Oran, and went from thence to
Constantine, where I arrived just in
time to witness the raising of the
siege. I retreated with the rest, for
eight and forty hours. I endured the
rain during the day, and the cold during
the night tolerably well, but the third
morning my horse died of cold. Poor
brute -- accustomed to be covered up and
to have a stove in the stable, the
Arabian finds himself unable to bear ten
degrees of cold in Arabia."

"That's why you want to purchase my
English horse," said Debray, "you think
he will bear the cold better."

"You are mistaken, for I have made a vow
never to return to Africa."

"You were very much frightened, then?"
asked Beauchamp.

"Well, yes, and I had good reason to be
so," replied Chateau-Renaud. "I was
retreating on foot, for my horse was
dead. Six Arabs came up, full gallop, to
cut off my head. I shot two with my
double-barrelled gun, and two more with
my pistols, but I was then disarmed, and
two were still left; one seized me by
the hair (that is why I now wear it so
short, for no one knows what may
happen), the other swung a yataghan, and
I already felt the cold steel on my
neck, when this gentleman whom you see
here charged them, shot the one who held
me by the hair, and cleft the skull of
the other with his sabre. He had
assigned himself the task of saving a
man's life that day; chance caused that
man to be myself. When I am rich I will
order a statue of Chance from Klagmann
or Marochetti."

"Yes," said Morrel, smiling, "it was the
5th of September, the anniversary of the
day on which my father was miraculously
preserved; therefore, as far as it lies
in my power, I endeavor to celebrate it
by some" --

"Heroic action," interrupted
Chateau-Renaud. "I was chosen. But that
is not all -- after rescuing me from the
sword, he rescued me from the cold, not
by sharing his cloak with me, like St.
Martin, but by giving me the whole; then
from hunger by sharing with me -- guess
what?"

"A Strasbourg pie?" asked Beauchamp.

"No, his horse; of which we each of us
ate a slice with a hearty appetite. It
was very hard."

"The horse?" said Morcerf, laughing.

"No, the sacrifice," returned
Chateau-Renaud; "ask Debray if he would
sacrifice his English steed for a
stranger?"

"Not for a stranger," said Debray, "but
for a friend I might, perhaps."

"I divined that you would become mine,
count," replied Morrel; "besides, as I
had the honor to tell you, heroism or
not, sacrifice or not, that day I owed
an offering to bad fortune in recompense
for the favors good fortune had on other
days granted to us."

"The history to which M. Morrel
alludes," continued Chateau-Renaud, "is
an admirable one, which he will tell you
some day when you are better acquainted
with him; to-day let us fill our
stomachs, and not our memories. What
time do you breakfast, Albert?"

"At half-past ten."

"Precisely?" asked Debray, taking out
his watch.

"Oh, you will give me five minutes'
grace," replied Morcerf, "for I also
expect a preserver."

"Of whom?"

"Of myself," cried Morcerf; "parbleu, do
you think I cannot be saved as well as
any one else, and that there are only
Arabs who cut off heads? Our breakfast
is a philanthropic one, and we shall
have at table -- at least, I hope so --
two benefactors of humanity."

"What shall we do?" said Debray; "we
have only one Monthyon prize."

"Well, it will be given to some one who
has done nothing to deserve it," said
Beauchamp; "that is the way the Academy
mostly escapes from the dilemma."

"And where does he come from?" asked
Debray. "You have already answered the
question once, but so vaguely that I
venture to put it a second time."

"Really," said Albert, "I do not know;
when I invited him three months ago, he
was then at Rome, but since that time
who knows where he may have gone?"

"And you think him capable of being
exact?" demanded Debray.

"I think him capable of everything."

"Well, with the five minutes' grace, we
have only ten left."

"I will profit by them to tell you
something about my guest."

"I beg pardon," interrupted Beauchamp;
"are there any materials for an article
in what you are going to tell us?"

"Yes, and for a most curious one."

"Go on, then, for I see I shall not get
to the Chamber this morning, and I must
make up for it."

"I was at Rome during the last
Carnival."

"We know that," said Beauchamp.

"Yes, but what you do not know is that I
was carried off by bandits."

"There are no bandits," cried Debray.

"Yes there are, and most hideous, or
rather most admirable ones, for I found
them ugly enough to frighten me."

"Come, my dear Albert," said Debray,
"confess that your cook is behindhand,
that the oysters have not arrived from
Ostend or Marennes, and that, like
Madame de Maintenon, you are going to
replace the dish by a story. Say so at
once; we are sufficiently well-bred to
excuse you, and to listen to your
history, fabulous as it promises to be."

"And I say to you, fabulous as it may
seem, I tell it as a true one from
beginning to end. The brigands had
carried me off, and conducted me to a
gloomy spot, called the Catacombs of
Saint Sebastian."

"I know it," said Chateau-Renaud; "I
narrowly escaped catching a fever
there."

"And I did more than that," replied
Morcerf, "for I caught one. I was
informed that I was prisoner until I
paid the sum of 4,000 Roman crowns --
about 24,000 francs. Unfortunately, I
had not above 1,500. I was at the end of
my journey and of my credit. I wrote to
Franz -- and were he here he would
confirm every word -- I wrote then to
Franz that if he did not come with the
four thousand crowns before six, at ten
minutes past I should have gone to join
the blessed saints and glorious martyrs
in whose company I had the honor of
being; and Signor Luigi Vampa, such was
the name of the chief of these bandits,
would have scrupulously kept his word."

"But Franz did come with the four
thousand crowns," said Chateau-Renaud.
"A man whose name is Franz d'Epinay or
Albert de Morcerf has not much
difficulty in procuring them."

"No, he arrived accompanied simply by
the guest I am going to present to you."

"Ah, this gentleman is a Hercules
killing Cacus, a Perseus freeing
Andromeda."

"No, he is a man about my own size."

"Armed to the teeth?"

"He had not even a knitting-needle."

"But he paid your ransom?"

"He said two words to the chief and I
was free."

"And they apologized to him for having
carried you off?" said Beauchamp.

"Just so."

"Why, he is a second Ariosto."

"No, his name is the Count of Monte
Cristo."

"There is no Count of Monte Cristo" said
Debray.

"I do not think so," added
Chateau-Renaud, with the air of a man
who knows the whole of the European
nobility perfectly.

"Does any one know anything of a Count
of Monte Cristo?"

"He comes possibly from the Holy Land,
and one of his ancestors possessed
Calvary, as the Mortemarts did the Dead
Sea."

"I think I can assist your researches,"
said Maximilian. "Monte Cristo is a
little island I have often heard spoken
of by the old sailors my father
employed -- a grain of sand in the
centre of the Mediterranean, an atom in
the infinite."

"Precisely!" cried Albert. "Well, he of
whom I speak is the lord and master of
this grain of sand, of this atom; he has
purchased the title of count somewhere
in Tuscany."

"He is rich, then?"

"I believe so."

"But that ought to be visible."

"That is what deceives you, Debray."

"I do not understand you."

"Have you read the `Arabian Nights'?"

"What a question!"

"Well, do you know if the persons you
see there are rich or poor, if their
sacks of wheat are not rubies or
diamonds? They seem like poor fishermen,
and suddenly they open some mysterious
cavern filled with the wealth of the
Indies."

"Which means?"

"Which means that my Count of Monte
Cristo is one of those fishermen. He has
even a name taken from the book, since
he calls himself Sinbad the Sailor, and
has a cave filled with gold."

"And you have seen this cavern,
Morcerf?" asked Beauchamp.

"No, but Franz has; for heaven's sake,
not a word of this before him. Franz
went in with his eyes blindfolded, and
was waited on by mutes and by women to
whom Cleopatra was a painted strumpet.
Only he is not quite sure about the
women, for they did not come in until
after he had taken hashish, so that what
he took for women might have been simply
a row of statues."

The two young men looked at Morcerf as
if to say, -- "Are you mad, or are you
laughing at us?"

"And I also," said Morrel thoughtfully,
"have heard something like this from an
old sailor named Penelon."

"Ah," cried Albert, "it is very lucky
that M. Morrel comes to aid me; you are
vexed, are you not, that he thus gives a
clew to the labyrinth?"

"My dear Albert," said Debray, "what you
tell us is so extraordinary."

"Ah, because your ambassadors and your
consuls do not tell you of them -- they
have no time. They are too much taken up
with interfering in the affairs of their
countrymen who travel."

"Now you get angry, and attack our poor
agents. How will you have them protect
you? The Chamber cuts down their
salaries every day, so that now they
have scarcely any. Will you be
ambassador, Albert? I will send you to
Constantinople."

"No, lest on the first demonstration I
make in favor of Mehemet Ali, the Sultan
send me the bowstring, and make my
secretaries strangle me."

"You say very true," responded Debray.

"Yes," said Albert, "but this has
nothing to do with the existence of the
Count of Monte Cristo."

"Pardieu, every one exists."

"Doubtless, but not in the same way;
every one has not black slaves, a
princely retinue, an arsenal of weapons
that would do credit to an Arabian
fortress, horses that cost six thousand
francs apiece, and Greek mistresses."

"Have you seen the Greek mistress?"

"I have both seen and heard her. I saw
her at the theatre, and heard her one
morning when I breakfasted with the
count."

"He eats, then?"

"Yes; but so little, it can hardly be
called eating."

"He must be a vampire."

"Laugh, if you will; the Countess G----
, who knew Lord Ruthven, declared that
the count was a vampire."

"Ah, capital," said Beauchamp. "For a
man not connected with newspapers, here
is the pendant to the famous sea-serpent
of the Constitutionnel."

"Wild eyes, the iris of which contracts
or dilates at pleasure," said Debray;
"facial angle strongly developed,
magnificent forehead, livid complexion,
black beard, sharp and white teeth,
politeness unexceptionable."

"Just so, Lucien," returned Morcerf;
"you have described him feature for
feature. Yes, keen and cutting
politeness. This man has often made me
shudder; and one day that we were
viewing an execution, I thought I should
faint, more from hearing the cold and
calm manner in which he spoke of every
description of torture, than from the
sight of the executioner and the
culprit."

"Did he not conduct you to the ruins of
the Colosseum and suck your blood?"
asked Beauchamp.

"Or, having delivered you, make you sign
a flaming parchment, surrendering your
soul to him as Esau did his
birth-right?"

"Rail on, rail on at your ease,
gentlemen," said Morcerf, somewhat
piqued. "When I look at you Parisians,
idlers on the Boulevard de Gand or the
Bois de Boulogne, and think of this man,
it seems to me we are not of the same
race."

"I am highly flattered," returned
Beauchamp. "At the same time," added
Chateau-Renaud, "your Count of Monte
Cristo is a very fine fellow, always
excepting his little arrangements with
the Italian banditti."

"There are no Italian banditti," said
Debray.

"No vampire," cried Beauchamp. "No Count
of Monte Cristo" added Debray. "There is
half-past ten striking, Albert."

"Confess you have dreamed this, and let
us sit down to breakfast," continued
Beauchamp. But the sound of the clock
had not died away when Germain
announced, "His excellency the Count of
Monte Cristo." The involuntary start
every one gave proved how much Morcerf's
narrative had impressed them, and Albert
himself could not wholly refrain from
manifesting sudden emotion. He had not
heard a carriage stop in the street, or
steps in the ante-chamber; the door had
itself opened noiselessly. The count
appeared, dressed with the greatest
simplicity, but the most fastidious
dandy could have found nothing to cavil
at in his toilet. Every article of
dress -- hat, coat, gloves, and boots --
was from the first makers. He seemed
scarcely five and thirty. But what
struck everybody was his extreme
resemblance to the portrait Debray had
drawn. The count advanced, smiling, into
the centre of the room, and approached
Albert, who hastened towards him holding
out his hand in a ceremonial manner.
"Punctuality," said Monte Cristo, "is
the politeness of kings, according to
one of your sovereigns, I think; but it
is not the same with travellers.
However, I hope you will excuse the two
or three seconds I am behindhand; five
hundred leagues are not to be
accomplished without some trouble, and
especially in France, where, it seems,
it is forbidden to beat the postilions."

"My dear count," replied Albert, "I was
announcing your visit to some of my
friends, whom I had invited in
consequence of the promise you did me
the honor to make, and whom I now
present to you. They are the Count of
Chateau-Renaud, whose nobility goes back
to the twelve peers, and whose ancestors
had a place at the Round Table; M.
Lucien Debray, private secretary to the
minister of the interior; M. Beauchamp,
an editor of a paper, and the terror of
the French government, but of whom, in
spite of his national celebrity, you
perhaps have not heard in Italy, since
his paper is prohibited there; and M.
Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis."

At this name the count, who had hitherto
saluted every one with courtesy, but at
the same time with coldness and
formality, stepped a pace forward, and a
slight tinge of red colored his pale
cheeks. "You wear the uniform of the new
French conquerors, monsieur," said he;
"it is a handsome uniform." No one could
have said what caused the count's voice
to vibrate so deeply, and what made his
eye flash, which was in general so
clear, lustrous, and limpid when he
pleased. "You have never seen our
Africans, count?" said Albert. "Never,"
replied the count, who was by this time
perfectly master of himself again.

"Well, beneath this uniform beats one of
the bravest and noblest hearts in the
whole army."

"Oh, M. de Morcerf," interrupted Morrel.

"Let me go on, captain. And we have just
heard," continued Albert, "of a new deed
of his, and so heroic a one, that,
although I have seen him to-day for the
first time, I request you to allow me to
introduce him as my friend." At these
words it was still possible to observe
in Monte Cristo the concentrated look,
changing color, and slight trembling of
the eyelid that show emotion. "Ah, you
have a noble heart," said the count; "so
much the better." This exclamation,
which corresponded to the count's own
thought rather than to what Albert was
saying, surprised everybody, and
especially Morrel, who looked at Monte
Cristo with wonder. But, at the same
time, the intonation was so soft that,
however strange the speech might seem,
it was impossible to be offended at it.
"Why should he doubt it?" said Beauchamp
to Chateau-Renaud.

"In reality," replied the latter, who,
with his aristocratic glance and his
knowledge of the world, had penetrated
at once all that was penetrable in Monte
Cristo, "Albert has not deceived us, for
the count is a most singular being. What
say you, Morrel!"

"Ma foi, he has an open look about him
that pleases me, in spite of the
singular remark he has made about me."

"Gentlemen," said Albert, "Germain
informs me that breakfast is ready. My
dear count, allow me to show you the
way." They passed silently into the
breakfast-room, and every one took his
place. "Gentleman," said the count,
seating himself, "permit me to make a
confession which must form my excuse for
any improprieties I may commit. I am a
stranger, and a stranger to such a
degree, that this is the first time I
have ever been at Paris. The French way
of living is utterly unknown to me, and
up to the present time I have followed
the Eastern customs, which are entirely
in contrast to the Parisian. I beg you,
therefore, to excuse if you find
anything in me too Turkish, too Italian,
or too Arabian. Now, then, let us
breakfast."

"With what an air he says all this,"
muttered Beauchamp; "decidedly he is a
great man."

"A great man in his own country," added
Debray.

"A great man in every country, M.
Debray," said Chateau-Renaud. The count
was, it may be remembered, a most
temperate guest. Albert remarked this,
expressing his fears lest, at the
outset, the Parisian mode of life should
displease the traveller in the most
essential point. "My dear count," said
he, "I fear one thing, and that is, that
the fare of the Rue du Helder is not so
much to your taste as that of the Piazza
di Spagni. I ought to have consulted you
on the point, and have had some dishes
prepared expressly."

"Did you know me better," returned the
count, smiling, "you would not give one
thought of such a thing for a traveller
like myself, who has successively lived
on maccaroni at Naples, polenta at
Milan, olla podrida at Valencia, pilau
at Constantinople, karrick in India, and
swallows' nests in China. I eat
everywhere, and of everything, only I
eat but little; and to-day, that you
reproach me with my want of appetite, is
my day of appetite, for I have not eaten
since yesterday morning."

"What," cried all the guests, "you have
not eaten for four and twenty hours?"

"No," replied the count; "I was forced
to go out of my road to obtain some
information near Nimes, so that I was
somewhat late, and therefore I did not
choose to stop."

"And you ate in your carriage?" asked
Morcerf.

"No, I slept, as I generally do when I
am weary without having the courage to
amuse myself, or when I am hungry
without feeling inclined to eat."

"But you can sleep when you please,
monsieur?" said Morrel.

"Yes."

"You have a recipe for it?"

"An infallible one."

"That would be invaluable to us in
Africa, who have not always any food to
eat, and rarely anything to drink."

"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "but,
unfortunately, a recipe excellent for a
man like myself would be very dangerous
applied to an army, which might not
awake when it was needed."

"May we inquire what is this recipe?"
asked Debray.

"Oh, yes," returned Monte Cristo; "I
make no secret of it. It is a mixture of
excellent opium, which I fetched myself
from Canton in order to have it pure,
and the best hashish which grows in the
East -- that is, between the Tigris and
the Euphrates. These two ingredients are
mixed in equal proportions, and formed
into pills. Ten minutes after one is
taken, the effect is produced. Ask Baron
Franz d'Epinay; I think he tasted them
one day."

"Yes," replied Morcerf, "he said
something about it to me."

"But," said Beauchamp, who, as became a
journalist, was very incredulous, "you
always carry this drug about you?"

"Always."

"Would it be an indiscretion to ask to
see those precious pills?" continued
Beauchamp, hoping to take him at a
disadvantage.

"No, monsieur," returned the count; and
he drew from his pocket a marvellous
casket, formed out of a single emerald
and closed by a golden lid which
unscrewed and gave passage to a small
greenish colored pellet about the size
of a pea. This ball had an acrid and
penetrating odor. There were four or
five more in the emerald, which would
contain about a dozen. The casket passed
around the table, but it was more to
examine the admirable emerald than to
see the pills that it passed from hand
to hand. "And is it your cook who
prepares these pills?" asked Beauchamp.

"Oh, no, monsieur," replied Monte
Cristo; "I do not thus betray my
enjoyments to the vulgar. I am a
tolerable chemist, and prepare my pills
myself."

"This is a magnificent emerald, and the
largest I have ever seen," said
Chateau-Renaud, "although my mother has
some remarkable family jewels."

"I had three similar ones," returned
Monte Cristo. "I gave one to the Sultan,
who mounted it in his sabre; another to
our holy father the Pope, who had it set
in his tiara, opposite to one nearly as
large, though not so fine, given by the
Emperor Napoleon to his predecessor,
Pius VII. I kept the third for myself,
and I had it hollowed out, which reduced
its value, but rendered it more
commodious for the purpose I intended."
Every one looked at Monte Cristo with
astonishment; he spoke with so much
simplicity that it was evident he spoke
the truth, or that he was mad. However,
the sight of the emerald made them
naturally incline to the former belief.
"And what did these two sovereigns give
you in exchange for these magnificent
presents?" asked Debray.

"The Sultan, the liberty of a woman,"
replied the Count; "the Pope, the life
of a man; so that once in my life I have
been as powerful as if heaven had
brought me into the world on the steps
of a throne."

"And it was Peppino you saved, was it
not?" cried Morcerf; "it was for him
that you obtained pardon?"

"Perhaps," returned the count, smiling.

"My dear count, you have no idea what
pleasure it gives me to hear you speak
thus," said Morcerf. "I had announced
you beforehand to my friends as an
enchanter of the `Arabian Nights,' a
wizard of the Middle Ages; but the
Parisians are so subtle in paradoxes
that they mistake for caprices of the
imagination the most incontestable
truths, when these truths do not form a
part of their daily existence. For
example, here is Debray who reads, and
Beauchamp who prints, every day, `A
member of the Jockey Club has been
stopped and robbed on the Boulevard;'
`four persons have been assassinated in
the Rue St. Denis' or `the Faubourg St.
Germain;' `ten, fifteen, or twenty
thieves, have been arrested in a cafe on
the Boulevard du Temple, or in the
Thermes de Julien,' -- and yet these
same men deny the existence of the
bandits in the Maremma, the Campagna di
Romana, or the Pontine Marshes. Tell
them yourself that I was taken by
bandits, and that without your generous
intercession I should now have been
sleeping in the Catacombs of St.
Sebastian, instead of receiving them in
my humble abode in the Rue du Helder."

"Ah," said Monte Cristo "you promised me
never to mention that circumstance."

"It was not I who made that promise,"
cried Morcerf; "it must have been some
one else whom you have rescued in the
same manner, and whom you have
forgotten. Pray speak of it, for I shall
not only, I trust, relate the little I
do know, but also a great deal I do not
know."

"It seems to me," returned the count,
smiling, "that you played a sufficiently
important part to know as well as myself
what happened."

"Well, you promise me, if I tell all I
know, to relate, in your turn, all that
I do not know?"

"That is but fair," replied Monte
Cristo.

"Well," said Morcerf, "for three days I
believed myself the object of the
attentions of a masque, whom I took for
a descendant of Tullia or Poppoea, while
I was simply the object of the
attentions of a contadina, and I say
contadina to avoid saying peasant girl.
What I know is, that, like a fool, a
greater fool than he of whom I spoke
just now, I mistook for this peasant
girl a young bandit of fifteen or
sixteen, with a beardless chin and slim
waist, and who, just as I was about to
imprint a chaste salute on his lips,
placed a pistol to my head, and, aided
by seven or eight others, led, or rather
dragged me, to the Catacombs of St.
Sebastian, where I found a highly
educated brigand chief perusing Caesar's
`Commentaries,' and who deigned to leave
off reading to inform me, that unless
the next morning, before six o'clock,
four thousand piastres were paid into
his account at his banker's, at a
quarter past six I should have ceased to
exist. The letter is still to be seen,
for it is in Franz d'Epinay's
possession, signed by me, and with a
postscript of M. Luigi Vampa. This is
all I know, but I know not, count, how
you contrived to inspire so much respect
in the bandits of Rome who ordinarily
have so little respect for anything. I
assure you, Franz and I were lost in
admiration."

"Nothing more simple," returned the
count. "I had known the famous Vampa for
more than ten years. When he was quite a
child, and only a shepherd, I gave him a
few gold pieces for showing me my way,
and he, in order to repay me, gave me a
poniard, the hilt of which he had carved
with his own hand, and which you may
have seen in my collection of arms. In
after years, whether he had forgotten
this interchange of presents, which
ought to have cemented our friendship,
or whether he did not recollect me, he
sought to take me, but, on the contrary,
it was I who captured him and a dozen of
his band. I might have handed him over
to Roman justice, which is somewhat
expeditious, and which would have been
particularly so with him; but I did
nothing of the sort -- I suffered him
and his band to depart."

"With the condition that they should sin
no more," said Beauchamp, laughing. "I
see they kept their promise."

"No, monsieur," returned Monte Cristo
"upon the simple condition that they
should respect myself and my friends.
Perhaps what I am about to say may seem
strange to you, who are socialists, and
vaunt humanity and your duty to your
neighbor, but I never seek to protect a
society which does not protect me, and
which I will even say, generally
occupies itself about me only to injure
me; and thus by giving them a low place
in my esteem, and preserving a
neutrality towards them, it is society
and my neighbor who are indebted to me."

"Bravo," cried Chateau-Renaud; "you are
the first man I ever met sufficiently
courageous to preach egotism. Bravo,
count, bravo!"

"It is frank, at least," said Morrel.
"But I am sure that the count does not
regret having once deviated from the
principles he has so boldly avowed."

"How have I deviated from those
principles, monsieur?" asked Monte
Cristo, who could not help looking at
Morrel with so much intensity, that two
or three times the young man had been
unable to sustain that clear and
piercing glance.

"Why, it seems to me," replied Morrel,
"that in delivering M. de Morcerf, whom
you did not know, you did good to your
neighbor and to society."

"Of which he is the brightest ornament,"
said Beauchamp, drinking off a glass of
champagne.

"My dear count," cried Morcerf, "you are
at fault -- you, one of the most
formidable logicians I know -- and you
must see it clearly proved that instead
of being an egotist, you are a
philanthropist. Ah, you call yourself
Oriental, a Levantine, Maltese, Indian,
Chinese; your family name is Monte
Cristo; Sinbad the Sailor is your
baptismal appellation, and yet the first
day you set foot in Paris you
instinctively display the greatest
virtue, or rather the chief defect, of
us eccentric Parisians, -- that is, you
assume the vices you have not, and
conceal the virtues you possess."

"My dear vicomte," returned Monte
Cristo, "I do not see, in all I have
done, anything that merits, either from
you or these gentlemen, the pretended
eulogies I have received. You were no
stranger to me, for I knew you from the
time I gave up two rooms to you, invited
you to breakfast with me, lent you one
of my carriages, witnessed the Carnival
in your company, and saw with you from a
window in the Piazza del Popolo the
execution that affected you so much that
you nearly fainted. I will appeal to any
of these gentlemen, could I leave my
guest in the hands of a hideous bandit,
as you term him? Besides, you know, I
had the idea that you could introduce me
into some of the Paris salons when I
came to France. You might some time ago
have looked upon this resolution as a
vague project, but to-day you see it was
a reality, and you must submit to it
under penalty of breaking your word."

"I will keep it," returned Morcerf; "but
I fear that you will be much
disappointed, accustomed as you are to
picturesque events and fantastic
horizons. Amongst us you will not meet
with any of those episodes with which
your adventurous existence has so
familiarized you; our Chimborazo is
Mortmartre, our Himalaya is Mount
Valerien, our Great Desert is the plain
of Grenelle, where they are now boring
an artesian well to water the caravans.
We have plenty of thieves, though not so
many as is said; but these thieves stand
in far more dread of a policeman than a
lord. France is so prosaic, and Paris so
civilized a city, that you will not find
in its eighty-five departments -- I say
eighty-five, because I do not include
Corsica -- you will not find, then, in
these eighty-five departments a single
hill on which there is not a telegraph,
or a grotto in which the commissary of
police has not put up a gaslamp. There
is but one service I can render you, and
for that I place myself entirely at your
orders, that is, to present, or make my
friends present, you everywhere;
besides, you have no need of any one to
introduce you -- with your name, and
your fortune, and your talent" (Monte
Cristo bowed with a somewhat ironical
smile) "you can present yourself
everywhere, and be well received. I can
be useful in one way only -- if
knowledge of Parisian habits, of the
means of rendering yourself comfortable,
or of the bazaars, can assist, you may
depend upon me to find you a fitting
dwelling here. I do not dare offer to
share my apartments with you, as I
shared yours at Rome -- I, who do not
profess egotism, but am yet egotist par
excellence; for, except myself, these
rooms would not hold a shadow more,
unless that shadow were feminine."

"Ah," said the count, "that is a most
conjugal reservation; I recollect that
at Rome you said something of a
projected marriage. May I congratulate
you?"

"The affair is still in projection."

"And he who says in `projection,' means
already decided," said Debray.

"No," replied Morcerf, "my father is
most anxious about it; and I hope, ere
long, to introduce you, if not to my
wife, at least to my betrothed --
Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars."

"Eugenie Danglars," said Monte Cristo;
"tell me, is not her father Baron
Danglars?"

"Yes," returned Morcerf, "a baron of a
new creation."

"What matter," said Monte Cristo "if he
has rendered the State services which
merit this distinction?"

"Enormous ones," answered Beauchamp.
"Although in reality a Liberal, he
negotiated a loan of six millions for
Charles X., in 1829, who made him a
baron and chevalier of the Legion of
Honor; so that he wears the ribbon, not,
as you would think, in his
waistcoat-pocket, but at his
button-hole."

"Ah," interrupted Morcerf, laughing,
"Beauchamp, Beauchamp, keep that for the
Corsaire or the Charivari, but spare my
future father-in-law before me." Then,
turning to Monte Cristo, "You just now
spoke his name as if you knew the
baron?"

"I do not know him," returned Monte
Cristo; "but I shall probably soon make
his acquaintance, for I have a credit
opened with him by the house of Richard
& Blount, of London, Arstein & Eskeles
of Vienna, and Thomson & French at
Rome." As he pronounced the two last
names, the count glanced at Maximilian
Morrel. If the stranger expected to
produce an effect on Morrel, he was not
mistaken -- Maximilian started as if he
had been electrified. "Thomson &
French," said he; "do you know this
house, monsieur?"

"They are my bankers in the capital of
the Christian world," returned the count
quietly. "Can my influence with them be
of any service to you?"

"Oh, count, you could assist me perhaps
in researches which have been, up to the
present, fruitless. This house, in past
years, did ours a great service, and
has, I know not for what reason, always
denied having rendered us this service."

"I shall be at your orders," said Monte
Cristo bowing.

"But," continued Morcerf, "a propos of
Danglars, -- we have strangely wandered
from the subject. We were speaking of a
suitable habitation for the Count of
Monte Cristo. Come, gentlemen, let us
all propose some place. Where shall we
lodge this new guest in our great
capital?"

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

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

"Boulevard de l'Opera," said Beauchamp;
"the second floor -- a house with a
balcony. The count will have his
cushions of silver cloth brought there,
and as he smokes his chibouque, see all
Paris pass before him."

"You have no idea, then, Morrel?" asked
Chateau-Renaud; "you do not propose
anything."

"Oh, yes," returned the young man,
smiling; "on the contrary, I have one,
but I expected the count would be
tempted by one of the brilliant
proposals made him, yet as he has not
replied to any of them, I will venture
to offer him a suite of apartments in a
charming hotel, in the Pompadour style,
that my sister has inhabited for a year,
in the Rue Meslay."

"You have a sister?" asked the count.

"Yes, monsieur, a most excellent
sister."

"Married?"

"Nearly nine years."

"Happy?" asked the count again.

"As happy as it is permitted to a human
creature to be," replied Maximilian.
"She married the man she loved, who
remained faithful to us in our fallen
fortunes -- Emmanuel Herbaut." Monte
Cristo smiled imperceptibly. "I live
there during my leave of absence,"
continued Maximilian; "and I shall be,
together with my brother-in-law
Emmanuel, at the disposition of the
Count, whenever he thinks fit to honor
us."

"One minute," cried Albert, without
giving Monte Cristo the time to reply.
"Take care, you are going to immure a
traveller, Sinbad the Sailor, a man who
comes to see Paris; you are going to
make a patriarch of him."

"Oh, no," said Morrel; "my sister is
five and twenty, my brother-in-law is
thirty, they are gay, young, and happy.
Besides, the count will be in his own
house, and only see them when he thinks
fit to do so."

"Thanks, monsieur," said Monte Cristo;
"I shall content myself with being
presented to your sister and her
husband, if you will do me the honor to
introduce me; but I cannot accept the
offer of any one of these gentlemen,
since my habitation is already
prepared."

"What," cried Morcerf; "you are, then,
going to an hotel -- that will be very
dull for you."

"Was I so badly lodged at Rome?" said
Monte Cristo smiling.

"Parbleu, at Rome you spent fifty
thousand piastres in furnishing your
apartments, but I presume that you are
not disposed to spend a similar sum
every day."

"It is not that which deterred me,"
replied Monte Cristo; "but as I
determined to have a house to myself, I
sent on my valet de chambre, and he
ought by this time to have bought the
house and furnished it."

"But you have, then, a valet de chambre
who knows Paris?" said Beauchamp.

"It is the first time he has ever been
in Paris. He is black, and cannot
speak," returned Monte Cristo.

"It is Ali!" cried Albert, in the midst
of the general surprise.

"Yes, Ali himself, my Nubian mute, whom
you saw, I think, at Rome."

"Certainly," said Morcerf; "I recollect
him perfectly. But how could you charge
a Nubian to purchase a house, and a mute
to furnish it? -- he will do everything
wrong."

"Undeceive yourself, monsieur," replied
Monte Cristo; "I am quite sure, that, on
the contrary, he will choose everything
as I wish. He knows my tastes, my
caprices, my wants. He has been here a
week, with the instinct of a hound,
hunting by himself. He will arrange
everything for me. He knew, that I
should arrive to-day at ten o'clock; he
was waiting for me at nine at the
Barriere de Fontainebleau. He gave me
this paper; it contains the number of my
new abode; read it yourself," and Monte
Cristo passed a paper to Albert. "Ah,
that is really original," said
Beauchamp.

"And very princely," added
Chateau-Renaud.

"What, do you not know your house?"
asked Debray.

"No," said Monte Cristo; "I told you I
did not wish to be behind my time; I
dressed myself in the carriage, and
descended at the viscount's door." The
young men looked at each other; they did
not know if it was a comedy Monte Cristo
was playing, but every word he uttered
had such an air of simplicity, that it
was impossible to suppose what he said
was false -- besides, why should he tell
a falsehood? "We must content ourselves,
then," said Beauchamp, "with rendering
the count all the little services in our
power. I, in my quality of journalist,
open all the theatres to him."

"Thanks, monsieur," returned Monte
Cristo, "my steward has orders to take a
box at each theatre."

"Is your steward also a Nubian?" asked
Debray.

"No, he is a countryman of yours, if a
Corsican is a countryman of any one's.
But you know him, M. de Morcerf."

"Is it that excellent M. Bertuccio, who
understands hiring windows so well?"

"Yes, you saw him the day I had the
honor of receiving you; he has been a
soldier, a smuggler -- in fact,
everything. I would not be quite sure
that he has not been mixed up with the
police for some trifle -- a stab with a
knife, for instance."

"And you have chosen this honest citizen
for your steward," said Debray. "Of how
much does he rob you every year?"

"On my word," replied the count, "not
more than another. I am sure he answers
my purpose, knows no impossibility, and
so I keep him."

"Then," continued Chateau-Renaud, "since
you have an establishment, a steward,
and a hotel in the Champs Elysees, you
only want a mistress." Albert smiled. He
thought of the fair Greek he had seen in
the count's box at the Argentina and
Valle theatres. "I have something better
than that," said Monte Cristo; "I have a
slave. You procure your mistresses from
the opera, the Vaudeville, or the
Varietes; I purchased mine at
Constantinople; it cost me more, but I
have nothing to fear."

"But you forget," replied Debray,
laughing, "that we are Franks by name
and franks by nature, as King Charles
said, and that the moment she puts her
foot in France your slave becomes free."

"Who will tell her?"

"The first person who sees her."

"She only speaks Romaic."

"That is different."

"But at least we shall see her," said
Beauchamp, "or do you keep eunuchs as
well as mutes?"

"Oh, no," replied Monte Cristo; "I do
not carry brutalism so far. Every one
who surrounds me is free to quit me, and
when they leave me will no longer have
any need of me or any one else; it is
for that reason, perhaps, that they do
not quit me." They had long since passed
to dessert and cigars.

"My dear Albert," said Debray, rising,
"it is half-past two. Your guest is
charming, but you leave the best company
to go into the worst sometimes. I must
return to the minister's. I will tell
him of the count, and we shall soon know
who he is."

"Take care," returned Albert; "no one
has been able to accomplish that."

"Oh, we have three millions for our
police; it is true they are almost
always spent beforehand, but, no matter,
we shall still have fifty thousand
francs to spend for this purpose."

"And when you know, will you tell me?"

"I promise you. Au revoir, Albert.
Gentlemen, good morning."

As he left the room, Debray called out
loudly, "My carriage."

"Bravo," said Beauchamp to Albert; "I
shall not go to the Chamber, but I have
something better to offer my readers
than a speech of M. Danglars."

"For heaven's sake, Beauchamp," returned
Morcerf, "do not deprive me of the merit
of introducing him everywhere. Is he not
peculiar?"

"He is more than that," replied
Chateau-Renaud; "he is one of the most
extraordinary men I ever saw in my life.
Are you coming, Morrel?"

"Directly I have given my card to the
count, who has promised to pay us a
visit at Rue Meslay, No. 14."

"Be sure I shall not fail to do so,"
returned the count, bowing. And
Maximilian Morrel left the room with the
Baron de Chateau-Renaud, leaving Monte
Cristo alone with Morcerf.



Chapter 41 The Presentation.

When Albert found himself alone with
Monte Cristo, "My dear count," said he,
"allow me to commence my services as
cicerone by showing you a specimen of a
bachelor's apartment. You, who are
accustomed to the palaces of Italy, can
amuse yourself by calculating in how
many square feet a young man who is not
the worst lodged in Paris can live. As
we pass from one room to another, I will
open the windows to let you breathe."
Monte Cristo had already seen the
breakfast-room and the salon on the
ground-floor. Albert led him first to
his atelier, which was, as we have said,
his favorite apartment. Monte Cristo
quickly appreciated all that Albert had
collected here -- old cabinets, Japanese
porcelain, Oriental stuffs, Venetian
glass, arms from all parts of the
world -- everything was familiar to him;
and at the first glance he recognized
their date, their country, and their
origin. Morcerf had expected he should
be the guide; on the contrary, it was he
who, under the count's guidance,
followed a course of archaeology,
mineralogy, and natural history. They
descended to the first floor; Albert led
his guest into the salon. The salon was
filled with the works of modern artists;
there were landscapes by Dupre, with
their long reeds and tall trees, their
lowing oxen and marvellous skies;
Delacroix's Arabian cavaliers, with
their long white burnouses, their
shining belts, their damasked arms,
their horses, who tore each other with
their teeth while their riders contended
fiercely with their maces; aquarelles of
Boulanger, representing Notre Dame de
Paris with that vigor that makes the
artist the rival of the poet; there were
paintings by Diaz, who makes his flowers
more beautiful than flowers, his suns
more brilliant than the sun; designs by
Decamp, as vividly colored as those of
Salvator Rosa, but more poetic; pastels
by Giraud and Muller, representing
children like angels and women with the
features of a virgin; sketches torn from
the album of Dauzats' "Travels in the
East," that had been made in a few
seconds on the saddle of a camel, or
beneath the dome of a mosque -- in a
word, all that modern art can give in
exchange and as recompense for the art
lost and gone with ages long since past.

Albert expected to have something new
this time to show to the traveller, but,
to his great surprise, the latter,
without seeking for the signatures, many
of which, indeed, were only initials,
named instantly the author of every
picture in such a manner that it was
easy to see that each name was not only
known to him, but that each style
associated with it had been appreciated
and studied by him. From the salon they
passed into the bed-chamber; it was a
model of taste and simple elegance. A
single portrait, signed by Leopold
Robert, shone in its carved and gilded
frame. This portrait attracted the Count
of Monte Cristo's attention, for he made
three rapid steps in the chamber, and
stopped suddenly before it. It was the
portrait of a young woman of five or six
and twenty, with a dark complexion, and
light and lustrous eyes, veiled beneath
long lashes. She wore the picturesque
costume of the Catalan fisherwomen, a
red and black bodice, and golden pins in
her hair. She was looking at the sea,
and her form was outlined on the blue
ocean and sky. The light was so faint in
the room that Albert did not perceive
the pallor that spread itself over the
count's visage, or the nervous heaving
of his chest and shoulders. Silence
prevailed for an instant, during which
Monte Cristo gazed intently on the
picture.

"You have there a most charming
mistress, viscount," said the count in a
perfectly calm tone; "and this
costume -- a ball costume, doubtless --
becomes her admirably."

"Ah, monsieur," returned Albert, "I
would never forgive you this mistake if
you had seen another picture beside
this. You do not know my mother; she it
is whom you see here. She had her
portrait painted thus six or eight years
ago. This costume is a fancy one, it
appears, and the resemblance is so great
that I think I still see my mother the
same as she was in 1830. The countess
had this portrait painted during the
count's absence. She doubtless intended
giving him an agreeable surprise; but,
strange to say, this portrait seemed to
displease my father, and the value of
the picture, which is, as you see, one
of the best works of Leopold Robert,
could not overcome his dislike to it. It
is true, between ourselves, that M. de
Morcerf is one of the most assiduous
peers at the Luxembourg, a general
renowned for theory, but a most mediocre
amateur of art. It is different with my
mother, who paints exceedingly well, and
who, unwilling to part with so valuable
a picture, gave it to me to put here,
where it would be less likely to
displease M. de Morcerf, whose portrait,
by Gros, I will also show you. Excuse my
talking of family matters, but as I
shall have the honor of introducing you
to the count, I tell you this to prevent
you making any allusions to this
picture. The picture seems to have a
malign influence, for my mother rarely
comes here without looking at it, and
still more rarely does she look at it
without weeping. This disagreement is
the only one that has ever taken place
between the count and countess, who are
still as much united, although married
more than twenty years, as on the first
day of their wedding."

Monte Cristo glanced rapidly at Albert,
as if to seek a hidden meaning in his
words, but it was evident the young man
uttered them in the simplicity of his
heart. "Now," said Albert, "that you
have seen all my treasures, allow me to
offer them to you, unworthy as they are.
Consider yourself as in your own house,
and to put yourself still more at your
ease, pray accompany me to the
apartments of M. de Morcerf, he whom I
wrote from Rome an account of the
services you rendered me, and to whom I
announced your promised visit, and I may
say that both the count and countess
anxiously desire to thank you in person.
You are somewhat blase I know, and
family scenes have not much effect on
Sinbad the Sailor, who has seen so many
others. However, accept what I propose
to you as an initiation into Parisian
life -- a life of politeness, visiting,
and introductions." Monte Cristo bowed
without making any answer; he accepted
the offer without enthusiasm and without
regret, as one of those conventions of
society which every gentleman looks upon
as a duty. Albert summoned his servant,
and ordered him to acquaint M. and
Madame de Morcerf of the arrival of the
Count of Monte Cristo. Albert followed
him with the count. When they arrived at
the ante-chamber, above the door was
visible a shield, which, by its rich
ornaments and its harmony with the rest
of the furniture, indicated the
importance the owner attached to this
blazon. Monte Cristo stopped and
examined it attentively.

"Azure seven merlets, or, placed
bender," said he. "These are, doubtless,
your family arms? Except the knowledge
of blazons, that enables me to decipher
them, I am very ignorant of heraldry --
I, a count of a fresh creation,
fabricated in Tuscany by the aid of a
commandery of St. Stephen, and who would
not have taken the trouble had I not
been told that when you travel much it
is necessary. Besides, you must have
something on the panels of your
carriage, to escape being searched by
the custom-house officers. Excuse my
putting such a question to you."

"It is not indiscreet," returned
Morcerf, with the simplicity of
conviction. "You have guessed rightly.
These are our arms, that is, those of my
father, but they are, as you see, joined
to another shield, which has gules, a
silver tower, which are my mother's. By
her side I am Spanish, but the family of
Morcerf is French, and, I have heard,
one of the oldest of the south of
France."

"Yes," replied Monte Cristo "these
blazons prove that. Almost all the armed
pilgrims that went to the Holy Land took
for their arms either a cross, in honor
of their mission, or birds of passage,
in sign of the long voyage they were
about to undertake, and which they hoped
to accomplish on the wings of faith. One
of your ancestors had joined the
Crusades, and supposing it to be only
that of St. Louis, that makes you mount
to the thirteenth century, which is
tolerably ancient."

"It is possible," said Morcerf; "my
father has in his study a genealogical
tree which will tell you all that, and
on which I made commentaries that would
have greatly edified Hozier and
Jaucourt. At present I no longer think
of it, and yet I must tell you that we
are beginning to occupy ourselves
greatly with these things under our
popular government."

"Well, then, your government would do
well to choose from the past something
better than the things that I have
noticed on your monuments, and which
have no heraldic meaning whatever. As
for you, viscount," continued Monte
Cristo to Morcerf, "you are more
fortunate than the government, for your
arms are really beautiful, and speak to
the imagination. Yes, you are at once
from Provence and Spain; that explains,
if the portrait you showed me be like,
the dark hue I so much admired on the
visage of the noble Catalan." It would
have required the penetration of Oedipus
or the Sphinx to have divined the irony
the count concealed beneath these words,
apparently uttered with the greatest
politeness. Morcerf thanked him with a
smile, and pushed open the door above
which were his arms, and which, as we
have said, opened into the salon. In the
most conspicuous part of the salon was
another portrait. It was that of a man,
from five to eight and thirty, in the
uniform of a general officer, wearing
the double epaulet of heavy bullion,
that indicates superior rank, the ribbon
of the Legion of Honor around his neck,
which showed he was a commander, and on
the right breast, the star of a grand
officer of the order of the Saviour, and
on the left that of the grand cross of
Charles III., which proved that the
person represented by the picture had
served in the wars of Greece and Spain,
or, what was just the same thing as
regarded decorations, had fulfilled some
diplomatic mission in the two countries.

Monte Cristo was engaged in examining
this portrait with no less care than he
had bestowed upon the other, when
another door opened, and he found
himself opposite to the Count of Morcerf
in person. He was a man of forty to
forty-five years, but he seemed at least
fifty, and his black mustache and
eyebrows contrasted strangely with his
almost white hair, which was cut short,
in the military fashion. He was dressed
in plain clothes, and wore at his
button-hole the ribbons of the different
orders to which he belonged. He entered
with a tolerably dignified step, and
some little haste. Monte Cristo saw him
advance towards him without making a
single step. It seemed as if his feet
were rooted to the ground, and his eyes
on the Count of Morcerf. "Father," said
the young man, "I have the honor of
presenting to you the Count of Monte
Cristo, the generous friend whom I had
the good fortune to meet in the critical
situation of which I have told you."

"You are most welcome, monsieur," said
the Count of Morcerf, saluting Monte
Cristo with a smile, "and monsieur has
rendered our house, in preserving its
only heir, a service which insures him
our eternal gratitude." As he said these
words, the count of Morcerf pointed to a
chair, while he seated himself in
another opposite the window.

Monte Cristo, in taking the seat Morcerf
offered him, placed himself in such a
manner as to remain concealed in the
shadow of the large velvet curtains, and
read on the careworn and livid features
of the count a whole history of secret
griefs written in each wrinkle time had
planted there. "The countess," said
Morcerf, "was at her toilet when she was
informed of the visit she was about to
receive. She will, however, be in the
salon in ten minutes."

"It is a great honor to me," returned
Monte Cristo, "to be thus, on the first
day of my arrival in Paris, brought in
contact with a man whose merit equals
his reputation, and to whom fortune has
for once been equitable, but has she not
still on the plains of Metidja, or in
the mountains of Atlas, a marshal's
staff to offer you?"

"Oh," replied Morcerf, reddening
slightly, "I have left the service,
monsieur. Made a peer at the
Restoration, I served through the first
campaign under the orders of Marshal
Bourmont. I could, therefore, expect a
higher rank, and who knows what might
have happened had the elder branch
remained on the throne? But the
Revolution of July was, it seems,
sufficiently glorious to allow itself to
be ungrateful, and it was so for all
services that did not date from the
imperial period. I tendered my
resignation, for when you have gained
your epaulets on the battle-field, you
do not know how to manoeuvre on the
slippery grounds of the salons. I have
hung up my sword, and cast myself into
politics. I have devoted myself to
industry; I study the useful arts.
During the twenty years I served, I
often wished to do so, but I had not the
time."

"These are the ideas that render your
nation superior to any other," returned
Monte Cristo. "A gentleman of high
birth, possessor of an ample fortune,
you have consented to gain your
promotion as an obscure soldier, step by
step -- this is uncommon; then become
general, peer of France, commander of
the Legion of Honor, you consent to
again commence a second apprenticeship,
without any other hope or any other
desire than that of one day becoming
useful to your fellow-creatures; this,
indeed, is praiseworthy, -- nay, more,
it is sublime." Albert looked on and
listened with astonishment; he was not
used to see Monte Cristo give vent to
such bursts of enthusiasm. "Alas,"
continued the stranger, doubtless to
dispel the slight cloud that covered
Morcerf's brow, "we do not act thus in
Italy; we grow according to our race and
our species, and we pursue the same
lines, and often the same uselessness,
all our lives."

"But, monsieur," said the Count of
Morcerf, "for a man of your merit, Italy
is not a country, and France opens her
arms to receive you; respond to her
call. France will not, perhaps, be
always ungrateful. She treats her
children ill, but she always welcomes
strangers."

"Ah, father," said Albert with a smile,
"it is evident you do not know the Count
of Monte Cristo; he despises all honors,
and contents himself with those written
on his passport."

"That is the most just remark," replied
the stranger, "I ever heard made
concerning myself."

"You have been free to choose your
career," observed the Count of Morcerf,
with a sigh; "and you have chosen the
path strewed with flowers."

"Precisely, monsieur," replied Monte
Cristo with one of those smiles that a
painter could never represent or a
physiologist analyze.

"If I did not fear to fatigue you," said
the general, evidently charmed with the
count's manners, "I would have taken you
to the Chamber; there is a debate very
curious to those who are strangers to
our modern senators."

"I shall be most grateful, monsieur, if
you will, at some future time, renew
your offer, but I have been flattered
with the hope of being introduced to the
countess, and I will therefore wait."

"Ah, here is my mother," cried the
viscount. Monte Cristo, turned round
hastily, and saw Madame de Morcerf at
the entrance of the salon, at the door
opposite to that by which her husband
had entered, pale and motionless; when
Monte Cristo turned round, she let fall
her arm, which for some unknown reason
had been resting on the gilded
door-post. She had been there some
moments, and had heard the last words of
the visitor. The latter rose and bowed
to the countess, who inclined herself
without speaking. "Ah, good heavens,
madame," said the count, "are you ill,
or is it the heat of the room that
affects you?"

"Are you ill, mother?" cried the
viscount, springing towards her.

She thanked them both with a smile.
"No," returned she, "but I feel some
emotion on seeing, for the first time,
the man without whose intervention we
should have been in tears and
desolation. Monsieur," continued the
countess, advancing with the majesty of
a queen, "I owe to you the life of my
son, and for this I bless you. Now, I
thank you for the pleasure you give me
in thus affording me the opportunity of
thanking you as I have blessed you, from
the bottom of my heart." The count bowed
again, but lower than before; He was
even paler than Mercedes. "Madame," said
he, "the count and yourself recompense
too generously a simple action. To save
a man, to spare a father's feelings, or
a mother's sensibility, is not to do a
good action, but a simple deed of
humanity." At these words, uttered with
the most exquisite sweetness and
politeness, Madame de Morcerf replied.
"It is very fortunate for my son,
monsieur, that he found such a friend,
and I thank God that things are thus."
And Mercedes raised her fine eyes to
heaven with so fervent an expression of
gratitude, that the count fancied he saw
tears in them. M. de Morcerf approached
her. "Madame," said he. "I have already
made my excuses to the count for
quitting him, and I pray you to do so
also. The sitting commences at two; it
is now three, and I am to speak."

"Go, then, and monsieur and I will
strive our best to forget your absence,"
replied the countess, with the same tone
of deep feeling. "Monsieur," continued
she, turning to Monte Cristo, "will you
do us the honor of passing the rest of
the day with us?"

"Believe me, madame, I feel most
grateful for your kindness, but I got
out of my travelling carriage at your
door this morning, and I am ignorant how
I am installed in Paris, which I
scarcely know; this is but a trifling
inquietude, I know, but one that may be
appreciated."

"We shall have the pleasure another
time," said the countess; "you promise
that?" Monte Cristo inclined himself
without answering, but the gesture might
pass for assent. "I will not detain you,
monsieur," continued the countess; "I
would not have our gratitude become
indiscreet or importunate."

"My dear Count," said Albert, "I will
endeavor to return your politeness at
Rome, and place my coupe at your
disposal until your own be ready."

"A thousand thanks for your kindness,
viscount," returned the Count of Monte
Cristo "but I suppose that M. Bertuccio
has suitably employed the four hours and
a half I have given him, and that I
shall find a carriage of some sort ready
at the door." Albert was used to the
count's manner of proceeding; he knew
that, like Nero, he was in search of the
impossible, and nothing astonished him,
but wishing to judge with his own eyes
how far the count's orders had been
executed, he accompanied him to the door
of the house. Monte Cristo was not
deceived. As soon as he appeared in the
Count of Morcerf's ante-chamber, a
footman, the same who at Rome had
brought the count's card to the two
young men, and announced his visit,
sprang into the vestibule, and when he
arrived at the door the illustrious
traveller found his carriage awaiting
him. It was a coupe of Koller's
building, and with horses and harness
for which Drake had, to the knowledge of
all the lions of Paris, refused on the
previous day seven hundred guineas.
"Monsieur," said the count to Albert, "I
do not ask you to accompany me to my
house, as I can only show you a
habitation fitted up in a hurry, and I
have, as you know, a reputation to keep
up as regards not being taken by
surprise. Give me, therefore, one more
day before I invite you; I shall then be
certain not to fail in my hospitality."

"If you ask me for a day, count, I know
what to anticipate; it will not be a
house I shall see, but a palace. You
have decidedly some genius at your
control."

"Ma foi, spread that idea," replied the
Count of Monte Cristo, putting his foot
on the velvet-lined steps of his
splendid carriage, "and that will be
worth something to me among the ladies."
As he spoke, he sprang into the vehicle,
the door was closed, but not so rapidly
that Monte Cristo failed to perceive the
almost imperceptible movement which
stirred the curtains of the apartment in
which he had left Madame de Morcerf.
When Albert returned to his mother, he
found her in the boudoir reclining in a
large velvet arm-chair, the whole room
so obscure that only the shining
spangle, fastened here and there to the
drapery, and the angles of the gilded
frames of the pictures, showed with some
degree of brightness in the gloom.
Albert could not see the face of the
countess, as it was covered with a thin
veil she had put on her head, and which
fell over her features in misty folds,
but it seemed to him as though her voice
had altered. He could distinguish amid
the perfumes of the roses and
heliotropes in the flower-stands, the
sharp and fragrant odor of volatile
salts, and he noticed in one of the
chased cups on the mantle-piece the
countess's smelling-bottle, taken from
its shagreen case, and exclaimed in a
tone of uneasiness, as he entered, --
"My dear mother, have you been ill
during my absence?"

"No, no, Albert, but you know these
roses, tuberoses, and orange-flowers
throw out at first, before one is used
to them, such violent perfumes."

"Then, my dear mother," said Albert,
putting his hand to the bell, "they must
be taken into the ante-chamber. You are
really ill, and just now were so pale as
you came into the room" --

"Was I pale, Albert?"

"Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably,
mother, but which did not the less alarm
my father and myself."

"Did your father speak of it?" inquired
Mercedes eagerly.

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

"Yes, I do remember," replied the
countess. A servant entered, summoned by
Albert's ring of the bell. "Take these
flowers into the anteroom or
dressing-room," said the viscount; "they
make the countess ill." The footman
obeyed his orders. A long pause ensued,
which lasted until all the flowers were
removed. "What is this name of Monte
Cristo?" inquired the countess, when the
servant had taken away the last vase of
flowers, "is it a family name, or the
name of the estate, or a simple title?"

"I believe, mother, it is merely a
title. The count purchased an island in
the Tuscan archipelago, and, as he told
you to-day, has founded a commandery.
You know the same thing was done for
Saint Stephen of Florence, Saint George,
Constantinian of Parma, and even for the
Order of Malta. Except this, he has no
pretension to nobility, and calls
himself a chance count, although the
general opinion at Rome is that the
count is a man of very high
distinction."

"His manners are admirable," said the
countess, "at least, as far as I could
judge in the few minutes he remained
here."

"They are perfect mother, so perfect,
that they surpass by far all I have
known in the leading aristocracy of the
three proudest nobilities of Europe --
the English, the Spanish, and the
German." The countess paused a moment;
then, after a slight hesitation, she
resumed, -- "You have seen, my dear
Albert -- I ask the question as a
mother -- you have seen M. de Monte
Cristo in his house, you are
quicksighted, have much knowledge of the
world, more tact than is usual at your
age, do you think the count is really
what he appears to be?"

"What does he appear to be?"

"Why, you have just said, -- a man of
high distinction."

"I told you, my dear mother, he was
esteemed such."

"But what is your own opinion, Albert?"

"I must tell you that I have not come to
any decided opinion respecting him, but
I think him a Maltese."

"I do not ask you of his origin but what
he is."

"Ah, what he is; that is quite another
thing. I have seen so many remarkable
things in him, that if you would have me
really say what I think, I shall reply
that I really do look upon him as one of
Byron's heroes, whom misery has marked
with a fatal brand; some Manfred, some
Lara, some Werner, one of those wrecks,
as it were, of some ancient family, who,
disinherited of their patrimony, have
achieved one by the force of their
adventurous genius, which has placed
them above the laws of society."

"You say" --

"I say that Monte Cristo is an island in
the midst of the Mediterranean, without
inhabitants or garrison, the resort of
smugglers of all nations, and pirates of
every flag. Who knows whether or not
these industrious worthies do not pay to
their feudal lord some dues for his
protection?"

"That is possible," said the countess,
reflecting.

"Never mind," continued the young man,
"smuggler or not, you must agree, mother
dear, as you have seen him, that the
Count of Monte Cristo is a remarkable
man, who will have the greatest success
in the salons of Paris. Why, this very
morning, in my rooms, he made his entree
amongst us by striking every man of us
with amazement, not even excepting
Chateau-Renaud."

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

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

"So young, -- it is impossible," said
Mercedes, replying at the same time to
what Albert said as well as to her own
private reflection.

"It is the truth, however. Three or four
times he has said to me, and certainly
without the slightest premeditation, `at
such a period I was five years old, at
another ten years old, at another
twelve,' and I, induced by curiosity,
which kept me alive to these details,
have compared the dates, and never found
him inaccurate. The age of this singular
man, who is of no age, is then, I am
certain, thirty-five. Besides, mother,
remark how vivid his eye, how
raven-black his hair, and his brow,
though so pale, is free from
wrinkles, -- he is not only vigorous,
but also young." The countess bent her
head, as if beneath a heavy wave of
bitter thoughts. "And has this man
displayed a friendship for you, Albert?"
she asked with a nervous shudder.

"I am inclined to think so."

"And -- do -- you -- like -- him?"

"Why, he pleases me in spite of Franz
d'Epinay, who tries to convince me that
he is a being returned from the other
world." The countess shuddered.
"Albert," she said, in a voice which was
altered by emotion, "I have always put
you on your guard against new
acquaintances. Now you are a man, and
are able to give me advice; yet I repeat
to you, Albert, be prudent."

"Why, my dear mother, it is necessary,
in order to make your advice turn to
account, that I should know beforehand
what I have to distrust. The count never
plays, he only drinks pure water tinged
with a little sherry, and is so rich
that he cannot, without intending to
laugh at me, try to borrow money. What,
then, have I to fear from him?"

"You are right," said the countess, "and
my fears are weakness, especially when
directed against a man who has saved
your life. How did your father receive
him, Albert? It is necessary that we
should be more than complaisant to the
count. M. de Morcerf is sometimes
occupied, his business makes him
reflective, and he might, without
intending it" --

"Nothing could be in better taste than
my father's demeanor, madame," said
Albert; "nay, more, he seemed greatly
flattered at two or three compliments
which the count very skilfully and
agreeably paid him with as much ease as
if he had known him these thirty years.
Each of these little tickling arrows
must have pleased my father," added
Albert with a laugh. "And thus they
parted the best possible friends, and M.
de Morcerf even wished to take him to
the Chamber to hear the speakers." The
countess made no reply. She fell into so
deep a revery that her eyes gradually
closed. The young man, standing up
before her, gazed upon her with that
filial affection which is so tender and
endearing with children whose mothers
are still young and handsome. Then,
after seeing her eyes closed, and
hearing her breathe gently, he believed
she had dropped asleep, and left the
apartment on tiptoe, closing the door
after him with the utmost precaution.
"This devil of a fellow," he muttered,
shaking his head; "I said at the time he
would create a sensation here, and I
measure his effect by an infallible
thermometer. My mother has noticed him,
and he must therefore, perforce, be
remarkable." He went down to the
stables, not without some slight
annoyance, when he remembered that the
Count of Monte Cristo had laid his hands
on a "turnout" which sent his bays down
to second place in the opinion of
connoisseurs. "Most decidedly," said he,
"men are not equal, and I must beg my
father to develop this theorem in the
Chamber of Peers."



Chapter 42 Monsieur Bertuccio.

Meanwhile the count had arrived at his
house; it had taken him six minutes to
perform the distance, but these six
minutes were sufficient to induce twenty
young men who knew the price of the
equipage they had been unable to
purchase themselves, to put their horses
in a gallop in order to see the rich
foreigner who could afford to give
20,000 francs apiece for his horses. The
house Ali had chosen, and which was to
serve as a town residence to Monte
Cristo, was situated on the right hand
as you ascend the Champs Elysees. A
thick clump of trees and shrubs rose in
the centre, and masked a portion of the
front; around this shrubbery two alleys,
like two arms, extended right and left,
and formed a carriage-drive from the
iron gates to a double portico, on every
step of which stood a porcelain vase.
filled with flowers. This house,
isolated from the rest, had, besides the
main entrance, another in the Rue
Ponthieu. Even before the coachman had
hailed the concierge, the massy gates
rolled on their hinges -- they had seen
the Count coming, and at Paris, as
everywhere else, he was served with the
rapidity of lightning. The coachman
entered and traversed the half-circle
without slackening his speed, and the
gates were closed ere the wheels had
ceased to sound on the gravel. The
carriage stopped at the left side of the
portico, two men presented themselves at
the carriage-window; the one was Ali,
who, smiling with an expression of the
most sincere joy, seemed amply repaid by
a mere look from Monte Cristo. The other
bowed respectfully, and offered his arm
to assist the count in descending.
"Thanks, M. Bertuccio," said the count,
springing lightly up the three steps of
the portico; "and the notary?"

"He is in the small salon, excellency,"
returned Bertuccio.

"And the cards I ordered to be engraved
as soon as you knew the number of the
house?"

"Your excellency, it is done already. I
have been myself to the best engraver of
the Palais Royal, who did the plate in
my presence. The first card struck off
was taken, according to your orders, to
the Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussee
d'Antin, No. 7; the others are on the
mantle-piece of your excellency's
bedroom."

"Good; what o'clock is it?"

"Four o'clock." Monte Cristo gave his
hat, cane, and gloves to the same French
footman who had called his carriage at
the Count of Morcerf's, and then he
passed into the small salon, preceded by
Bertuccio, who showed him the way.
"These are but indifferent marbles in
this ante-chamber," said Monte Cristo.
"I trust all this will soon be taken
away." Bertuccio bowed. As the steward
had said, the notary awaited him in the
small salon. He was a simple-looking
lawyer's clerk, elevated to the
extraordinary dignity of a provincial
scrivener. "You are the notary empowered
to sell the country house that I wish to
purchase, monsieur?" asked Monte Cristo.

"Yes, count," returned the notary.

"Is the deed of sale ready?"

"Yes, count."

"Have you brought it?"

"Here it is."

"Very well; and where is this house that
I purchase?" asked the count carelessly,
addressing himself half to Bertuccio,
half to the notary. The steward made a
gesture that signified, "I do not know."
The notary looked at the count with
astonishment. "What!" said he, "does not
the count know where the house he
purchases is situated?"

"No," returned the count.

"The count does not know?"

"How should I know? I have arrived from
Cadiz this morning. I have never before
been at Paris, and it is the first time
I have ever even set my foot in France."

"Ah, that is different; the house you
purchase is at Auteuil." At these words
Bertuccio turned pale. "And where is
Auteuil?" asked the count.

"Close by here, monsieur," replied the
notary -- "a little beyond Passy; a
charming situation, in the heart of the
Bois de Boulogne."

"So near as that?" said the Count; "but
that is not in the country. What made
you choose a house at the gates of
Paris, M. Bertuccio?"

"I," cried the steward with a strange
expression. "His excellency did not
charge me to purchase this house. If his
excellency will recollect -- if he will
think" --

"Ah, true," observed Monte Cristo; "I
recollect now. I read the advertisement
in one of the papers, and was tempted by
the false title, `a country house.'"

"It is not yet too late," cried
Bertuccio, eagerly; "and if your
excellency will intrust me with the
commission, I will find you a better at
Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at
Bellevue."

"Oh, no," returned Monte Cristo
negligently; "since I have this, I will
keep it."

"And you are quite right," said the
notary, who feared to lose his fee. "It
is a charming place, well supplied with
spring-water and fine trees; a
comfortable habitation, although
abandoned for a long time, without
reckoning the furniture, which, although
old, is yet valuable, now that old
things are so much sought after. I
suppose the count has the tastes of the
day?"

"To be sure," returned Monte Cristo; "it
is very convenient, then?"

"It is more -- it is magnificent."

"Peste, let us not lose such an
opportunity," returned Monte Cristo.
"The deed, if you please, Mr. Notary."
And he signed it rapidly, after having
first run his eye over that part of the
deed in which were specified the
situation of the house and the names of
the proprietors. "Bertuccio," said he,
"give fifty-five thousand francs to
monsieur." The steward left the room
with a faltering step, and returned with
a bundle of bank-notes, which the notary
counted like a man who never gives a
receipt for money until after he is sure
it is all there. "And now," demanded the
count, "are all the forms complied
with?"

"All, sir."

"Have you the keys?"

"They are in the hands of the concierge,
who takes care of the house, but here is
the order I have given him to install
the count in his new possessions."

"Very well;" and Monte Cristo made a
sign with his hand to the notary, which
said, "I have no further need of you;
you may go."

"But," observed the honest notary, "the
count is, I think, mistaken; it is only
fifty thousand francs, everything
included."

"And your fee?"

"Is included in this sum."

"But have you not come from Auteuil
here?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Well, then, it is but fair that you
should be paid for your loss of time and
trouble," said the count; and he made a
gesture of polite dismissal. The notary
left the room backwards, and bowing down
to the ground; it was the first time he
had ever met a similar client. "See this
gentleman out," said the count to
Bertuccio. And the steward followed the
notary out of the room. Scarcely was the
count alone, when he drew from his
pocket a book closed with a lock, and
opened it with a key which he wore round
his neck, and which never left him.
After having sought for a few minutes,
he stopped at a leaf which had several
notes, and compared them with the deed
of sale, which lay on the table.
"`Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28;'
it is indeed the same," said he; "and
now, am I to rely upon an avowal
extorted by religious or physical
terror? However, in an hour I shall know
all. Bertuccio!" cried he, striking a
light hammer with a pliant handle on a
small gong. "Bertuccio!" The steward
appeared at the door. "Monsieur
Bertuccio," said the count, "did you
never tell me that you had travelled in
France?"

"In some parts of France -- yes,
excellency."

"You know the environs of Paris, then?"

"No, excellency, no," returned the
steward, with a sort of nervous
trembling, which Monte Cristo, a
connoisseur in all emotions, rightly
attributed to great disquietude.

"It is unfortunate," returned he, "that
you have never visited the environs, for
I wish to see my new property this
evening, and had you gone with me, you
could have given me some useful
information."

"To Auteuil!" cried Bertuccio, whose
copper complexion became livid -- "I go
to Auteuil?"

"Well, what is there surprising in that?
When I live at Auteuil, you must come
there, as you belong to my service."
Bertuccio hung down his head before the
imperious look of his master, and
remained motionless, without making any
answer. "Why, what has happened to
you? -- are you going to make me ring a
second time for the carriage?" asked
Monte Cristo, in the same tone that
Louis XIV. pronounced the famous, "I
have been almost obliged to wait."
Bertuccio made but one bound to the
ante-chamber, and cried in a hoarse
voice -- "His excellency's horses!"
Monte Cristo wrote two or three notes,
and, as he sealed the last, the steward
appeared. "Your excellency's carriage is
at the door," said he.

"Well, take your hat and gloves,"
returned Monte Cristo.

"Am I to accompany you, your
excellency?" cried Bertuccio.

"Certainly, you must give the orders,
for I intend residing at the house." It
was unexampled for a servant of the
count's to dare to dispute an order of
his, so the steward, without saying a
word, followed his master, who got into
the carriage, and signed to him to
follow, which he did, taking his place
respectfully on the front seat.



Chapter 43 The House at Auteuil.

Monte Cristo noticed, as they descended
the staircase, that Bertuccio signed
himself in the Corsican manner; that is,
had formed the sign of the cross in the
air with his thumb, and as he seated
himself in the carriage, muttered a
short prayer. Any one but a man of
exhaustless thirst for knowledge would
have had pity on seeing the steward's
extraordinary repugnance for the count's
projected drive without the walls; but
the Count was too curious to let
Bertuccio off from this little journey.
In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil;
the steward's emotion had continued to
augment as they entered the village.
Bertuccio, crouched in the corner of the
carriage, began to examine with a
feverish anxiety every house they
passed. "Tell them to stop at Rue de la
Fontaine, No. 28," said the count,
fixing his eyes on the steward, to whom
he gave this order. Bertuccio's forehead
was covered with perspiration; however,
he obeyed, and, leaning out of the
window, he cried to the coachman, --
"Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28." No. 28 was
situated at the extremity of the
village; during the drive night had set
in, and darkness gave the surroundings
the artificial appearance of a scene on
the stage. The carriage stopped, the
footman sprang off the box, and opened
the door. "Well," said the count, "you
do not get out, M. Bertuccio -- you are
going to stay in the carriage, then?
What are you thinking of this evening?"
Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his
shoulder to the count, who, this time,
leaned upon it as he descended the three
steps of the carriage. "Knock," said the
count, "and announce me." Bertuccio
knocked, the door opened, and the
concierge appeared. "What is it?" asked
he.

"It is your new master, my good fellow,"
said the footman. And he held out to the
concierge the notary's order.

"The house is sold, then?" demanded the
concierge; "and this gentleman is coming
to live here?"

"Yes, my friend," returned the count;
"and I will endeavor to give you no
cause to regret your old master."

"Oh, monsieur," said the concierge, "I
shall not have much cause to regret him,
for he came here but seldom; it is five
years since he was here last, and he did
well to sell the house, for it did not
bring him in anything at all."

"What was the name of your old master?"
said Monte Cristo.

"The Marquis of Saint-Meran. Ah, I am
sure he has not sold the house for what
he gave for it."

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

"An old gentleman," continued the
concierge, "a stanch follower of the
Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who
married M. de Villefort, who had been
the king's attorney at Nimes, and
afterwards at Versailles." Monte Cristo
glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter
than the wall against which he leaned to
prevent himself from falling. "And is
not this daughter dead?" demanded Monte
Cristo; "I fancy I have heard so."

"Yes, monsieur, one and twenty years
ago; and since then we have not seen the
poor marquis three times."

"Thanks, thanks," said Monte Cristo,
judging from the steward's utter
prostration that he could not stretch
the cord further without danger of
breaking it. "Give me a light."

"Shall I accompany you, monsieur?"

"No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will
show me a light." And Monte Cristo
accompanied these words by the gift of
two gold pieces, which produced a
torrent of thanks and blessings from the
concierge. "Ah, monsieur," said he,
after having vainly searched on the
mantle-piece and the shelves, "I have
not got any candles."

"Take one of the carriage-lamps,
Bertuccio," said the count, "and show me
the apartments." The steward obeyed in
silence, but it was easy to see, from
the manner in which the hand that held
the light trembled, how much it cost him
to obey. They went over a tolerably
large ground-floor; a second floor
consisted of a salon, a bathroom, and
two bedrooms; near one of the bedrooms
they came to a winding staircase that
led down to the garden.

"Ah, here is a private staircase," said
the count; "that is convenient. Light
me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will
see where it leads to."

"Monsieur," replied Bertuccio, "it leads
to the garden."

"And, pray, how do you know that?"

"It ought to do so, at least."

"Well, let us be sure of that."
Bertuccio sighed, and went on first; the
stairs did, indeed, lead to the garden.
At the outer door the steward paused.
"Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio," said the
count. But he who was addressed stood
there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned;
his haggard eyes glanced around, as if
in search of the traces of some terrible
event, and with his clinched hands he
seemed striving to shut out horrible
recollections. "Well," insisted the
Count. "No, no," cried Bertuccio,
setting down the lantern at the angle of
the interior wall. "No, monsieur, it is
impossible; I can go no farther."

"What does this mean?" demanded the
irresistible voice of Monte Cristo.

"Why, you must see, your excellency,"
cried the steward, "that this is not
natural; that, having a house to
purchase, you purchase it exactly at
Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at
Auteuil, this house should be No. 28,
Rue de la Fontaine. Oh, why did I not
tell you all? I am sure you would not
have forced me to come. I hoped your
house would have been some other one
than this; as if there was not another
house at Auteuil than that of the
assassination!"

"What, what!" cried Monte Cristo,
stopping suddenly, "what words do you
utter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you
are -- always mysteries or
superstitions. Come, take the lantern,
and let us visit the garden; you are not
afraid of ghosts with me, I hope?"
Bertuccio raised the lantern, and
obeyed. The door, as it opened,
disclosed a gloomy sky, in which the
moon strove vainly to struggle through a
sea of clouds that covered her with
billows of vapor which she illumined for
an instant, only to sink into obscurity.
The steward wished to turn to the left.
"No, no, monsieur," said Monte Cristo.
"What is the use of following the
alleys? Here is a beautiful lawn; let us
go on straight forwards."

Bertuccio wiped the perspiration from
his brow, but obeyed; however, he
continued to take the left hand. Monte
Cristo, on the contrary, took the right
hand; arrived near a clump of trees, he
stopped. The steward could not restrain
himself. "Move, monsieur -- move away, I
entreat you; you are exactly in the
spot!"

"What spot?"

"Where he fell."

"My dear Monsieur Bertuccio," said Monte
Cristo, laughing, "control yourself; we
are not at Sartena or at Corte. This is
not a Corsican arbor, but an English
garden; badly kept, I own, but still you
must not calumniate it for that."

"Monsieur, I implore you do not stay
there!"

"I think you are going mad, Bertuccio,"
said the count coldly. "If that is the
case, I warn you, I shall have you put
in a lunatic asylum."

"Alas, excellency," returned Bertuccio,
joining his hands, and shaking his head
in a manner that would have excited the
count's laughter, had not thoughts of a
superior interest occupied him, and
rendered him attentive to the least
revelation of this timorous conscience.
"Alas, excellency, the evil has
arrived!"

"M. Bertuccio," said the count, "I am
very glad to tell you, that while you
gesticulate, you wring your hands and
roll your eyes like a man possessed by a
devil who will not leave him; and I have
always observed, that the devil most
obstinate to be expelled is a secret. I
knew you were a Corsican. I knew you
were gloomy, and always brooding over
some old history of the vendetta; and I
overlooked that in Italy, because in
Italy those things are thought nothing
of. But in France they are considered in
very bad taste; there are gendarmes who
occupy themselves with such affairs,
judges who condemn, and scaffolds which
avenge." Bertuccio clasped his hands,
and as, in all these evolutions, he did
not let fall the lantern, the light
showed his pale and altered countenance.
Monte Cristo examined him with the same
look that, at Rome, he had bent upon the
execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone
that made a shudder pass through the
veins of the poor steward, -- "The Abbe
Busoni, then told me an untruth," said
he, "when, after his journey in France,
in 1829, he sent you to me, with a
letter of recommendation, in which he
enumerated all your valuable qualities.
Well, I shall write to the abbe; I shall
hold him responsible for his protege's
misconduct, and I shall soon know all
about this assassination. Only I warn
you, that when I reside in a country, I
conform to all its code, and I have no
wish to put myself within the compass of
the French laws for your sake."

"Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have
always served you faithfully," cried
Bertuccio, in despair. "I have always
been an honest man, and, as far as lay
in my power, I have done good."

"I do not deny it," returned the count;
"but why are you thus agitated. It is a
bad sign; a quiet conscience does not
occasion such paleness in the cheeks,
and such fever in the hands of a man."

"But, your excellency," replied
Bertuccio hesitatingly, "did not the
Abbe Busoni, who heard my confession in
the prison at Nimes, tell you that I had
a heavy burden upon my conscience?"

"Yes; but as he said you would make an
excellent steward, I concluded you had
stolen -- that was all."

"Oh, your excellency," returned
Bertuccio in deep contempt.

"Or, as you are a Corsican, that you had
been unable to resist the desire of
making a `stiff,' as you call it."

"Yes, my good master," cried Bertuccio,
casting himself at the count's feet, "it
was simply vengeance -- nothing else."

"I understand that, but I do not
understand what it is that galvanizes
you in this manner."

"But, monsieur, it is very natural,"
returned Bertuccio, "since it was in
this house that my vengeance was
accomplished."

"What! my house?"

"Oh, your excellency, it was not yours,
then."

"Whose, then? The Marquis de
Saint-Meran, I think, the concierge
said. What had you to revenge on the
Marquis de Saint-Meran?"

"Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was
on another."

"This is strange," returned Monte
Cristo, seeming to yield to his
reflections, "that you should find
yourself without any preparation in a
house where the event happened that
causes you so much remorse."

"Monsieur," said the steward, "it is
fatality, I am sure. First, you purchase
a house at Auteuil -- this house is the
one where I have committed an
assassination; you descend to the garden
by the same staircase by which he
descended; you stop at the spot where he
received the blow; and two paces farther
is the grave in which he had just buried
his child. This is not chance, for
chance, in this case, is too much like
providence."

"Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose
it is providence. I always suppose
anything people please, and, besides,
you must concede something to diseased
minds. Come, collect yourself, and tell
me all."

"I have related it but once, and that
was to the Abbe Busoni. Such things,"
continued Bertuccio, shaking his head,
"are only related under the seal of
confession."

"Then," said the count, "I refer you to
your confessor. Turn Chartreux or
Trappist, and relate your secrets, but,
as for me, I do not like any one who is
alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not
choose that my servants should be afraid
to walk in the garden of an evening. I
confess I am not very desirous of a
visit from the commissary of police,
for, in Italy, justice is only paid when
silent -- in France she is paid only
when she speaks. Peste, I thought you
somewhat Corsican, a great deal
smuggler, and an excellent steward; but
I see you have other strings to your
bow. You are no longer in my service,
Monsieur Bertuccio."

"Oh, your excellency, your excellency!"
cried the steward, struck with terror at
this threat, "if that is the only reason
I cannot remain in your service, I will
tell all, for if I quit you, it will
only be to go to the scaffold."

"That is different," replied Monte
Cristo; "but if you intend to tell an
untruth, reflect it were better not to
speak at all."

"No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my
hopes of salvation, I will tell you all,
for the Abbe Busoni himself only knew a
part of my secret; but, I pray you, go
away from that plane-tree. The moon is
just bursting through the clouds, and
there, standing where you do, and
wrapped in that cloak that conceals your
figure, you remind me of M. de
Villefort."

" What!" cried Monte Cristo, "it was M.
de Villefort?"

"Your excellency knows him?"

"The former royal attorney at Nimes?"

"Yes."

"Who married the Marquis of
Saint-Meran's daughter?"

"Yes."

"Who enjoyed the reputation of being the
most severe, the most upright, the most
rigid magistrate on the bench?"

"Well, monsieur," said Bertuccio, "this
man with this spotless reputation" --

"Well?"

"Was a villain."

"Bah," replied Monte Cristo,
"impossible!"

"It is as I tell you."

"Ah, really," said Monte Cristo. "Have
you proof of this?"

"I had it."

"And you have lost it; how stupid!"

"Yes; but by careful search it might be
recovered."

"Really," returned the count, "relate it
to me, for it begins to interest me."
And the count, humming an air from
"Lucia," went to sit down on a bench,
while Bertuccio followed him, collecting
his thoughts. Bertuccio remained
standing before him.



Chapter 44 The Vendetta.

"At what point shall I begin my story,
your excellency?" asked Bertuccio.

"Where you please," returned Monte
Cristo, "since I know nothing at all of
it."

"I thought the Abbe Busoni had told your
excellency."

"Some particulars, doubtless, but that
is seven or eight years ago, and I have
forgotten them."

"Then I can speak without fear of tiring
your excellency."

"Go on, M. Bertuccio; you will supply
the want of the evening papers."

"The story begins in 1815."

"Ah," said Monte Cristo, "1815 is not
yesterday."

"No, monsieur, and yet I recollect all
things as clearly as if they had
happened but then. I had a brother, an
elder brother, who was in the service of
the emperor; he had become lieutenant in
a regiment composed entirely of
Corsicans. This brother was my only
friend; we became orphans -- I at five,
he at eighteen. He brought me up as if I
had been his son, and in 1814 he
married. When the emperor returned from
the Island of Elba, my brother instantly
joined the army, was slightly wounded at
Waterloo, and retired with the army
beyond the Loire."

"But that is the history of the Hundred
Days, M. Bertuccio," said the count;
"unless I am mistaken, it has been
already written."

"Excuse me, excellency, but these
details are necessary, and you promised
to be patient."

"Go on; I will keep my word."

"One day we received a letter. I should
tell you that we lived in the little
village of Rogliano, at the extremity of
Cape Corso. This letter was from my
brother. He told us that the army was
disbanded, and that he should return by
Chateauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy,
and Nimes; and, if I had any money, he
prayed me to leave it for him at Nimes,
with an inn-keeper with whom I had
dealings."

"In the smuggling line?" said Monte
Cristo.

"Eh, your excellency? Every one must
live."

"Certainly; go on."

"I loved my brother tenderly, as I told
your excellency, and I resolved not to
send the money, but to take it to him
myself. I possessed a thousand francs. I
left five hundred with Assunta, my
sister-in-law, and with the other five
hundred I set off for Nimes. It was easy
to do so, and as I had my boat and a
lading to take in at sea, everything
favored my project. But, after we had
taken in our cargo, the wind became
contrary, so that we were four or five
days without being able to enter the
Rhone. At last, however, we succeeded,
and worked up to Arles. I left the boat
between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and
took the road to Nimes."

"We are getting to the story now?"

"Yes, your excellency; excuse me, but,
as you will see, I only tell you what is
absolutely necessary. Just at this time
the famous massacres took place in the
south of France. Three brigands, called
Trestaillon, Truphemy, and Graffan,
publicly assassinated everybody whom
they suspected of Bonapartism. You have
doubtless heard of these massacres, your
excellency?"

"Vaguely; I was far from France at that
period. Go on."

"As I entered Nimes, I literally waded
in blood; at every step you encountered
dead bodies and bands of murderers, who
killed, plundered, and burned. At the
sight of this slaughter and devastation
I became terrified, not for myself --
for I, a simple Corsican fisherman, had
nothing to fear; on the contrary, that
time was most favorable for us
smugglers -- but for my brother, a
soldier of the empire, returning from
the army of the Loire, with his uniform
and his epaulets, there was everything
to apprehend. I hastened to the
inn-keeper. My misgivings had been but
too true. My brother had arrived the
previous evening at Nimes, and, at the
very door of the house where he was
about to demand hospitality, he had been
assassinated. I did all in my power to
discover the murderers, but no one durst
tell me their names, so much were they
dreaded. I then thought of that French
justice of which I had heard so much,
and which feared nothing, and I went to
the king's attorney."

"And this king's attorney was named
Villefort?" asked Monte Cristo
carelessly.

"Yes, your excellency; he came from
Marseilles, where he had been
deputy-procureur. His zeal had procured
him advancement, and he was said to be
one of the first who had informed the
government of the departure from the
Island of Elba."

"Then," said Monte Cristo "you went to
him?"

"`Monsieur,' I said, `my brother was
assassinated yesterday in the streets of
Nimes, I know not by whom, but it is
your duty to find out. You are the
representative of justice here, and it
is for justice to avenge those she has
been unable to protect.' -- `Who was
your brother?' asked he. -- `A
lieutenant in the Corsican
battalion.' -- `A soldier of the
usurper, then?' -- `A soldier of the
French army.' -- `Well,' replied he, `he
has smitten with the sword, and he has
perished by the sword.' -- `You are
mistaken, monsieur,' I replied; `he has
perished by the poniard.' -- `What do
you want me to do?' asked the
magistrate. -- `I have already told
you -- avenge him.' -- `On whom?' -- `On
his murderers.' -- `How should I know
who they are?' -- `Order them to be
sought for.' -- `Why, your brother has
been involved in a quarrel, and killed
in a duel. All these old soldiers commit
excesses which were tolerated in the
time of the emperor, but which are not
suffered now, for the people here do not
like soldiers of such disorderly
conduct.' -- `Monsieur,' I replied, `it
is not for myself that I entreat your
interference -- I should grieve for him
or avenge him, but my poor brother had a
wife, and were anything to happen to me,
the poor creature would perish from
want, for my brother's pay alone kept
her. Pray, try and obtain a small
government pension for her.'

"`Every revolution has its
catastrophes,' returned M. de Villefort;
`your brother has been the victim of
this. It is a misfortune, and government
owes nothing to his family. If we are to
judge by all the vengeance that the
followers of the usurper exercised on
the partisans of the king, when, in
their turn, they were in power, your
brother would be to-day, in all
probability, condemned to death. What
has happened is quite natural, and in
conformity with the law of
reprisals.' -- `What,' cried I, `do you,
a magistrate, speak thus to me?' -- `All
these Corsicans are mad, on my honor,'
replied M. de Villefort; `they fancy
that their countryman is still emperor.
You have mistaken the time, you should
have told me this two months ago, it is
too late now. Go now, at once, or I
shall have you put out.'

"I looked at him an instant to see if
there was anything to hope from further
entreaty. But he was a man of stone. I
approached him, and said in a low voice,
`Well, since you know the Corsicans so
well, you know that they always keep
their word. You think that it was a good
deed to kill my brother, who was a
Bonapartist, because you are a royalist.
Well, I, who am a Bonapartist also,
declare one thing to you, which is, that
I will kill you. From this moment I
declare the vendetta against you, so
protect yourself as well as you can, for
the next time we meet your last hour has
come.' And before he had recovered from
his surprise, I opened the door and left
the room."

"Well, well," said Monte Cristo, "such
an innocent looking person as you are to
do those things, M. Bertuccio, and to a
king's attorney at that! But did he know
what was meant by the terrible word
`vendetta'?"

"He knew so well, that from that moment
he shut himself in his house, and never
went out unattended, seeking me high and
low. Fortunately, I was so well
concealed that he could not find me.
Then he became alarmed, and dared not
stay any longer at Nimes, so he
solicited a change of residence, and, as
he was in reality very influential, he
was nominated to Versailles. But, as you
know, a Corsican who has sworn to avenge
himself cares not for distance, so his
carriage, fast as it went, was never
above half a day's journey before me,
who followed him on foot. The most
important thing was, not to kill him
only -- for I had an opportunity of
doing so a hundred times -- but to kill
him without being discovered -- at
least, without being arrested. I no
longer belonged to myself, for I had my
sister-in-law to protect and provide
for. For three months I watched M. de
Villefort, for three months he took not
a step out-of-doors without my following
him. At length I discovered that he went
mysteriously to Auteuil. I followed him
thither, and I saw him enter the house
where we now are, only, instead of
entering by the great door that looks
into the street, he came on horseback,
or in his carriage, left the one or the
other at the little inn, and entered by
the gate you see there." Monte Cristo
made a sign with his head to show that
he could discern in the darkness the
door to which Bertuccio alluded. "As I
had nothing more to do at Versailles, I
went to Auteuil, and gained all the
information I could. If I wished to
surprise him, it was evident this was
the spot to lie in wait for him. The
house belonged, as the concierge
informed your excellency, to M. de
Saint-Meran, Villefort's father-in-law.
M. de Saint-Meran lived at Marseilles,
so that this country house was useless
to him, and it was reported to be let to
a young widow, known only by the name of
`the baroness.'

"One evening, as I was looking over the
wall, I saw a young and handsome woman
who was walking alone in that garden,
which was not overlooked by any windows,
and I guessed that she was awaiting M.
de Villefort. When she was sufficiently
near for me to distinguish her features,
I saw she was from eighteen to nineteen,
tall and very fair. As she had a loose
muslin dress on and as nothing concealed
her figure, I saw she would ere long
become a mother. A few moments after,
the little door was opened and a man
entered. The young woman hastened to
meet him. They threw themselves into
each other's arms, embraced tenderly,
and returned together to the house. The
man was M. de Villefort; I fully
believed that when he went out in the
night he would be forced to traverse the
whole of the garden alone."

"And," asked the count, "did you ever
know the name of this woman?"

"No, excellency," returned Bertuccio;
"you will see that I had no time to
learn it."

"Go on."

"That evening," continued Bertuccio, "I
could have killed the procureur, but as
I was not sufficiently acquainted with
the neighborhood, I was fearful of not
killing him on the spot, and that if his
cries were overheard I might be taken;
so I put it off until the next occasion,
and in order that nothing should escape
me, I took a chamber looking into the
street bordered by the wall of the
garden. Three days after, about seven
o'clock in the evening, I saw a servant
on horseback leave the house at full
gallop, and take the road to Sevres. I
concluded that he was going to
Versailles, and I was not deceived.
Three hours later, the man returned
covered with dust, his errand was
performed, and two minutes after,
another man on foot, muffled in a
mantle, opened the little door of the
garden, which he closed after him. I
descended rapidly; although I had not
seen Villefort's face, I recognized him
by the beating of my heart. I crossed
the street, and stopped at a post placed
at the angle of the wall, and by means
of which I had once before looked into
the garden. This time I did not content
myself with looking, but I took my knife
out of my pocket, felt that the point
was sharp, and sprang over the wall. My
first care was to run to the door; he
had left the key in it, taking the
simple precaution of turning it twice in
the lock. Nothing, then, preventing my
escape by this means, I examined the
grounds. The garden was long and narrow;
a stretch of smooth turf extended down
the middle, and at the corners were
clumps of trees with thick and massy
foliage, that made a background for the
shrubs and flowers. In order to go from
the door to the house, or from the house
to the door, M. de Villefort would be
obliged to pass by one of these clumps
of trees.

"It was the end of September; the wind
blew violently. The faint glimpses of
the pale moon, hidden momentarily by
masses of dark clouds that were sweeping
across the sky, whitened the gravel
walks that led to the house, but were
unable to pierce the obscurity of the
thick shrubberies, in which a man could
conceal himself without any fear of
discovery. I hid myself in the one
nearest to the path Villefort must take,
and scarcely was I there when, amidst
the gusts of wind, I fancied I heard
groans; but you know, or rather you do
not know, your excellency, that he who
is about to commit an assassination
fancies that he hears low cries
perpetually ringing in his ears. Two
hours passed thus, during which I
imagined I heard moans repeatedly.
Midnight struck. As the last stroke died
away, I saw a faint light shine through
the windows of the private staircase by
which we have just descended. The door
opened, and the man in the mantle
reappeared. The terrible moment had
come, but I had so long been prepared
for it that my heart did not fail in the
least. I drew my knife from my pocket
again, opened it, and made ready to
strike. The man in the mantle advanced
towards me, but as he drew near I saw
that he had a weapon in his hand. I was
afraid, not of a struggle, but of a
failure. When he was only a few paces
from me, I saw that what I had taken for
a weapon was only a spade. I was still
unable to divine for what reason M. de
Villefort had this spade in his hands,
when he stopped close to the thicket
where I was, glanced round, and began to
dig a hole in the earth. I then
perceived that he was hiding something
under his mantle, which he laid on the
grass in order to dig more freely. Then,
I confess, curiosity mingled with
hatred; I wished to see what Villefort
was going to do there, and I remained
motionless, holding my breath. Then an
idea crossed my mind, which was
confirmed when I saw the procureur lift
from under his mantle a box, two feet
long, and six or eight inches deep. I
let him place the box in the hole he had
made, then, while he stamped with his
feet to remove all traces of his
occupation, I rushed on him and plunged
my knife into his breast, exclaiming, --
`I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for
my brother's; thy treasure for his
widow; thou seest that my vengeance is
more complete than I had hoped.' I know
not if he heard these words; I think he
did not, for he fell without a cry. I
felt his blood gush over my face, but I
was intoxicated, I was delirious, and
the blood refreshed, instead of burning
me. In a second I had disinterred the
box; then, that it might not be known I
had done so, I filled up the hole, threw
the spade over the wall, and rushed
through the door, which I double-locked,
carrying off the key."

"Ah," said Monte Cristo "it seems to me
this was nothing but murder and
robbery."

"No, your excellency," returned
Bertuccio; "it was a vendetta followed
by restitution."

"And was the sum a large one?"

"It was not money."

"Ah, I recollect," replied the count;
"did you not say something of an
infant?"

"Yes, excellency; I hastened to the
river, sat down on the bank, and with my
knife forced open the lock of the box.
In a fine linen cloth was wrapped a
new-born child. Its purple visage, and
its violet-colored hands showed that it
had perished from suffocation, but as it
was not yet cold, I hesitated to throw
it into the water that ran at my feet.
After a moment I fancied that I felt a
slight pulsation of the heart, and as I
had been assistant at the hospital at
Bastia, I did what a doctor would have
done -- I inflated the lungs by blowing
air into them, and at the expiration of
a quarter of an hour, it began to
breathe, and cried feebly. In my turn I
uttered a cry, but a cry of joy. `God
has not cursed me then,' I cried, `since
he permits me to save the life of a
human creature, in exchange for the life
I have taken away.'"

"And what did you do with the child?"
asked Monte Cristo. "It was an
embarrassing load for a man seeking to
escape."

"I had not for a moment the idea of
keeping it, but I knew that at Paris
there was an asylum where they receive
such creatures. As I passed the city
gates I declared that I had found the
child on the road, and I inquired where
the asylum was; the box confirmed my
statement, the linen proved that the
infant belonged to wealthy parents, the
blood with which I was covered might
have proceeded from the child as well as
from any one else. No objection was
raised, but they pointed out the asylum,
which was situated at the upper end of
the Rue d'Enfer, and after having taken
the precaution of cutting the linen in
two pieces, so that one of the two
letters which marked it was on the piece
wrapped around the child, while the
other remained in my possession, I rang
the bell, and fled with all speed. A
fortnight after I was at Rogliano, and I
said to Assunta, -- `Console thyself,
sister; Israel is dead, but he is
avenged.' She demanded what I meant, and
when I had told her all, -- `Giovanni,'
said she, `you should have brought this
child with you; we would have replaced
the parents it has lost, have called it
Benedetto, and then, in consequence of
this good action, God would have blessed
us.' In reply I gave her the half of the
linen I had kept in order to reclaim him
if we became rich."

"What letters were marked on the linen?"
said Monte Cristo.

"An H and an N, surmounted by a baron's
coronet."

"By heaven, M. Bertuccio, you make use
of heraldic terms; where did you study
heraldry?"

"In your service, excellency, where
everything is learned."

"Go on, I am curious to know two
things."

"What are they, your excellency ?"

"What became of this little boy? for I
think you told me it was a boy, M.
Bertuccio."

"No excellency, I do not recollect
telling you that."

"I thought you did; I must have been
mistaken."

"No, you were not, for it was in reality
a little boy. But your excellency wished
to know two things; what was the
second?"

"The second was the crime of which you
were accused when you asked for a
confessor, and the Abbe Busoni came to
visit you at your request in the prison
at Nimes."

"The story will be very long,
excellency."

"What matter? you know I take but little
sleep, and I do not suppose you are very
much inclined for it either." Bertuccio
bowed, and resumed his story.

"Partly to drown the recollections of
the past that haunted me, partly to
supply the wants of the poor widow, I
eagerly returned to my trade of
smuggler, which had become more easy
since that relaxation of the laws which
always follows a revolution. The
southern districts were ill-watched in
particular, in consequence of the
disturbances that were perpetually
breaking out in Avignon, Nimes, or Uzes.
We profited by this respite on the part
of the government to make friends
everywhere. Since my brother's
assassination in the streets of Nimes, I
had never entered the town; the result
was that the inn-keeper with whom we
were connected, seeing that we would no
longer come to him, was forced to come
to us, and had established a branch to
his inn, on the road from Bellegarde to
Beaucaire, at the sign of the Pont du
Gard. We had thus, at Aigues-Mortes,
Martigues, or Bouc, a dozen places where
we left our goods, and where, in case of
necessity, we concealed ourselves from
the gendarmes and custom-house officers.
Smuggling is a profitable trade, when a
certain degree of vigor and intelligence
is employed; as for myself, brought up
in the mountains, I had a double motive
for fearing the gendarmes and
custom-house officers, as my appearance
before the judges would cause an
inquiry, and an inquiry always looks
back into the past. And in my past life
they might find something far more grave
than the selling of smuggled cigars, or
barrels of brandy without a permit. So,
preferring death to capture, I
accomplished the most astonishing deeds,
and which, more than once, showed me
that the too great care we take of our
bodies is the only obstacle to the
success of those projects which require
rapid decision, and vigorous and
determined execution. In reality, when
you have once devoted your life to your
enterprises, you are no longer the equal
of other men, or, rather, other men are
no longer your equals, and whosoever has
taken this resolution, feels his
strength and resources doubled."

"Philosophy, M. Bertuccio," interrupted
the Count; "you have done a little of
everything in your life."

"Oh, excellency,"

"No, no; but philosophy at half-past ten
at night is somewhat late; yet I have no
other observation to make, for what you
say is correct, which is more than can
be said for all philosophy."

"My journeys became more and more
extensive and more productive. Assunta
took care of all, and our little fortune
increased. One day as I was setting off
on an expedition, `Go,' said she; `at
your return I will give you a surprise.'
I questioned her, but in vain; she would
tell me nothing, and I departed. Our
expedition lasted nearly six weeks; we
had been to Lucca to take in oil, to
Leghorn for English cottons, and we ran
our cargo without opposition, and
returned home full of joy. When I
entered the house, the first thing I
beheld in the middle of Assunta's
chamber was a cradle that might be
called sumptuous compared with the rest
of the furniture, and in it a baby seven
or eight months old. I uttered a cry of
joy; the only moments of sadness I had
known since the assassination of the
procureur were caused by the
recollection that I had abandoned this
child. For the assassination itself I
had never felt any remorse. Poor Assunta
had guessed all. She had profited by my
absence, and furnished with the half of
the linen, and having written down the
day and hour at which I had deposited
the child at the asylum, had set off for
Paris, and had reclaimed it. No
objection was raised, and the infant was
given up to her. Ah, I confess, your
excellency, when I saw this poor
creature sleeping peacefully in its
cradle, I felt my eyes filled with
tears. `Ah, Assunta,' cried I, `you are
an excellent woman, and heaven will
bless you.'"

"This," said Monte Cristo, "is less
correct than your philosophy, -- it is
only faith."

"Alas, your excellency is right,"
replied Bertuccio, "and God made this
infant the instrument of our punishment.
Never did a perverse nature declare
itself more prematurely, and yet it was
not owing to any fault in his bringing
up. He was a most lovely child, with
large blue eyes, of that deep color that
harmonizes so well with the blond
complexion; only his hair, which was too
light, gave his face a most singular
expression, and added to the vivacity of
his look, and the malice of his smile.
Unfortunately, there is a proverb which
says that `red is either altogether good
or altogether bad.' The proverb was but
too correct as regarded Benedetto, and
even in his infancy he manifested the
worst disposition. It is true that the
indulgence of his foster-mother
encouraged him. This child, for whom my
poor sister would go to the town, five
or six leagues off, to purchase the
earliest fruits and the most tempting
sweetmeats, preferred to Palma grapes or
Genoese preserves, the chestnuts stolen
from a neighbor's orchard, or the dried
apples in his loft, when he could eat as
well of the nuts and apples that grew in
my garden. One day, when Benedetto was
about five or six, our neighbor Vasilio,
who, according to the custom of the
country, never locked up his purse or
his valuables -- for, as your excellency
knows, there are no thieves in
Corsica -- complained that he had lost a
louis out of his purse; we thought he
must have made a mistake in counting his
money, but he persisted in the accuracy
of his statement. One day, Benedetto,
who had been gone from the house since
morning, to our great anxiety, did not
return until late in the evening,
dragging a monkey after him, which he
said he had found chained to the foot of
a tree. For more than a month past, the
mischievous child, who knew not what to
wish for, had taken it into his head to
have a monkey. A boatman, who had passed
by Rogliano, and who had several of
these animals, whose tricks had greatly
diverted him, had, doubtless, suggested
this idea to him. `Monkeys are not found
in our woods chained to trees,' said I;
`confess how you obtained this animal.'
Benedetto maintained the truth of what
he had said, and accompanied it with
details that did more honor to his
imagination than to his veracity. I
became angry; he began to laugh, I
threatened to strike him, and he made
two steps backwards. `You cannot beat
me,' said he; `you have no right, for
you are not my father.'

"We never knew who had revealed this
fatal secret, which we had so carefully
concealed from him; however, it was this
answer, in which the child's whole
character revealed itself, that almost
terrified me, and my arm fell without
touching him. The boy triumphed, and
this victory rendered him so audacious,
that all the money of Assunta, whose
affection for him seemed to increase as
he became more unworthy of it, was spent
in caprices she knew not how to contend
against, and follies she had not the
courage to prevent. When I was at
Rogliano everything went on properly,
but no sooner was my back turned than
Benedetto became master, and everything
went ill. When he was only eleven, he
chose his companions from among the
young men of eighteen or twenty, the
worst characters in Bastia, or, indeed,
in Corsica, and they had already, for
some mischievous pranks, been several
times threatened with a prosecution. I
became alarmed, as any prosecution might
be attended with serious consequences. I
was compelled, at this period, to leave
Corsica on an important expedition; I
reflected for a long time, and with the
hope of averting some impending
misfortune, I resolved that Benedetto
should accompany me. I hoped that the
active and laborious life of a smuggler,
with the severe discipline on board,
would have a salutary effect on his
character, which was now well-nigh, if
not quite, corrupt. I spoke to Benedetto
alone, and proposed to him to accompany
me, endeavoring to tempt him by all the
promises most likely to dazzle the
imagination of a child of twelve. He
heard me patiently, and when I had
finished, burst out laughing.

"`Are you mad, uncle?' (he called me by
this name when he was in good humor);
`do you think I am going to change the
life I lead for your mode of
existence -- my agreeable indolence for
the hard and precarious toil you impose
on yourself, exposed to the bitter frost
at night, and the scorching heat by day,
compelled to conceal yourself, and when
you are perceived, receive a volley of
bullets, all to earn a paltry sum? Why,
I have as much money as I want; mother
Assunta always furnishes me when I ask
for it! You see that I should be a fool
to accept your offer.' The arguments,
and his audacity, perfectly stupefied
me. Benedetto rejoined his associates,
and I saw him from a distance point me
out to them as a fool."

"Sweet child," murmured Monte Cristo.

"Oh, had he been my own son," replied
Bertuccio, "or even my nephew, I would
have brought him back to the right road,
for the knowledge that you are doing
your duty gives you strength, but the
idea that I was striking a child whose
father I had killed, made it impossible
for me to punish him. I gave my sister,
who constantly defended the unfortunate
boy, good advice, and as she confessed
that she had several times missed money
to a considerable amount, I showed her a
safe place in which to conceal our
little treasure for the future. My mind
was already made up. Benedetto could
read, write, and cipher perfectly, for
when the fit seized him, he learned more
in a day than others in a week. My
intention was to enter him as a clerk in
some ship, and without letting him know
anything of my plan, to convey him some
morning on board; by this means his
future treatment would depend upon his
own conduct. I set off for France, after
having fixed upon the plan. Our cargo
was to be landed in the Gulf of Lyons,
and this was a difficult thing to do
because it was then the year 1829. The
most perfect tranquillity was restored,
and the vigilance of the custom-house
officers was redoubled, and their
strictness was increased at this time,
in consequence of the fair at Beaucaire.

"Our expedition made a favorable
beginning. We anchored our vessel --
which had a double hold, where our goods
were concealed -- amidst a number of
other vessels that bordered the banks of
the Rhone from Beaucaire to Arles. On
our arrival we began to discharge our
cargo in the night, and to convey it
into the town, by the help of the
inn-keeper with whom we were connected.
Whether success rendered us imprudent,
or whether we were betrayed, I know not;
but one evening, about five o'clock, our
little cabin-boy came breathlessly, to
inform us that he had seen a detachment
of custom-house officers advancing in
our direction. It was not their
proximity that alarmed us, for
detachments were constantly patrolling
along the banks of the Rhone, but the
care, according to the boy's account,
that they took to avoid being seen. In
an instant we were on the alert, but it
was too late; our vessel was surrounded,
and amongst the custom-house officers I
observed several gendarmes, and, as
terrified at the sight of their uniforms
as I was brave at the sight of any
other, I sprang into the hold, opened a
port, and dropped into the river, dived,
and only rose at intervals to breathe,
until I reached a ditch that had
recently been made from the Rhone to the
canal that runs from Beaucaire to
Aigues-Mortes. I was now safe, for I
could swim along the ditch without being
seen, and I reached the canal in safety.
I had designedly taken this direction. I
have already told your excellency of an
inn-keeper from Nimes who had set up a
little tavern on the road from
Bellegarde to Beaucaire."

"Yes," said Monte Cristo "I perfectly
recollect him; I think he was your
colleague."

"Precisely," answered Bertuccio; "but he
had, seven or eight years before this
period, sold his establishment to a
tailor at Marseilles, who, having almost
ruined himself in his old trade, wished
to make his fortune in another. Of
course, we made the same arrangements
with the new landlord that we had with
the old; and it was of this man that I
intended to ask shelter."

"What was his name?" inquired the count,
who seemed to become somewhat interested
in Bertuccio's story.

"Gaspard Caderousse; he had married a
woman from the village of Carconte, and
whom we did not know by any other name
than that of her village. She was
suffering from malarial fever, and
seemed dying by inches. As for her
husband, he was a strapping fellow of
forty, or five and forty, who had more
than once, in time of danger, given
ample proof of his presence of mind and
courage."

"And you say," interrupted Monte Cristo
"that this took place towards the
year" --

"1829, your excellency."

"In what month?"

"June."

"The beginning or the end?"

"The evening of the 3d."

"Ah," said Monte Cristo "the evening of
the 3d of June, 1829. Go on."

"It was from Caderousse that I intended
demanding shelter, and, as we never
entered by the door that opened onto the
road, I resolved not to break through
the rule, so climbing over the
garden-hedge, I crept amongst the olive
and wild fig trees, and fearing that
Caderousse might have some guest, I
entered a kind of shed in which I had
often passed the night, and which was
only separated from the inn by a
partition, in which holes had been made
in order to enable us to watch an
opportunity of announcing our presence.
My intention was, if Caderousse was
alone, to acquaint him with my presence,
finish the meal the custom-house
officers had interrupted, and profit by
the threatened storm to return to the
Rhone, and ascertain the state of our
vessel and its crew. I stepped into the
shed, and it was fortunate I did so, for
at that moment Caderousse entered with a
stranger.

"I waited patiently, not to overhear
what they said, but because I could do
nothing else; besides, the same thing
had occurred often before. The man who
was with Caderousse was evidently a
stranger to the South of France; he was
one of those merchants who come to sell
jewellery at the Beaucaire fair, and who
during the month the fair lasts, and
during which there is so great an influx
of merchants and customers from all
parts of Europe, often have dealings to
the amount of 100,000 to 150,000 francs.
Caderousse entered hastily. Then, seeing
that the room was, as usual, empty, and
only guarded by the dog, he called to
his wife, `Hello, Carconte,' said he,
`the worthy priest has not deceived us;
the diamond is real.' An exclamation of
joy was heard, and the staircase creaked
beneath a feeble step. `What do you
say?' asked his wife, pale as death.

"`I say that the diamond is real, and
that this gentleman, one of the first
jewellers of Paris, will give us 50,000
francs for it. Only, in order to satisfy
himself that it really belongs to us, he
wishes you to relate to him, as I have
done already, the miraculous manner in
which the diamond came into our
possession. In the meantime please to
sit down, monsieur, and I will fetch you
some refreshment.' The jeweller examined
attentively the interior of the inn and
the apparent poverty of the persons who
were about to sell him a diamond that
seemed to have come from the casket of a
prince. `Relate your story, madame,'
said he, wishing, no doubt, to profit by
the absence of the husband, so that the
latter could not influence the wife's
story, to see if the two recitals
tallied.

"`Oh,' returned she, `it was a gift of
heaven. My husband was a great friend,
in 1814 or 1815, of a sailor named
Edmond Dantes. This poor fellow, whom
Caderousse had forgotten, had not
forgotten him, and at his death he
bequeathed this diamond to him.' -- `But
how did he obtain it?' asked the
jeweller; `had he it before he was
imprisoned?' -- `No, monsieur; but it
appears that in prison he made the
acquaintance of a rich Englishman, and
as in prison he fell sick, and Dantes
took the same care of him as if he had
been his brother, the Englishman, when
he was set free, gave this stone to
Dantes, who, less fortunate, died, and,
in his turn, left it to us, and charged
the excellent abbe, who was here this
morning, to deliver it.' -- `The same
story,' muttered the jeweller; `and
improbable as it seemed at first, it may
be true. There's only the price we are
not agreed about.' -- `How not agreed
about?' said Caderousse. `I thought we
agreed for the price I asked.' -- `That
is,' replied the jeweller, `I offered
40,000 francs.' -- `Forty thousand,'
cried La Carconte; `we will not part
with it for that sum. The abbe told us
it was worth 50,000 without the
setting.'

"`What was the abbe's name?' asked the
indefatigable questioner. -- `The Abbe
Busoni,' said La Carconte. -- `He was a
foreigner?' -- `An Italian, from the
neighborhood of Mantua, I believe.' --
`Let me see this diamond again,' replied
the jeweller; `the first time you are
often mistaken as to the value of a
stone.' Caderousse took from his pocket
a small case of black shagreen, opened,
and gave it to the jeweller. At the
sight of the diamond, which was as large
as a hazel-nut, La Carconte's eyes
sparkled with cupidity."

"And what did you think of this fine
story, eavesdropper?" said Monte Cristo;
"did you credit it?"

"Yes, your excellency. I did not look on
Caderousse as a bad man, and I thought
him incapable of committing a crime, or
even a theft."

"That did more honor to your heart than
to your experience, M. Bertuccio. Had
you known this Edmond Dantes, of whom
they spoke?"

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

"Go on."

"The jeweller took the ring, and drawing
from his pocket a pair of steel pliers
and a small set of copper scales, he
took the stone out of its setting, and
weighed it carefully. `I will give you
45,000,' said he, `but not a sou more;
besides, as that is the exact value of
the stone, I brought just that sum with
me.' -- `Oh, that's no matter,' replied
Caderousse, `I will go back with you to
fetch the other 5,000 francs.' -- `No,'
returned the jeweller, giving back the
diamond and the ring to Caderousse --
`no, it is worth no more, and I am sorry
I offered so much, for the stone has a
flaw in it, which I had not seen.
However, I will not go back on my word,
and I will give 45,000.' -- `At least,
replace the diamond in the ring,' said
La Carconte sharply. -- `Ah, true,'
replied the jeweller, and he reset the
stone. -- `No matter,' observed
Caderousse, replacing the box in his
pocket, `some one else will purchase
it.' -- `Yes,' continued the jeweller;
`but some one else will not be so easy
as I am, or content himself with the
same story. It is not natural that a man
like you should possess such a diamond.
He will inform against you. You will
have to find the Abbe Busoni; and abbes
who give diamonds worth two thousand
louis are rare. The law would seize it,
and put you in prison; if at the end of
three or four months you are set at
liberty, the ring will be lost, or a
false stone, worth three francs, will be
given you, instead of a diamond worth
50,000 or perhaps 55,000 francs; from
which you must allow that one runs
considerable risk in purchasing.'
Caderousse and his wife looked eagerly
at each other. -- `No,' said Caderousse,
`we are not rich enough to lose 5,000
francs.' -- `As you please, my dear
sir,' said the, jeweller; `I had,
however, as you see, brought you the
money in bright coin.' And he drew from
his pocket a handful of gold, and held
it sparkling before the dazzled eyes of
the innkeeper, and in the other hand he
held a packet of bank-notes.

"There was evidently a severe struggle
in the mind of Caderousse; it was plain
that the small shagreen case, which he
turned over and over in his hand, did
not seem to him commensurate in value to
the enormous sum which fascinated his
gaze. He turned towards his wife. `What
do you think of this?' he asked in a low
voice. -- `Let him have it -- let him
have it,' she said. `If he returns to
Beaucaire without the diamond, he will
inform against us, and, as he says, who
knows if we shall ever again see the
Abbe Busoni? -- in all probability we
shall never see him.' -- `Well, then, so
I will!' said Caderousse; `so you may
have the diamond for 45,000 francs. But
my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a
pair of silver buckles.' The jeweller
drew from his pocket a long flat box,
which contained several samples of the
articles demanded. `Here,' he said, `I
am very straightforward in my
dealings -- take your choice.' The woman
selected a gold chain worth about five
louis, and the husband a pair of
buckles. worth perhaps fifteen
francs. -- `I hope you will not complain
now?' said the jeweller.

"`The abbe told me it was worth 50,000
francs,' muttered Caderousse. `Come,
come -- give it to me! What a strange
fellow you are,' said the jeweller,
taking the diamond from his hand. `I
give you 45,000 francs -- that is, 2,500
livres of income, -- a fortune such as I
wish I had myself, and you are not
satisfied!' -- `And the five and forty
thousand francs,' inquired Caderousse in
a hoarse voice, `where are they? Come --
let us see them.' -- `Here they are,'
replied the jeweller, and he counted out
upon the table 15,000 francs in gold,
and 30,000 francs in bank-notes.

"`Wait while I light the lamp,' said La
Carconte; `it is growing dark, and there
may be some mistake.' In fact, night had
come on during this conversation, and
with night the storm which had been
threatening for the last half-hour. The
thunder growled in the distance; but it
was apparently not heard by the
jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte,
absorbed as they were all three with the
demon of gain. I myself felt; a strange
kind of fascination at the sight of all
this gold and all these bank-notes; it
seemed to me that I was in a dream, and,
as it always happens in a dream, I felt
myself riveted to the spot. Caderousse
counted and again counted the gold and
the notes, then handed them to his wife,
who counted and counted them again in
her turn. During this time, the jeweller
made the diamond play and sparkle in the
lamplight, and the gem threw out jets of
light which made him unmindful of those
which -- precursors of the storm --
began to play in at the windows. `Well,'
inquired the jeweller, `is the cash all
right?'

"`Yes,' said Caderousse. `Give me the
pocket-book, La Carconte, and find a bag
somewhere.'

"La Carconte went to a cupboard, and
returned with an old leathern
pocket-book and a bag. From the former
she took some greasy letters, and put in
their place the bank-notes, and from the
bag took two or three crowns of six
livres each, which, in all probability,
formed the entire fortune of the
miserable couple. `There,' said
Caderousse; `and now, although you have
wronged us of perhaps 10,000 francs,
will you have your supper with us? I
invite you with good-will.' -- `Thank
you,' replied the jeweller, `it must be
getting late, and I must return to
Beaucaire -- my wife will be getting
uneasy.' He drew out his watch, and
exclaimed, `Morbleu, nearly nine
o'clock -- why, I shall not get back to
Beaucaire before midnight! Good-night,
my friends. If the Abbe Busoni should by
any accident return, think of me.' --
`In another week you will have left
Beaucaire.' remarked Caderousse, `for
the fair ends in a few days.' -- `True,
but that makes no difference. Write to
me at Paris, to M. Joannes, in the
Palais Royal, arcade Pierre, No. 45. I
will make the journey on purpose to see
him, if it is worth while.' At this
moment there was a tremendous clap of
thunder, accompanied by a flash of
lightning so vivid, that it quite
eclipsed the light of the lamp.

"`See here,' exclaimed Caderousse. `You
cannot think of going out in such
weather as this.' -- `Oh, I am not
afraid of thunder,' said the
jeweller. -- `And then there are
robbers,' said La Carconte. `The road is
never very safe during fair time.' --
`Oh, as to the robbers,' said Joannes,
`here is something for them,' and he
drew from his pocket a pair of small
pistols, loaded to the muzzle. `Here,'
said he, `are dogs who bark and bite at
the same time, they are for the two
first who shall have a longing for your
diamond, Friend Caderousse.'

"Caderousse and his wife again
interchanged a meaning look. It seemed
as though they were both inspired at the
same time with some horrible thought.
`Well, then, a good journey to you,'
said Caderousse. -- `Thanks,' replied
the jeweller. He then took his cane,
which he had placed against an old
cupboard, and went out. At the moment
when he opened the door, such a gust of
wind came in that the lamp was nearly
extinguished. `Oh,' said he, `this is
very nice weather, and two leagues to go
in such a storm.' -- `Remain,' said
Caderousse. `You can sleep here.' --
`Yes; do stay,' added La Carconte in a
tremulous voice; `we will take every
care of you.' -- `No; I must sleep at
Beaucaire. So, once more, good-night.'
Caderousse followed him slowly to the
threshold. `I can see neither heaven nor
earth,' said the jeweller, who was
outside the door. `Do I turn to the
right, or to the left hand?' -- `To the
right,' said Caderousse. `You cannot go
wrong -- the road is bordered by trees
on both sides.' -- `Good -- all right,'
said a voice almost lost in the
distance. `Close the door,' said La
Carconte; `I do not like open doors when
it thunders.' -- `Particularly when
there is money in the house, eh?'
answered Caderousse, double-locking the
door.

"He came into the room, went to the
cupboard, took out the bag and
pocket-book, and both began, for the
third time, to count their gold and
bank-notes. I never saw such an
expression of cupidity as the flickering
lamp revealed in those two countenances.
The woman, especially, was hideous; her
usual feverish tremulousness was
intensified, her countenance had become
livid, and her eyes resembled burning
coals. `Why,' she inquired in a hoarse
voice, `did you invite him to sleep here
to-night?' -- `Why?' said Caderousse
with a shudder; `why, that he might not
have the trouble of returning to
Beaucaire.' -- `Ah,' responded the
woman, with an expression impossible to
describe; `I thought it was for
something else.' -- `Woman, woman -- why
do you have such ideas?' cried
Caderousse; `or, if you have them, why
don't you keep them to yourself?' --
`Well,' said La Carconte, after a
moment's pause, `you are not a man.' --
`What do you mean?' added Caderousse. --
`If you had been a man, you would not
have let him go from here.' --
`Woman!' -- `Or else he should not have
reached Beaucaire.' -- `Woman!' -- `The
road takes a turn -- he is obliged to
follow it -- while alongside of the
canal there is a shorter road.' --
`Woman! -- you offend the good God.
There -- listen!' And at this moment
there was a tremendous peal of thunder,
while the livid lightning illumined the
room, and the thunder, rolling away in
the distance, seemed to withdraw
unwillingly from the cursed abode.
`Mercy!' said Caderousse, crossing
himself.

"At the same moment, and in the midst of
the terrifying silence which usually
follows a clap of thunder, they heard a
knocking at the door. Caderousse and his
wife started and looked aghast at each
other. `Who's there?' cried Caderousse,
rising, and drawing up in a heap the
gold and notes scattered over the table,
and which he covered with his two
hands. -- `It is I,' shouted a voice. --
`And who are you?' -- `Eh, pardieu,
Joannes, the jeweller.' -- `Well, and
you said I offended the good God,' said
La Carconte with a horrid smile. `Why,
the good God sends him back again.'
Caderousse sank pale and breathless into
his chair. La Carconte, on the contrary,
rose, and going with a firm step towards
the door, opened it, saying, as she did
so -- `Come in, dear M. Joannes.' -- `Ma
foi,' said the jeweller, drenched with
rain, `I am not destined to return to
Beaucaire to-night. The shortest follies
are best, my dear Caderousse. You
offered me hospitality, and I accept it,
and have returned to sleep beneath your
friendly roof.' Caderousse stammered out
something, while he wiped away the sweat
that started to his brow. La Carconte
doubled-locked the door behind the
jeweller.



Chapter 45 The Rain of Blood.

"As the jeweller returned to the
apartment, he cast around him a
scrutinizing glance -- but there was
nothing to excite suspicion, if it did
not exist, or to confirm it, if it were
already awakened. Caderousse's hands
still grasped the gold and bank-notes,
and La Carconte called up her sweetest
smiles while welcoming the reappearance
of their guest. `Well, well,' said the
jeweller, `you seem, my good friends, to
have had some fears respecting the
accuracy of your money, by counting it
over so carefully directly I was
gone.' -- `Oh, no,' answered Caderousse,
`that was not my reason, I can assure
you; but the circumstances by which we
have become possessed of this wealth are
so unexpected, as to make us scarcely
credit our good fortune, and it is only
by placing the actual proof of our
riches before our eyes that we can
persuade ourselves that the whole affair
is not a dream.' The jeweller smiled. --
`Have you any other guests in your
house?' inquired he. -- `Nobody but
ourselves,' replied Caderousse; `the
fact is, we do not lodge travellers --
indeed, our tavern is so near the town,
that nobody would think of stopping
here. -- `Then I am afraid I shall very
much inconvenience you.' --
`Inconvenience us? Not at all, my dear
sir,' said La Carconte in her most
gracious manner. `Not at all, I assure
you.' -- `But where will you manage to
stow me?' -- `In the chamber
overhead.' -- `Surely that is where you
yourselves sleep?' -- `Never mind that;
we have a second bed in the adjoining
room.' Caderousse stared at his wife
with much astonishment.

"The jeweller, meanwhile, was humming a
song as he stood warming his back at the
fire La Carconte had kindled to dry the
wet garments of her guest; and this
done, she next occupied herself in
arranging his supper, by spreading a
napkin at the end of the table, and
placing on it the slender remains of
their dinner, to which she added three
or four fresh-laid eggs. Caderousse had
once more parted with his treasure --
the banknotes were replaced in the
pocket-book, the gold put back into the
bag, and the whole carefully locked in
the cupboard. He then began pacing the
room with a pensive and gloomy air,
glancing from time to time at the
jeweller, who stood reeking with the
steam from his wet clothes, and merely
changing his place on the warm hearth,
to enable the whole of his garments to
be dried.

"`There,' said La Carconte, as she
placed a bottle of wine on the table,
`supper is ready whenever you are.' --
`And you?' asked Joannes. -- `I don't
want any supper,' said Caderousse. --
`We dined so very late,' hastily
interposed La Carconte. -- `Then it
seems I am to eat alone,' remarked the
jeweller. -- `Oh, we shall have the
pleasure of waiting upon you,' answered
La Carconte, with an eager attention she
was not accustomed to manifest even to
guests who paid for what they took.

"From time to time Caderousse darted on
his wife keen, searching glances, but
rapid as the lightning flash. The storm
still continued. `There, there,' said La
Carconte; `do you hear that? upon my
word, you did well to come back.' --
`Nevertheless,' replied the jeweller,
`if by the time I have finished my
supper the tempest has at all abated, I
shall make another start.' -- `It's the
mistral,' said Caderousse, `and it will
be sure to last till to-morrow morning.'
He sighed heavily. -- `Well,' said the
jeweller, as he placed himself at table,
`all I can say is, so much the worse for
those who are abroad.' -- `Yes,' chimed
in La Carconte, `they will have a
wretched night of it.'

"The jeweller began eating his supper,
and the woman, who was ordinarily so
querulous and indifferent to all who
approached her, was suddenly transformed
into the most smiling and attentive
hostess. Had the unhappy man on whom she
lavished her assiduities been previously
acquainted with her, so sudden an
alteration might well have excited
suspicion in his mind, or at least have
greatly astonished him. Caderousse,
meanwhile, continued to pace the room in
gloomy silence, sedulously avoiding the
sight of his guest; but as soon as the
stranger had completed his repast, the
agitated inn-keeper went eagerly to the
door and opened it. `I believe the storm
is over,' said he. But as if to
contradict his statement, at that
instant a violent clap of thunder seemed
to shake the house to its very
foundation, while a sudden gust of wind,
mingled with rain, extinguished the lamp
he held in his hand. Trembling and
awe-struck, Caderousse hastily shut the
door and returned to his guest, while La
Carconte lighted a candle by the
smouldering ashes that glimmered on the
hearth. `You must be tired,' said she to
the jeweller; `I have spread a pair of
white sheets on your bed; go up when you
are ready, and sleep well.'

"Joannes stayed for a while to see
whether the storm seemed to abate in its
fury, but a brief space of time sufficed
to assure him that, instead of
diminishing, the violence of the rain
and thunder momentarily increased;
resigning himself, therefore, to what
seemed inevitable, he bade his host
good-night, and mounted the stairs. He
passed over my head and I heard the
flooring creak beneath his footsteps.
The quick, eager glance of La Carconte
followed him as he ascended, while
Caderousse, on the contrary, turned his
back, and seemed most anxiously to avoid
even glancing at him.

"All these circumstances did not strike
me as painfully at the time as they have
since done; in fact, all that had
happened (with the exception of the
story of the diamond, which certainly
did wear an air of improbability),
appeared natural enough, and called for
neither apprehension nor mistrust; but,
worn out as I was with fatigue, and
fully purposing to proceed onwards
directly the tempest abated, I
determined to obtain a few hours' sleep.
Overhead I could accurately distinguish
every movement of the jeweller, who,
after making the best arrangements in
his power for passing a comfortable
night, threw himself on his bed, and I
could hear it creak and groan beneath
his weight. Insensibly my eyelids grew
heavy, deep sleep stole over me, and
having no suspicion of anything wrong, I
sought not to shake it off. I looked
into the kitchen once more and saw
Caderousse sitting by the side of a long
table upon one of the low wooden stools
which in country places are frequently
used instead of chairs; his back was
turned towards me, so that I could not
see the expression of his countenance --
neither should I have been able to do so
had he been placed differently, as his
head was buried between his two hands.
La Carconte continued to gaze on him for
some time, then shrugging her shoulders,
she took her seat immediately opposite
to him. At this moment the expiring
embers threw up a fresh flame from the
kindling of a piece of wood that lay
near, and a bright light flashed over
the room. La Carconte still kept her
eyes fixed on her husband, but as he
made no sign of changing his position,
she extended her hard, bony hand, and
touched him on the forehead.

"Caderousse shuddered. The woman's lips
seemed to move, as though she were
talking; but because she merely spoke in
an undertone, or my senses were dulled
by sleep, I did not catch a word she
uttered. Confused sights and sounds
seemed to float before me, and gradually
I fell into a deep, heavy slumber. How
long I had been in this unconscious
state I know not, when I was suddenly
aroused by the report of a pistol,
followed by a fearful cry. Weak and
tottering footsteps resounded across the
chamber above me, and the next instant a
dull, heavy weight seemed to fall
powerless on the staircase. I had not
yet fully recovered consciousness, when
again I heard groans, mingled with
half-stifled cries, as if from persons
engaged in a deadly struggle. A cry more
prolonged than the others and ending in
a series of groans effectually roused me
from my drowsy lethargy. Hastily raising
myself on one arm, I looked around, but
all was dark; and it seemed to me as if
the rain must have penetrated through
the flooring of the room above, for some
kind of moisture appeared to fall, drop
by drop, upon my forehead, and when I
passed my hand across my brow, I felt
that it was wet and clammy.

"To the fearful noises that had awakened
me had succeeded the most perfect
silence -- unbroken, save by the
footsteps of a man walking about in the
chamber above. The staircase creaked, he
descended into the room below,
approached the fire and lit a candle.
The man was Caderousse -- he was pale
and his shirt was all blood. Having
obtained the light, he hurried up-stairs
again, and once more I heard his rapid
and uneasy footsteps. A moment later he
came down again, holding in his hand the
small shagreen case, which he opened, to
assure himself it contained the
diamond, -- seemed to hesitate as to
which pocket he should put it in, then,
as if dissatisfied with the security of
either pocket, he deposited it in his
red handkerchief, which he carefully
rolled round his head. After this he
took from his cupboard the bank-notes
and gold he had put there, thrust the
one into the pocket of his trousers, and
the other into that of his waistcoat,
hastily tied up a small bundle of linen,
and rushing towards the door,
disappeared in the darkness of the
night.

"Then all became clear and manifest to
me, and I reproached myself with what
had happened, as though I myself had
done the guilty deed. I fancied that I
still heard faint moans, and imagining
that the unfortunate jeweller might not
be quite dead, I determined to go to his
relief, by way of atoning in some slight
degree, not for the crime I had
committed, but for that which I had not
endeavored to prevent. For this purpose
I applied all the strength I possessed
to force an entrance from the cramped
spot in which I lay to the adjoining
room. The poorly fastened boards which
alone divided me from it yielded to my
efforts, and I found myself in the
house. Hastily snatching up the lighted
candle, I hurried to the staircase;
about midway a body was lying quite
across the stairs. It was that of La
Carconte. The pistol I had heard had
doubtless been fired at her. The shot
had frightfully lacerated her throat,
leaving two gaping wounds from which, as
well as the mouth, the blood was pouring
in floods. She was stone dead. I strode
past her, and ascended to the sleeping
chamber, which presented an appearance
of the wildest disorder. The furniture
had been knocked over in the deadly
struggle that had taken place there, and
the sheets, to which the unfortunate
jeweller had doubtless clung, were
dragged across the room. The murdered
man lay on the floor, his head leaning
against the wall, and about him was a
pool of blood which poured forth from
three large wounds in his breast; there
was a fourth gash, in which a long table
knife was plunged up to the handle.

"I stumbled over some object; I stooped
to examine -- it was the second pistol,
which had not gone off, probably from
the powder being wet. I approached the
jeweller, who was not quite dead, and at
the sound of my footsteps and the
creaking of the floor, he opened his
eyes, fixed them on me with an anxious
and inquiring gaze, moved his lips as
though trying to speak, then, overcome
by the effort, fell back and expired.
This appalling sight almost bereft me of
my senses, and finding that I could no
longer be of service to any one in the
house, my only desire was to fly. I
rushed towards the staircase, clutching
my hair, and uttering a groan of horror.
Upon reaching the room below, I found
five or six custom-house officers, and
two or three gendarmes -- all heavily
armed. They threw themselves upon me. I
made no resistance; I was no longer
master of my senses. When I strove to
speak, a few inarticulate sounds alone
escaped my lips.

"As I noticed the significant manner in
which the whole party pointed to my
blood-stained garments, I involuntarily
surveyed myself, and then I discovered
that the thick warm drops that had so
bedewed me as I lay beneath the
staircase must have been the blood of La
Carconte. I pointed to the spot where I
had concealed myself. `What does he
mean?' asked a gendarme. One of the
officers went to the place I directed.
`He means,' replied the man upon his
return, `that he got in that way;' and
he showed the hole I had made when I
broke through.

"Then I saw that they took me for the
assassin. I recovered force and energy
enough to free myself from the hands of
those who held me, while I managed to
stammer forth -- `I did not do it!
Indeed, indeed I did not!' A couple of
gendarmes held the muzzles of their
carbines against my breast. -- `Stir but
a step,' said they, `and you are a dead
man.' -- `Why should you threaten me
with death,' cried I, `when I have
already declared my innocence?' --
`Tush, tush,' cried the men; `keep your
innocent stories to tell to the judge at
Nimes. Meanwhile, come along with us;
and the best advice we can give you is
to do so unresistingly.' Alas,
resistance was far from my thoughts. I
was utterly overpowered by surprise and
terror; and without a word I suffered
myself to be handcuffed and tied to a
horse's tail, and thus they took me to
Nimes.

"I had been tracked by a
customs-officer, who had lost sight of
me near the tavern; feeling certain that
I intended to pass the night there, he
had returned to summon his comrades, who
just arrived in time to hear the report
of the pistol, and to take me in the
midst of such circumstantial proofs of
my guilt as rendered all hopes of
proving my innocence utterly futile. One
only chance was left me, that of
beseeching the magistrate before whom I
was taken to cause every inquiry to be
made for the Abbe Busoni, who had
stopped at the inn of the Pont du Gard
on that morning. If Caderousse had
invented the story relative to the
diamond, and there existed no such
person as the Abbe Busoni, then, indeed,
I was lost past redemption, or, at
least, my life hung upon the feeble
chance of Caderousse himself being
apprehended and confessing the whole
truth. Two months passed away in
hopeless expectation on my part, while I
must do the magistrate the justice to
say that he used every means to obtain
information of the person I declared
could exculpate me if he would.
Caderousse still evaded all pursuit, and
I had resigned myself to what seemed my
inevitable fate. My trial was to come on
at the approaching assizes; when, on the
8th of September -- that is to say,
precisely three months and five days
after the events which had perilled my
life -- the Abbe Busoni, whom I never
ventured to believe I should see,
presented himself at the prison doors,
saying he understood one of the
prisoners wished to speak to him; he
added, that having learned at Marseilles
the particulars of my imprisonment, he
hastened to comply with my desire. You
may easily imagine with what eagerness I
welcomed him, and how minutely I related
the whole of what I had seen and heard.
I felt some degree of nervousness as I
entered upon the history of the diamond,
but, to my inexpressible astonishment,
he confirmed it in every particular, and
to my equal surprise, he seemed to place
entire belief in all I said. And then it
was that, won by his mild charity,
seeing that he was acquainted with all
the habits and customs of my own
country, and considering also that
pardon for the only crime of which I was
really guilty might come with a double
power from lips so benevolent and kind,
I besought him to receive my confession,
under the seal of which I recounted the
Auteuil affair in all its details, as
well as every other transaction of my
life. That which I had done by the
impulse of my best feelings produced the
same effect as though it had been the
result of calculation. My voluntary
confession of the assassination at
Auteuil proved to him that I had not
committed that of which I stood accused.
When he quitted me, he bade me be of
good courage, and to rely upon his doing
all in his power to convince my judges
of my innocence.

"I had speedy proofs that the excellent
abbe was engaged in my behalf, for the
rigors of my imprisonment were
alleviated by many trifling though
acceptable indulgences, and I was told
that my trial was to be postponed to the
assizes following those now being held.
In the interim it pleased providence to
cause the apprehension of Caderousse,
who was discovered in some distant
country, and brought back to France,
where he made a full confession,
refusing to make the fact of his wife's
having suggested and arranged the murder
any excuse for his own guilt. The
wretched man was sentenced to the
galleys for life, and I was immediately
set at liberty."

"And then it was, I presume," said Monte
Cristo "that you came to me as the
bearer of a letter from the Abbe
Busoni?"

"It was, your excellency; the benevolent
abbe took an evident interest in all
that concerned me.

"`Your mode of life as a smuggler,' said
he to me one day, `will be the ruin of
you; if you get out, don't take it up
again.' -- `But how,' inquired I, `am I
to maintain myself and my poor sister?'

"`A person, whose confessor I am,'
replied he, `and who entertains a high
regard for me, applied to me a short
time since to procure him a confidential
servant. Would you like such a post? If
so, I will give you a letter of
introduction to him.' -- `Oh, father,' I
exclaimed, `you are very good.'

"`But you must swear solemnly that I
shall never have reason to repent my
recommendation.' I extended my hand, and
was about to pledge myself by any
promise he would dictate, but he stopped
me. `It is unnecessary for you to bind
yourself by any vow,' said he; `I know
and admire the Corsican nature too well
to fear you. Here, take this,' continued
he, after rapidly writing the few lines
I brought to your excellency, and upon
receipt of which you deigned to receive
me into your service, and proudly I ask
whether your excellency has ever had
cause to repent having done so?"

"No," replied the count; "I take
pleasure in saying that you have served
me faithfully, Bertuccio; but you might
have shown more confidence in me."

"I, your excellency?"

"Yes; you. How comes it, that having
both a sister and an adopted son, you
have never spoken to me of either?"

"Alas, I have still to recount the most
distressing period of my life. Anxious
as you may suppose I was to behold and
comfort my dear sister, I lost no time
in hastening to Corsica, but when I
arrived at Rogliano I found a house of
mourning, the consequences of a scene so
horrible that the neighbors remember and
speak of it to this day. Acting by my
advice, my poor sister had refused to
comply with the unreasonable demands of
Benedetto, who was continually
tormenting her for money, as long as he
believed there was a sou left in her
possession. One morning that he had
demanded money, threatening her with the
severest consequences if she did not
supply him with what he desired, he
disappeared and remained away all day,
leaving the kind-hearted Assunta, who
loved him as if he were her own child,
to weep over his conduct and bewail his
absence. Evening came, and still, with
all the patient solicitude of a mother,
she watched for his return.

"As the eleventh hour struck, he entered
with a swaggering air, attended by two
of the most dissolute and reckless of
his boon companions. She stretched out
her arms to him, but they seized hold of
her, and one of the three -- none other
than the accursed Benedetto
exclaimed, -- `Put her to torture and
she'll soon tell us where her money is.'

"It unfortunately happened that our
neighbor, Vasilio, was at Bastia,
leaving no person in his house but his
wife; no human creature beside could
hear or see anything that took place
within our dwelling. Two held poor
Assunta, who, unable to conceive that
any harm was intended to her, smiled in
the face of those who were soon to
become her executioners. The third
proceeded to barricade the doors and
windows, then returned, and the three
united in stifling the cries of terror
incited by the sight of these
preparations, and then dragged Assunta
feet foremost towards the brazier,
expecting to wring from her an avowal of
where her supposed treasure was
secreted. In the struggle her clothes
caught fire, and they were obliged to
let go their hold in order to preserve
themselves from sharing the same fate.
Covered with flames, Assunta rushed
wildly to the door, but it was fastened;
she flew to the windows, but they were
also secured; then the neighbors heard
frightful shrieks; it was Assunta
calling for help. The cries died away in
groans, and next morning, as soon as
Vasilio's wife could muster up courage
to venture abroad, she caused the door
of our dwelling to be opened by the
public authorities, when Assunta,
although dreadfully burnt, was found
still breathing; every drawer and closet
in the house had been forced open, and
the money stolen. Benedetto never again
appeared at Rogliano, neither have I
since that day either seen or heard
anything concerning him.

"It was subsequently to these dreadful
events that I waited on your excellency,
to whom it would have been folly to have
mentioned Benedetto, since all trace of
him seemed entirely lost; or of my
sister, since she was dead."

"And in what light did you view the
occurrence?" inquired Monte Cristo.

"As a punishment for the crime I had
committed," answered Bertuccio. "Oh,
those Villeforts are an accursed race!"

"Truly they are," murmured the count in
a lugubrious tone.

"And now," resumed Bertuccio, "your
excellency may, perhaps, be able to
comprehend that this place, which I
revisit for the first time -- this
garden, the actual scene of my crime --
must have given rise to reflections of
no very agreeable nature, and produced
that gloom and depression of spirits
which excited the notice of your
excellency, who was pleased to express a
desire to know the cause. At this
instant a shudder passes over me as I
reflect that possibly I am now standing
on the very grave in which lies M. de
Villefort, by whose hand the ground was
dug to receive the corpse of his child."

"Everything is possible," said Monte
Cristo, rising from the bench on which
he had been sitting; "even," he added in
an inaudible voice, "even that the
procureur be not dead. The Abbe Busoni
did right to send you to me," he went on
in his ordinary tone, "and you have done
well in relating to me the whole of your
history, as it will prevent my forming
any erroneous opinions concerning you in
future. As for that Benedetto, who so
grossly belied his name, have you never
made any effort to trace out whither he
has gone, or what has become of him?"

"No; far from wishing to learn whither
he has betaken himself, I should shun
the possibility of meeting him as I
would a wild beast. Thank God, I have
never heard his name mentioned by any
person, and I hope and believe he is
dead."

"Do not think so, Bertuccio," replied
the count; "for the wicked are not so
easily disposed of, for God seems to
have them under his special watch-care
to make of them instruments of his
vengeance."

"So be it," responded Bertuccio, "all I
ask of heaven is that I may never see
him again. And now, your excellency," he
added, bowing his head, "you know
everything -- you are my judge on earth,
as the Almighty is in heaven; have you
for me no words of consolation?"

"My good friend, I can only repeat the
words addressed to you by the Abbe
Busoni. Villefort merited punishment for
what he had done to you, and, perhaps,
to others. Benedetto, if still living,
will become the instrument of divine
retribution in some way or other, and
then be duly punished in his turn. As
far as you yourself are concerned, I see
but one point in which you are really
guilty. Ask yourself, wherefore, after
rescuing the infant from its living
grave, you did not restore it to its
mother? There was the crime,
Bertuccio -- that was where you became
really culpable."

"True, excellency, that was the crime,
the real crime, for in that I acted like
a coward. My first duty, directly I had
succeeded in recalling the babe to life,
was to restore it to its mother; but, in
order to do so, I must have made close
and careful inquiry, which would, in all
probability, have led to my own
apprehension; and I clung to life,
partly on my sister's account, and
partly from that feeling of pride inborn
in our hearts of desiring to come off
untouched and victorious in the
execution of our vengeance. Perhaps,
too, the natural and instinctive love of
life made me wish to avoid endangering
my own. And then, again, I am not as
brave and courageous as was my poor
brother." Bertuccio hid his face in his
hands as he uttered these words, while
Monte Cristo fixed on him a look of
inscrutable meaning. After a brief
silence, rendered still more solemn by
the time and place, the count said, in a
tone of melancholy wholly unlike his
usual manner, "In order to bring this
conversation to a fitting termination
(the last we shall ever hold upon this
subject), I will repeat to you some
words I have heard from the lips of the
Abbe Busoni. For all evils there are two
remedies -- time and silence. And now
leave me, Monsieur Bertuccio, to walk
alone here in the garden. The very
circumstances which inflict on you, as a
principal in the tragic scene enacted
here, such painful emotions, are to me,
on the contrary, a source of something
like contentment, and serve but to
enhance the value of this dwelling in my
estimation. The chief beauty of trees
consists in the deep shadow of their
umbrageous boughs, while fancy pictures
a moving multitude of shapes and forms
flitting and passing beneath that shade.
Here I have a garden laid out in such a
way as to afford the fullest scope for
the imagination, and furnished with
thickly grown trees, beneath whose leafy
screen a visionary like myself may
conjure up phantoms at will. This to me,
who expected but to find a blank
enclosure surrounded by a straight wall,
is, I assure you, a most agreeable
surprise. I have no fear of ghosts, and
I have never heard it said that so much
harm had been done by the dead during
six thousand years as is wrought by the
living in a single day. Retire within,
Bertuccio, and tranquillize your mind.
Should your confessor be less indulgent
to you in your dying moments than you
found the Abbe Busoni, send for me, if I
am still on earth, and I will soothe
your ears with words that shall
effectually calm and soothe your parting
soul ere it goes forth to traverse the
ocean called eternity."

Bertuccio bowed respectfully, and turned
away, sighing heavily. Monte Cristo,
left alone, took three or four steps
onwards, and murmured, "Here, beneath
this plane-tree, must have been where
the infant's grave was dug. There is the
little door opening into the garden. At
this corner is the private staircase
communicating with the sleeping
apartment. There will be no necessity
for me to make a note of these
particulars, for there, before my eyes,
beneath my feet, all around me, I have
the plan sketched with all the living
reality of truth." After making the tour
of the garden a second time, the count
re-entered his carriage, while
Bertuccio, who perceived the thoughtful
expression of his master's features,
took his seat beside the driver without
uttering a word. The carriage proceeded
rapidly towards Paris.

That same evening, upon reaching his
abode in the Champs Elysees, the Count
of Monte Cristo went over the whole
building with the air of one long
acquainted with each nook or corner.
Nor, although preceding the party, did
he once mistake one door for another, or
commit the smallest error when choosing
any particular corridor or staircase to
conduct him to a place or suite of rooms
he desired to visit. Ali was his
principal attendant during this
nocturnal survey. Having given various
orders to Bertuccio relative to the
improvements and alterations he desired
to make in the house, the Count, drawing
out his watch, said to the attentive
Nubian, "It is half-past eleven o'clock;
Haidee will soon he here. Have the
French attendants been summoned to await
her coming?" Ali extended his hands
towards the apartments destined for the
fair Greek, which were so effectually
concealed by means of a tapestried
entrance, that it would have puzzled the
most curious to have divined their
existence. Ali, having pointed to the
apartments, held up three fingers of his
right hand, and then, placing it beneath
his head, shut his eyes, and feigned to
sleep. "I understand," said Monte
Cristo, well acquainted with Ali's
pantomime; "you mean to tell me that
three female attendants await their new
mistress in her sleeping-chamber." Ali,
with considerable animation, made a sign
in the affirmative.

"Madame will be tired to-night,"
continued Monte Cristo, "and will, no
doubt, wish to rest. Desire the French
attendants not to weary her with
questions, but merely to pay their
respectful duty and retire. You will
also see that the Greek servants hold no
communication with those of this
country." He bowed. Just at that moment
voices were heard hailing the concierge.
The gate opened, a carriage rolled down
the avenue, and stopped at the steps.
The count hastily descended, presented
himself at the already opened carriage
door, and held out his hand to a young
woman, completely enveloped in a green
silk mantle heavily embroidered with
gold. She raised the hand extended
towards her to her lips, and kissed it
with a mixture of love and respect. Some
few words passed between them in that
sonorous language in which Homer makes
his gods converse. The young woman spoke
with an expression of deep tenderness,
while the count replied with an air of
gentle gravity. Preceded by Ali, who
carried a rose-colored flambeau in his
hand, the new-comer, who was no other
than the lovely Greek who had been Monte
Cristo's companion in Italy, was
conducted to her apartments, while the
count retired to the pavilion reserved
for himself. In another hour every light
in the house was extinguished, and it
might have been thought that all its
inmates slept.



Chapter 46 Unlimited Credit.

About two o'clock the following day a
calash, drawn by a pair of magnificent
English horses, stopped at the door of
Monte Cristo and a person, dressed in a
blue coat, with buttons of a similar
color, a white waistcoat, over which was
displayed a massive gold chain, brown
trousers, and a quantity of black hair
descending so low over his eyebrows as
to leave it doubtful whether it were not
artificial so little did its jetty
glossiness assimilate with the deep
wrinkles stamped on his features -- a
person, in a word, who, although
evidently past fifty, desired to be
taken for not more than forty, bent
forwards from the carriage door, on the
panels of which were emblazoned the
armorial bearings of a baron, and
directed his groom to inquire at the
porter's lodge whether the Count of
Monte Cristo resided there, and if he
were within. While waiting, the occupant
of the carriage surveyed the house, the
garden as far as he could distinguish
it, and the livery of servants who
passed to and fro, with an attention so
close as to be somewhat impertinent. His
glance was keen but showed cunning
rather than intelligence; his lips were
straight, and so thin that, as they
closed, they were drawn in over the
teeth; his cheek-bones were broad and
projecting, a never-failing proof of
audacity and craftiness; while the
flatness of his forehead, and the
enlargement of the back of his skull,
which rose much higher than his large
and coarsely shaped ears, combined to
form a physiognomy anything but
prepossessing, save in the eyes of such
as considered that the owner of so
splendid an equipage must needs be all
that was admirable and enviable, more
especially when they gazed on the
enormous diamond that glittered in his
shirt, and the red ribbon that depended
from his button-hole.

The groom, in obedience to his orders,
tapped at the window of the porter's
lodge, saying, "Pray, does not the Count
of Monte Cristo live here?"

"His excellency does reside here,"
replied the concierge; "but" -- added
he, glancing an inquiring look at Ali.
Ali returned a sign in the negative.
"But what?" asked the groom.

"His excellency does not receive
visitors to-day."

"Then here is my master's card, -- the
Baron Danglars. You will take it to the
count, and say that, although in haste
to attend the Chamber, my master came
out of his way to have the honor of
calling upon him."

"I never speak to his excellency,"
replied the concierge; "the valet de
chambre will carry your message." The
groom returned to the carriage. "Well?"
asked Danglars. The man, somewhat
crest-fallen by the rebuke he had
received, repeated what the concierge
had said. "Bless me," murmured Baron
Danglars, "this must surely be a prince
instead of a count by their styling him
`excellency,' and only venturing to
address him by the medium of his valet
de chambre. However, it does not
signify; he has a letter of credit on
me, so I must see him when he requires
his money."

Then, throwing himself back in his
carriage, Danglars called out to his
coachman, in a voice that might be heard
across the road, "To the Chamber of
Deputies."

Apprised in time of the visit paid him,
Monte Cristo had, from behind the blinds
of his pavilion, as minutely observed
the baron, by means of an excellent
lorgnette, as Danglars himself had
scrutinized the house, garden, and
servants. "That fellow has a decidedly
bad countenance," said the count in a
tone of disgust, as he shut up his glass
into its ivory case. "How comes it that
all do not retreat in aversion at sight
of that flat, receding, serpent-like
forehead, round, vulture-shaped head,
and sharp-hooked nose, like the beak of
a buzzard? Ali," cried he, striking at
the same time on the brazen gong. Ali
appeared. "Summon Bertuccio," said the
count. Almost immediately Bertuccio
entered the apartment. "Did your
excellency desire to see me?" inquired
he. "I did," replied the count. "You no
doubt observed the horses standing a few
minutes since at the door?"

"Certainly, your excellency. I noticed
them for their remarkable beauty."

"Then how comes it," said Monte Cristo
with a frown, "that, when I desired you
to purchase for me the finest pair of
horses to be found in Paris, there is
another pair, fully as fine as mine, not
in my stables?" At the look of
displeasure, added to the angry tone in
which the count spoke, Ali turned pale
and held down his head. "It is not your
fault, my good Ali," said the count in
the Arabic language, and with a
gentleness none would have thought him
capable of showing, either in voice or
face -- "it is not your fault. You do
not understand the points of English
horses." The countenance of poor Ali
recovered its serenity. "Permit me to
assure your excellency," said Bertuccio,
"that the horses you speak of were not
to be sold when I purchased yours."
Monte Cristo shrugged his shoulders. "It
seems, sir steward," said he, "that you
have yet to learn that all things are to
be sold to such as care to pay the
price."

"His excellency is not, perhaps, aware
that M. Danglars gave 16,000 francs for
his horses?"

"Very well. Then offer him double that
sum; a banker never loses an opportunity
of doubling his capital."

"Is your excellency really in earnest?"
inquired the steward. Monte Cristo
regarded the person who durst presume to
doubt his words with the look of one
equally surprised and displeased. "I
have to pay a visit this evening,"
replied he. "I desire that these horses,
with completely new harness, may be at
the door with my carriage." Bertuccio
bowed, and was about to retire; but when
he reached the door, he paused, and then
said, "At what o'clock does your
excellency wish the carriage and horses
to be ready?"

"At five o'clock," replied the count.

"I beg your excellency's pardon,"
interposed the steward in a deprecating
manner, "for venturing to observe that
it is already two o'clock."

"I am perfectly aware of that fact,"
answered Monte Cristo calmly. Then,
turning towards Ali, he said, "Let all
the horses in my stables be led before
the windows of your young lady, that she
may select those she prefers for her
carriage. Request her also to oblige me
by saying whether it is her pleasure to
dine with me; if so, let dinner be
served in her apartments. Now, leave me,
and desire my valet de chambre to come
hither." Scarcely had Ali disappeared
when the valet entered the chamber.
"Monsieur Baptistin," said the count,
"you have been in my service one year,
the time I generally give myself to
judge of the merits or demerits of those
about me. You suit me very well."
Baptistin bowed low. "It only remains
for me to know whether I also suit you?"

"Oh, your excellency!" exclaimed
Baptistin eagerly.

"Listen, if you please, till I have
finished speaking," replied Monte
Cristo. "You receive 1,500 francs per
annum for your services here -- more
than many a brave subaltern, who
continually risks his life for his
country, obtains. You live in a manner
far superior to many clerks who work ten
times harder than you do for their
money. Then, though yourself a servant,
you have other servants to wait upon
you, take care of your clothes, and see
that your linen is duly prepared for
you. Again, you make a profit upon each
article you purchase for my toilet,
amounting in the course of a year to a
sum equalling your wages."

"Nay, indeed, your excellency."

"I am not condemning you for this,
Monsieur Baptistin; but let your profits
end here. It would be long indeed ere
you would find so lucrative a post as
that you have how the good fortune to
fill. I neither ill-use nor ill-treat my
servants by word or action. An error I
readily forgive, but wilful negligence
or forgetfulness, never. My commands are
ordinarily short, clear, and precise;
and I would rather be obliged to repeat
my words twice, or even three times,
than they should be misunderstood. I am
rich enough to know whatever I desire to
know, and I can promise you I am not
wanting in curiosity. If, then, I should
learn that you had taken upon yourself
to speak of me to any one favorably or
unfavorably, to comment on my actions,
or watch my conduct, that very instant
you would quit my service. You may now
retire. I never caution my servants a
second time -- remember that." Baptistin
bowed, and was proceeding towards the
door. "I forgot to mention to you," said
the count, "that I lay yearly aside a
certain sum for each servant in my
establishment; those whom I am compelled
to dismiss lose (as a matter of course)
all participation in this money, while
their portion goes to the fund
accumulating for those domestics who
remain with me, and among whom it will
be divided at my death. You have been in
my service a year, your fund has already
begun to accumulate -- let it continue
to do so."

This address, delivered in the presence
of Ali, who, not understanding one word
of the language in which it was spoken,
stood wholly unmoved, produced an effect
on M. Baptistin only to be conceived by
such as have occasion to study the
character and disposition of French
domestics. "I assure your excellency,"
said he, "that at least it shall be my
study to merit your approbation in all
things, and I will take M. Ali as my
model."

"By no means," replied the count in the
most frigid tones; "Ali has many faults
mixed with most excellent qualities. He
cannot possibly serve you as a pattern
for your conduct, not being, as you are,
a paid servant, but a mere slave -- a
dog, who, should he fail in his duty
towards me, I should not discharge from
my service, but kill." Baptistin opened
his eyes with astonishment.

"You seem incredulous," said Monte
Cristo who repeated to Ali in the Arabic
language what he had just been saying to
Baptistin in French. The Nubian smiled
assentingly to his master's words, then,
kneeling on one knee, respectfully
kissed the hand of the count. This
corroboration of the lesson he had just
received put the finishing stroke to the
wonder and stupefaction of M. Baptistin.
The count then motioned the valet de
chambre to retire, and to Ali to follow
to his study, where they conversed long
and earnestly together. As the hand of
the clock pointed to five the count
struck thrice upon his gong. When Ali
was wanted one stroke was given, two
summoned Baptistin, and three Bertuccio.
The steward entered. "My horses," said
Monte Cristo.

"They are at the door harnessed to the
carriage as your excellency desired.
Does your excellency wish me to
accompany him?"

"No, the coachman, Ali, and Baptistin
will go." The count descended to the
door of his mansion, and beheld his
carriage drawn by the very pair of
horses he had so much admired in the
morning as the property of Danglars. As
he passed them he said -- "They are
extremely handsome certainly, and you
have done well to purchase them,
although you were somewhat remiss not to
have procured them sooner."

"Indeed, your excellency, I had very
considerable difficulty in obtaining
them, and, as it is, they have cost an
enormous price."

"Does the sum you gave for them make the
animals less beautiful," inquired the
count, shrugging his shoulders.

"Nay, if your excellency is satisfied,
it is all that I could wish. Whither
does your excellency desire to be
driven?"

"To the residence of Baron Danglars, Rue
de la Chaussee d'Antin." This
conversation had passed as they stood
upon the terrace, from which a flight of
stone steps led to the carriage-drive.
As Bertuccio, with a respectful bow, was
moving away, the count called him back.
"I have another commission for you, M.
Bertuccio," said he; "I am desirous of
having an estate by the seaside in
Normandy -- for instance, between Havre
and Boulogne. You see I give you a wide
range. It will be absolutely necessary
that the place you may select have a
small harbor, creek, or bay, into which
my corvette can enter and remain at
anchor. She draws only fifteen feet. She
must be kept in constant readiness to
sail immediately I think proper to give
the signal. Make the requisite inquiries
for a place of this description, and
when you have met with an eligible spot,
visit it, and if it possess the
advantages desired, purchase it at once
in your own name. The corvette must now,
I think, be on her way to Fecamp, must
she not?"

"Certainly, your excellency; I saw her
put to sea the same evening we quitted
Marseilles."

"And the yacht."

"Was ordered to remain at Martigues."

"'Tis well. I wish you to write from
time to time to the captains in charge
of the two vessels so as to keep them on
the alert."

"And the steamboat?"

"She is at Chalons?"

"Yes."

"The same orders for her as for the two
sailing vessels."

"Very good."

"When you have purchased the estate I
desire, I want constant relays of horses
at ten leagues apart along the northern
and southern road."

"Your excellency may depend upon me."
The Count made a gesture of
satisfaction, descended the terrace
steps, and sprang into his carriage,
which was whirled along swiftly to the
banker's house. Danglars was engaged at
that moment, presiding over a railroad
committee. But the meeting was nearly
concluded when the name of his visitor
was announced. As the count's title
sounded on his ear he rose, and
addressing his colleagues, who were
members of one or the other Chamber, he
said, -- "Gentlemen, pardon me for
leaving you so abruptly; but a most
ridiculous circumstance has occurred,
which is this, -- Thomson & French, the
Roman bankers, have sent to me a certain
person calling himself the Count of
Monte Cristo, and have given him an
unlimited credit with me. I confess this
is the drollest thing I have ever met
with in the course of my extensive
foreign transactions, and you may
readily suppose it has greatly roused my
curiosity. I took the trouble this
morning to call on the pretended
count -- if he were a real count he
wouldn't be so rich. But, would you
believe it, `He was not receiving.' So
the master of Monte Cristo gives himself
airs befitting a great millionaire or a
capricious beauty. I made inquiries, and
found that the house in the Champs
Elysees is his own property, and
certainly it was very decently kept up.
But," pursued Danglars with one of his
sinister smiles, "an order for unlimited
credit calls for something like caution
on the part of the banker to whom that
order is given. I am very anxious to see
this man. I suspect a hoax is intended,
but the instigators of it little knew
whom they had to deal with. `They laugh
best who laugh last!'"

Having delivered himself of this pompous
address, uttered with a degree of energy
that left the baron almost out of
breath, he bowed to the assembled party
and withdrew to his drawing-room, whose
sumptuous furnishings of white and gold
had caused a great sensation in the
Chaussee d'Antin. It was to this
apartment he had desired his guest to be
shown, with the purpose of overwhelming
him at the sight of so much luxury. He
found the count standing before some
copies of Albano and Fattore that had
been passed off to the banker as
originals; but which, mere copies as
they were, seemed to feel their
degradation in being brought into
juxtaposition with the gaudy colors that
covered the ceiling. The count turned
round as he heard the entrance of
Danglars into the room. With a slight
inclination of the head, Danglars signed
to the count to be seated, pointing
significantly to a gilded arm-chair,
covered with white satin embroidered
with gold. The count sat down. "I have
the honor, I presume, of addressing M.
de Monte Cristo."

The count bowed. "And I of speaking to
Baron Danglars, chevalier of the Legion
of Honor, and member of the Chamber of
Deputies?"

Monte Cristo repeated all the titles he
had read on the baron's card.

Danglars felt the irony and compressed
his lips. "You will, I trust, excuse me,
monsieur, for not calling you by your
title when I first addressed you," he
said, "but you are aware that we are
living under a popular form of
government, and that I am myself a
representative of the liberties of the
people."

"So much so," replied Monte Cristo,
"that while you call yourself baron you
are not willing to call anybody else
count."

"Upon my word, monsieur," said Danglars
with affected carelessness, "I attach no
sort of value to such empty
distinctions; but the fact is, I was
made baron, and also chevalier of the
Legion of Honor, in return for services
rendered, but" --

"But you have discarded your titles
after the example set you by Messrs. de
Montmorency and Lafayette? That was a
noble example to follow, monsieur."

"Why," replied Danglars, "not entirely
so; with the servants, -- you
understand."

"I see; to your domestics you are `my
lord,' the journalists style you
`monsieur,' while your constituents call
you `citizen.' These are distinctions
very suitable under a constitutional
government. I understand perfectly."
Again Danglars bit his lips; he saw that
he was no match for Monte Cristo in an
argument of this sort, and he therefore
hastened to turn to subjects more
congenial.

"Permit me to inform you, Count," said
he, bowing, "that I have received a
letter of advice from Thomson & French,
of Rome."

"I am glad to hear it, baron, -- for I
must claim the privilege of addressing
you after the manner of your servants. I
have acquired the bad habit of calling
persons by their titles from living in a
country where barons are still barons by
right of birth. But as regards the
letter of advice, I am charmed to find
that it has reached you; that will spare
me the troublesome and disagreeable task
of coming to you for money myself. You
have received a regular letter of
advice?"

"Yes," said Danglars, "but I confess I
didn't quite comprehend its meaning."

"Indeed?"

"And for that reason I did myself the
honor of calling upon you, in order to
beg for an explanation."

"Go on, monsieur. Here I am, ready to
give you any explanation you desire."

"Why," said Danglers, "in the letter --
I believe I have it about me" -- here he
felt in his breast-pocket -- "yes, here
it is. Well, this letter gives the Count
of Monte Cristo unlimited credit on our
house."

"Well, baron, what is there difficult to
understand about that?"

"Merely the term unlimited -- nothing
else, certainly."

"Is not that word known in France? The
people who wrote are Anglo-Germans, you
know."

"Oh, as for the composition of the
letter, there is nothing to be said; but
as regards the competency of the
document, I certainly have doubts."

"Is it possible?" asked the count,
assuming all air and tone of the utmost
simplicity and candor. "Is it possible
that Thomson & French are not looked
upon as safe and solvent bankers? Pray
tell me what you think, baron, for I
feel uneasy, I can assure you, having
some considerable property in their
hands."

"Thomson & French are perfectly
solvent," replied Danglars, with an
almost mocking smile: "but the word
unlimited, in financial affairs, is so
extremely vague."

"Is, in fact, unlimited," said Monte
Cristo.

"Precisely what I was about to say,"
cried Danglars. "Now what is vague is
doubtful; and it was a wise man who
said, `when in doubt, keep out.'"

"Meaning to say," rejoined Monte Cristo,
"that however Thomson & French may be
inclined to commit acts of imprudence
and folly, the Baron Danglars is not
disposed to follow their example."

"Not at all."

"Plainly enough. Messrs. Thomson &
French set no bounds to their
engagements while those of M. Danglars
have their limits; he is a wise man,
according to his own showing."

"Monsieur," replied the banker, drawing
himself up with a haughty air, "the
extent of my resources has never yet
been questioned."

"It seems, then, reserved for me," said
Monte Cristo coldly, "to be the first to
do so."

"By what right, sir?"

"By right of the objections you have
raised, and the explanations you have
demanded, which certainly must have some
motive."

Once more Danglars bit his lips. It was
the second time he had been worsted, and
this time on his own ground. His forced
politeness sat awkwardly upon him, and
approached almost to impertinence. Monte
Cristo on the contrary, preserved a
graceful suavity of demeanor, aided by a
certain degree of simplicity he could
assume at pleasure, and thus possessed
the advantage.

"Well, sir," resumed Danglars, after a
brief silence, "I will endeavor to make
myself understood, by requesting you to
inform me for what sum you propose to
draw upon me?"

"Why, truly," replied Monte Cristo,
determined not to lose an inch of the
ground he had gained, "my reason for
desiring an `unlimited' credit was
precisely because I did not know how
much money I might need."

The banker thought the time had come for
him to take the upper hand. So throwing
himself back in his arm-chair, he said,
with an arrogant and purse-proud air, --
"Let me beg of you not to hesitate in
naming your wishes; you will then be
convinced that the resources of the
house of Danglars, however limited, are
still equal to meeting the largest
demands; and were you even to require a
million" --

"I beg your pardon," interposed Monte
Cristo.

"I said a million," replied Danglars,
with the confidence of ignorance.

"But could I do with a million?"
retorted the count. "My dear sir, if a
trifle like that could suffice me, I
should never have given myself the
trouble of opening an account. A
million? Excuse my smiling when you
speak of a sum I am in the habit of
carrying in my pocket-book or
dressing-case." And with these words
Monte Cristo took from his pocket a
small case containing his
visiting-cards, and drew forth two
orders on the treasury for 500,000
francs each, payable at sight to the
bearer. A man like Danglars was wholly
inaccessible to any gentler method of
correction. The effect of the present
revelation was stunning; he trembled and
was on the verge of apoplexy. The pupils
of his eyes, as he gazed at Monte Cristo
dilated horribly.

"Come, come," said Monte Cristo,
"confess honestly that you have not
perfect confidence in Thomson & French.
I understand, and foreseeing that such
might be the case, I took, in spite of
my ignorance of affairs, certain
precautions. See, here are two similar
letters to that you have yourself
received; one from the house of Arstein
& Eskeles of Vienna, to Baron
Rothschild, the other drawn by Baring of
London, upon M. Laffitte. Now, sir, you
have but to say the word, and I will
spare you all uneasiness by presenting
my letter of credit to one or other of
these two firms." The blow had struck
home, and Danglars was entirely
vanquished; with a trembling hand he
took the two letters from the count, who
held them carelessly between finger and
thumb, and proceeded to scrutinize the
signatures, with a minuteness that the
count might have regarded as insulting,
had it not suited his present purpose to
mislead the banker. "Oh, sir," said
Danglars, after he had convinced himself
of the authenticity of the documents he
held, and rising as if to salute the
power of gold personified in the man
before him, -- "three letters of
unlimited credit! I can be no longer
mistrustful, but you must pardon me, my
dear count, for confessing to some
degree of astonishment."

"Nay," answered Monte Cristo, with the
most gentlemanly air, "'tis not for such
trifling sums as these that your banking
house is to be incommoded. Then, you can
let me have some money, can you not?"

"Whatever you say, my dear count; I am
at your orders."

"Why," replied Monte Cristo, "since we
mutually understand each other -- for
such I presume is the case?" Danglars
bowed assentingly. "You are quite sure
that not a lurking doubt or suspicion
lingers in your mind?"

"Oh, my dear count," exclaimed Danglars,
"I never for an instant entertained such
a feeling towards you."

"No, you merely wished to be convinced,
nothing more; but now that we have come
to so clear an understanding, and that
all distrust and suspicion are laid at
rest, we may as well fix a sum as the
probable expenditure of the first year,
suppose we say six millions to" --

"Six millions!" gasped Danglars -- "so
be it."

"Then, if I should require more,"
continued Monte Cristo in a careless
manner, "why, of course, I should draw
upon you; but my present intention is
not to remain in France more than a
year, and during that period I scarcely
think I shall exceed the sum I
mentioned. However, we shall see. Be
kind enough, then, to send me 500,000
francs to-morrow. I shall be at home
till midday, or if not, I will leave a
receipt with my steward."

"The money you desire shall be at your
house by ten o'clock to-morrow morning,
my dear count," replied Danglars. "How
would you like to have it? in gold,
silver, or notes?"

"Half in gold, and the other half in
bank-notes, if you please," said the
count, rising from his seat.

"I must confess to you, count," said
Danglars, "that I have hitherto imagined
myself acquainted with the degree of all
the great fortunes of Europe, and still
wealth such as yours has been wholly
unknown to me. May I presume to ask
whether you have long possessed it?"

"It has been in the family a very long
while," returned Monte Cristo, "a sort
of treasure expressly forbidden to be
touched for a certain period of years,
during which the accumulated interest
has doubled the capital. The period
appointed by the testator for the
disposal of these riches occurred only a
short time ago, and they have only been
employed by me within the last few
years. Your ignorance on the subject,
therefore, is easily accounted for.
However, you will be better informed as
to me and my possessions ere long." And
the count, while pronouncing these
latter words, accompanied them with one
of those ghastly smiles that used to
strike terror into poor Franz d'Epinay.

"With your tastes, and means of
gratifying them," continued Danglars,
"you will exhibit a splendor that must
effectually put us poor miserable
millionaires quite in the shade. If I
mistake not you are an admirer of
paintings, at least I judged so from the
attention you appeared to be bestowing
on mine when I entered the room. If you
will permit me, I shall be happy to show
you my picture gallery, composed
entirely of works by the ancient
masters -- warranted as such. Not a
modern picture among them. I cannot
endure the modern school of painting."

"You are perfectly right in objecting to
them, for this one great fault -- that
they have not yet had time to become
old."

"Or will you allow me to show you
several fine statues by Thorwaldsen,
Bartoloni, and Canova? -- all foreign
artists, for, as you may perceive, I
think but very indifferently of our
French sculptors."

"You have a right to be unjust to them,
monsieur; they are your compatriots."

"But all this may come later, when we
shall be better known to each other. For
the present, I will confine myself (if
perfectly agreeable to you) to
introducing you to the Baroness
Danglars -- excuse my impatience, my
dear count, but a client like you is
almost like a member of the family."
Monte Cristo bowed, in sign that he
accepted the proffered honor; Danglars
rang and was answered by a servant in a
showy livery. "Is the baroness at home?"
inquired Danglars.

"Yes, my lord," answered the man.

"And alone?"

"No, my lord, madame has visitors."

"Have you any objection to meet any
persons who may be with madame, or do
you desire to preserve a strict
incognito?"

"No, indeed," replied Monte Cristo with
a smile, "I do not arrogate to myself
the right of so doing."

"And who is with madame? -- M. Debray?"
inquired Danglars, with an air of
indulgence and good-nature that made
Monte Cristo smile, acquainted as he was
with the secrets of the banker's
domestic life.

"Yes, my lord," replied the servant, "M.
Debray is with madame." Danglars nodded
his head; then, turning to Monte Cristo,
said, "M. Lucien Debray is an old friend
of ours, and private secretary to the
Minister of the Interior. As for my
wife, I must tell you, she lowered
herself by marrying me, for she belongs
to one of the most ancient families in
France. Her maiden name was De
Servieres, and her first husband was
Colonel the Marquis of Nargonne."

"I have not the honor of knowing Madame
Danglars; but I have already met M.
Lucien Debray."

"Ah, indeed?" said Danglars; "and where
was that?"

"At the house of M. de Morcerf."

"Ah, ha, you are acquainted with the
young viscount, are you?"

"We were together a good deal during the
Carnival at Rome."

"True, true," cried Danglars. "Let me
see; have I not heard talk of some
strange adventure with bandits or
thieves hid in ruins, and of his having
had a miraculous escape? I forget how,
but I know he used to amuse my wife and
daughter by telling them about it after
his return from Italy."

"Her ladyship is waiting to receive you,
gentlemen," said the servant, who had
gone to inquire the pleasure of his
mistress. "With your permission," said
Danglars, bowing, "I will precede you,
to show you the way."

"By all means," replied Monte Cristo; "I
follow you."



Chapter 47 The Dappled Grays.

The baron, followed by the count,
traversed a long series of apartments,
in which the prevailing characteristics
were heavy magnificence and the
gaudiness of ostentatious wealth, until
he reached the boudoir of Madame
Danglars -- a small octagonal-shaped
room, hung with pink satin, covered with
white Indian muslin. The chairs were of
ancient workmanship and materials; over
the doors were painted sketches of
shepherds and shepherdesses, after the
style and manner of Boucher; and at each
side pretty medallions in crayons,
harmonizing well with the furnishings of
this charming apartment, the only one
throughout the great mansion in which
any distinctive taste prevailed. The
truth was, it had been entirely
overlooked in the plan arranged and
followed out by M. Danglars and his
architect, who had been selected to aid
the baron in the great work of
improvement solely because he was the
most fashionable and celebrated
decorator of the day. The decorations of
the boudoir had then been left entirely
to Madame Danglars and Lucien Debray. M.
Danglars, however, while possessing a
great admiration for the antique, as it
was understood during the time of the
Directory, entertained the most
sovereign contempt for the simple
elegance of his wife's favorite
sitting-room, where, by the way, he was
never permitted to intrude, unless,
indeed, he excused his own appearance by
ushering in some more agreeable visitor
than himself; and even then he had
rather the air and manner of a person
who was himself introduced, than that of
being the presenter of another, his
reception being cordial or frigid, in
proportion as the person who accompanied
him chanced to please or displease the
baroness.

Madame Danglars (who, although past the
first bloom of youth, was still
strikingly handsome) was now seated at
the piano, a most elaborate piece of
cabinet and inlaid work, while Lucien
Debray, standing before a small
work-table, was turning over the pages
of an album. Lucien had found time,
preparatory to the count's arrival, to
relate many particulars respecting him
to Madame Danglars. It will be
remembered that Monte Cristo had made a
lively impression on the minds of all
the party assembled at the breakfast
given by Albert de Morcerf; and although
Debray was not in the habit of yielding
to such feelings, he had never been able
to shake off the powerful influence
excited in his mind by the impressive
look and manner of the count,
consequently the description given by
Lucien to the baroness bore the
highly-colored tinge of his own heated
imagination. Already excited by the
wonderful stories related of the count
by De Morcerf, it is no wonder that
Madame Danglars eagerly listened to, and
fully credited, all the additional
circumstances detailed by Debray. This
posing at the piano and over the album
was only a little ruse adopted by way of
precaution. A most gracious welcome and
unusual smile were bestowed on M.
Danglars; the count, in return for his
gentlemanly bow, received a formal
though graceful courtesy, while Lucien
exchanged with the count a sort of
distant recognition, and with Danglars a
free and easy nod.

"Baroness," said Danglars, "give me
leave to present to you the Count of
Monte Cristo, who has been most warmly
recommended to me by my correspondents
at Rome. I need but mention one fact to
make all the ladies in Paris court his
notice, and that is, that he has come to
take up his abode in Paris for a year,
during which brief period he proposes to
spend six millions of money. That means
balls, dinners, and lawn parties without
end, in all of which I trust the count
will remember us, as he may depend upon
it we shall him, in our own humble
entertainments." In spite of the gross
flattery and coarseness of this address,
Madame Danglars could not forbear gazing
with considerable interest on a man
capable of expending six millions in
twelve months, and who had selected
Paris for the scene of his princely
extravagance. "And when did you arrive
here?" inquired she.

"Yesterday morning, madame."

"Coming, as usual, I presume, from the
extreme end of the globe? Pardon me --
at least, such I have heard is your
custom."

"Nay, madame. This time I have merely
come from Cadiz."

"You have selected a most unfavorable
moment for your first visit. Paris is a
horrible place in summer. Balls,
parties, and fetes are over; the Italian
opera is in London; the French opera
everywhere except in Paris. As for the
Theatre Francais, you know, of course,
that it is nowhere. The only amusements
left us are the indifferent races at the
Champ de Mars and Satory. Do you propose
entering any horses at either of these
races, count?"

"I shall do whatever they do at Paris,
madame, if I have the good fortune to
find some one who will initiate me into
the prevalent ideas of amusement."

"Are you fond of horses, count?"

"I have passed a considerable part of my
life in the East, madame, and you are
doubtless aware that the Orientals value
only two things -- the fine breeding of
their horses and the beauty of their
women."

"Nay, count," said the baroness, "it
would have been somewhat more gallant to
have placed the ladies first."

"You see, madame, how rightly I spoke
when I said I required a preceptor to
guide me in all my sayings and doings
here." At this instant the favorite
attendant of Madame Danglars entered the
boudoir; approaching her mistress, she
spoke some words in an undertone. Madame
Danglars turned very pale, then
exclaimed, -- "I cannot believe it; the
thing is impossible."

"I assure you, madame," replied the
woman, "it is as I have said." Turning
impatiently towards her husband, Madame
Danglars demanded, "Is this true?"

"Is what true, madame?" inquired
Danglars, visibly agitated.

"What my maid tells me."

"But what does she tell you?"

"That when my coachman was about to
harness the horses to my carriage, he
discovered that they had been removed
from the stables without his knowledge.
I desire to know what is the meaning of
this?"

"Be kind enough, madame, to listen to
me," said Danglars.

"Oh, yes; I will listen, monsieur, for I
am most curious to hear what explanation
you will give. These two gentlemen shall
decide between us; but, first, I will
state the case to them. Gentlemen,"
continued the baroness, "among the ten
horses in the stables of Baron Danglars,
are two that belong exclusively to me --
a pair of the handsomest and most
spirited creatures to be found in Paris.
But to you, at least, M. Debray, I need
not give a further description, because
to you my beautiful pair of dappled
grays were well known. Well, I had
promised Madame de Villefort the loan of
my carriage to drive to-morrow to the
Bois; but when my coachman goes to fetch
the grays from the stables they are
gone -- positively gone. No doubt M.
Danglars has sacrificed them to the
selfish consideration of gaining some
thousands of paltry francs. Oh, what a
detestable crew they are, these
mercenary speculators!"

"Madame," replied Danglars, "the horses
were not sufficiently quiet for you;
they were scarcely four years old, and
they made me extremely uneasy on your
account."

"Nonsense," retorted the baroness; "you
could not have entertained any alarm on
the subject, because you are perfectly
well aware that I have had for a month
in my service the very best coachman in
Paris. But, perhaps, you have disposed
of the coachman as well as the horses?"

"My dear love, pray do not say any more
about them, and I promise you another
pair exactly like them in appearance,
only more quiet and steady." The
baroness shrugged her shoulders with an
air of ineffable contempt, while her
husband, affecting not to observe this
unconjugal gesture, turned towards Monte
Cristo and said, -- "Upon my word,
count, I am quite sorry not to have met
you sooner. You are setting up an
establishment, of course?"

"Why, yes," replied the count.

"I should have liked to have made you
the offer of these horses. I have almost
given them away, as it is; but, as I
before said, I was anxious to get rid of
them upon any terms. They were only fit
for a young man."

"I am much obliged by your kind
intentions towards me," said Monte
Cristo; "but this morning I purchased a
very excellent pair of carriage-horses,
and I do not think they were dear. There
they are. Come, M. Debray, you are a
connoisseur, I believe, let me have your
opinion upon them." As Debray walked
towards the window, Danglars approached
his wife. "I could not tell you before
others," said he in a low tone, "the
reason of my parting with the horses;
but a most enormous price was offered me
this morning for them. Some madman or
fool, bent upon ruining himself as fast
as he can, actually sent his steward to
me to purchase them at any cost; and the
fact is, I have gained 16,000 francs by
the sale of them. Come, don't look so
angry, and you shall have 4,000 francs
of the money to do what you like with,
and Eugenie shall have 2,000. There,
what do you think now of the affair?
Wasn't I right to part with the horses?"
Madame Danglars surveyed her husband
with a look of withering contempt.

"Great heavens?" suddenly exclaimed
Debray.

"What is it?" asked the baroness.

"I cannot be mistaken; there are your
horses! The very animals we were
speaking of, harnessed to the count's
carriage!"

"My dappled grays?" demanded the
baroness, springing to the window. "'Tis
indeed they!" said she. Danglars looked
absolutely stupefied. "How very
singular," cried Monte Cristo with
well-feigned astonishment.

"I cannot believe it," murmured the
banker. Madame Danglars whispered a few
words in the ear of Debray, who
approached Monte Cristo, saying, "The
baroness wishes to know what you paid
her husband for the horses."

"I scarcely know," replied the count;
"it was a little surprise prepared for
me by my steward, and cost me -- well,
somewhere about 30,000 francs." Debray
conveyed the count's reply to the
baroness. Poor Danglars looked so
crest-fallen and discomfited that Monte
Cristo assumed a pitying air towards
him. "See," said the count, "how very
ungrateful women are. Your kind
attention, in providing for the safety
of the baroness by disposing of the
horses, does not seem to have made the
least impression on her. But so it is; a
woman will often, from mere wilfulness,
prefer that which is dangerous to that
which is safe. Therefore, in my opinion,
my dear baron, the best and easiest way
is to leave them to their fancies, and
allow them to act as they please, and
then, if any mischief follows, why, at
least, they have no one to blame but
themselves." Danglars made no reply; he
was occupied in anticipations of the
coming scene between himself and the
baroness, whose frowning brow, like that
of Olympic Jove, predicted a storm.
Debray, who perceived the gathering
clouds, and felt no desire to witness
the explosion of Madame Danglars' rage,
suddenly recollected an appointment,
which compelled him to take his leave;
while Monte Cristo, unwilling by
prolonging his stay to destroy the
advantages he hoped to obtain, made a
farewell bow and departed, leaving
Danglars to endure the angry reproaches
of his wife.

"Excellent," murmured Monte Cristo to
himself, as he came away. "All his gone
according to my wishes. The domestic
peace of this family is henceforth in my
hands. Now, then, to play another
master-stroke, by which I shall gain the
heart of both husband and wife --
delightful! Still," added he, "amid all
this, I have not yet been presented to
Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars, whose
acquaintance I should have been glad to
make. But," he went on with his peculiar
smile, "I am here in Paris, and have
plenty of time before me -- by and by
will do for that." With these
reflections he entered his carriage and
returned home. Two hours afterwards,
Madame Danglars received a most
flattering epistle from the count, in
which he entreated her to receive back
her favorite "dappled grays," protesting
that he could not endure the idea of
making his entry into the Parisian world
of fashion with the knowledge that his
splendid equipage had been obtained at
the price of a lovely woman's regrets.
The horses were sent back wearing the
same harness she had seen on them in the
morning; only, by the count's orders, in
the centre of each rosette that adorned
either side of their heads, had been
fastened a large diamond.

To Danglars Monte Cristo also wrote,
requesting him to excuse the whimsical
gift of a capricious millionaire, and to
beg the baroness to pardon the Eastern
fashion adopted in the return of the
horses.

During the evening, Monte Cristo quitted
Paris for Auteuil, accompanied by Ali.
The following day, about three o'clock,
a single blow struck on the gong
summoned Ali to the presence of the
count. "Ali," observed his master, as
the Nubian entered the chamber, "you
have frequently explained to me how more
than commonly skilful you are in
throwing the lasso, have you not?" Ali
drew himself up proudly, and then
returned a sign in the affirmative. "I
thought I did not mistake. With your
lasso you could stop an ox?" Again Ali
repeated his affirmative gesture. "Or a
tiger?" Ali bowed his head in token of
assent. "A lion even?" Ali sprung
forwards, imitating the action of one
throwing the lasso, then of a strangled
lion.

"I understand," said Monte Cristo; "you
wish to tell me you have hunted the
lion?" Ali smiled with triumphant pride
as he signified that he had indeed both
chased and captured many lions. "But do
you believe you could arrest the
progress of two horses rushing forwards
with ungovernable fury?" The Nubian
smiled. "It is well," said Monte Cristo.
"Then listen to me. Ere long a carriage
will dash past here, drawn by the pair
of dappled gray horses you saw me with
yesterday; now, at the risk of your own
life, you must manage to stop those
horses before my door."

Ali descended to the street, and marked
a straight line on the pavement
immediately at the entrance of the
house, and then pointed out the line he
had traced to the count, who was
watching him. The count patted him
gently on the shoulder, his usual mode
of praising Ali, who, pleased and
gratified with the commission assigned
him, walked calmly towards a projecting
stone forming the angle of the street
and house, and, seating himself thereon,
began to smoke his chibouque, while
Monte Cristo re-entered his dwelling,
perfectly assured of the success of his
plan. Still, as five o'clock approached,
and the carriage was momentarily
expected by the count, the indication of
more than common impatience and
uneasiness might be observed in his
manner. He stationed himself in a room
commanding a view of the street, pacing
the chamber with restless steps,
stopping merely to listen from time to
time for the sound of approaching
wheels, then to cast an anxious glance
on Ali; but the regularity with which
the Nubian puffed forth the smoke of his
chibouque proved that he at least was
wholly absorbed in the enjoyment of his
favorite occupation. Suddenly a distant
sound of rapidly advancing wheels was
heard, and almost immediately a carriage
appeared, drawn by a pair of wild,
ungovernable horses, while the terrified
coachman strove in vain to restrain
their furious speed.

In the vehicle was a young woman and a
child of about seven or eight clasped in
each other's arms. Terror seemed to have
deprived them even of the power of
uttering a cry. The carriage creaked and
rattled as it flew over the rough
stones, and the slightest obstacle under
the wheels would have caused disaster;
but it kept on in the middle of the
road, and those who saw it pass uttered
cries of terror.

Ali suddenly cast aside his chibouque,
drew the lasso from his pocket, threw it
so skilfully as to catch the forelegs of
the near horse in its triple fold, and
suffered himself to be dragged on for a
few steps by the violence of the shock,
then the animal fell over on the pole,
which snapped, and therefore prevented
the other horse from pursuing its way.
Gladly availing himself of this
opportunity, the coachman leaped from
his box; but Ali had promptly seized the
nostrils of the second horse, and held
them in his iron grasp, till the beast,
snorting with pain, sunk beside his
companion. All this was achieved in much
less time than is occupied in the
recital. The brief space had, however,
been sufficient for a man, followed by a
number of servants, to rush from the
house before which the accident had
occurred, and, as the coachman opened
the door of the carriage, to take from
it a lady who was convulsively grasping
the cushions with one hand, while with
the other she pressed to her bosom the
young boy, who had lost consciousness.

Monte Cristo carried them both to the
salon, and deposited them on a sofa.
"Compose yourself, madame," said he;
"all danger is over." The woman looked
up at these words, and, with a glance
far more expressive than any entreaties
could have been, pointed to her child,
who still continued insensible. "I
understand the nature of your alarms,
madame," said the count, carefully
examining the child, "but I assure you
there is not the slightest occasion for
uneasiness; your little charge has not
received the least injury; his
insensibility is merely the effects of
terror, and will soon pass."

"Are you quite sure you do not say so to
tranquillize my fears? See how deadly
pale he is! My child, my darling Edward;
speak to your mother -- open your dear
eyes and look on me once again! Oh, sir,
in pity send for a physician; my whole
fortune shall not be thought too much
for the recovery of my boy."

With a calm smile and a gentle wave of
the hand, Monte Cristo signed to the
distracted mother to lay aside her
apprehensions; then, opening a casket
that stood near, he drew forth a phial
of Bohemian glass incrusted with gold,
containing a liquid of the color of
blood, of which he let fall a single
drop on the child's lips. Scarcely had
it reached them, ere the boy, though
still pale as marble, opened his eyes,
and eagerly gazed around him. At this,
the delight of the mother was almost
frantic. "Where am I?" exclaimed she;
"and to whom am I indebted for so happy
a termination to my late dreadful
alarm?"

"Madame," answered the count, "you are
under the roof of one who esteems
himself most fortunate in having been
able to save you from a further
continuance of your sufferings."

"My wretched curiosity has brought all
this about," pursued the lady. "All
Paris rung with the praises of Madame
Danglars' beautiful horses, and I had
the folly to desire to know whether they
really merited the high praise given to
them."

"Is it possible," exclaimed the count
with well-feigned astonishment, "that
these horses belong to the baroness?"

"They do, indeed. May I inquire if you
are acquainted with Madame Danglars?"

"I have that honor; and my happiness at
your escape from the danger that
threatened you is redoubled by the
consciousness that I have been the
unwilling and the unintentional cause of
all the peril you have incurred. I
yesterday purchased these horses of the
baron; but as the baroness evidently
regretted parting with them, I ventured
to send them back to her, with a request
that she would gratify me by accepting
them from my hands."

"You are, then, doubtless, the Count of
Monte Cristo, of whom Hermine has talked
to me so much?"

"You have rightly guessed, madame,"
replied the count.

"And I am Madame Heloise de Villefort."
The count bowed with the air of a person
who hears a name for the first time.
"How grateful will M. de Villefort be
for all your goodness; how thankfully
will he acknowledge that to you alone he
owes the existence of his wife and
child! Most certainly, but for the
prompt assistance of your intrepid
servant, this dear child and myself must
both have perished."

"Indeed, I still shudder at the fearful
danger you were placed in."

"I trust you will allow me to recompense
worthily the devotion of your man."

"I beseech you, madame," replied Monte
Cristo "not to spoil Ali, either by too
great praise or rewards. I cannot allow
him to acquire the habit of expecting to
be recompensed for every trifling
service he may render. Ali is my slave,
and in saving your life he was but
discharging his duty to me."

"Nay," interposed Madame de Villefort,
on whom the authoritative style adopted
by the count made a deep impression,
"nay, but consider that to preserve my
life he has risked his own."

"His life, madame, belongs not to him;
it is mine, in return for my having
myself saved him from death." Madame de
Villefort made no further reply; her
mind was utterly absorbed in the
contemplation of the person who, from
the first instant she saw him, had made
so powerful an impression on her. During
the evident preoccupation of Madame de
Villefort, Monte Cristo scrutinized the
features and appearance of the boy she
kept folded in her arms, lavishing on
him the most tender endearments. The
child was small for his age, and
unnaturally pale. A mass of straight
black hair, defying all attempts to
train or curl it, fell over his
projecting forehead, and hung down to
his shoulders, giving increased vivacity
to eyes already sparkling with a
youthful love of mischief and fondness
for every forbidden enjoyment. His mouth
was large, and the lips, which had not
yet regained their color, were
particularly thin; in fact, the deep and
crafty look, giving a predominant
expression to the child's face, belonged
rather to a boy of twelve or fourteen
than to one so young. His first movement
was to free himself by a violent push
from the encircling arms of his mother,
and to rush forward to the casket from
whence the count had taken the phial of
elixir; then, without asking permission
of any one, he proceeded, in all the
wilfulness of a spoiled child
unaccustomed to restrain either whims or
caprices, to pull the corks out of all
the bottles.

"Touch nothing, my little friend," cried
the count eagerly; "some of those
liquids are not only dangerous to taste,
but even to inhale."

Madame de Villefort became very pale,
and, seizing her son's arm, drew him
anxiously toward her; but, once
satisfied of his safety, she also cast a
brief but expressive glance on the
casket, which was not lost upon the
count. At this moment Ali entered. At
sight of him Madame de Villefort uttered
an expression of pleasure, and, holding
the child still closer towards her, she
said, "Edward, dearest, do you see that
good man? He has shown very great
courage and resolution, for he exposed
his own life to stop the horses that
were running away with us, and would
certainly have dashed the carriage to
pieces. Thank him, then, my child, in
your very best manner; for, had he not
come to our aid, neither you nor I would
have been alive to speak our thanks."
The child stuck out his lips and turned
away his head in a disdainful manner,
saying, "He's too ugly."

The count smiled as if the child bade
fair to realize his hopes, while Madame
de Villefort reprimanded her son with a
gentleness and moderation very far from
conveying the least idea of a fault
having been committed. "This lady," said
the Count, speaking to Ali in the Arabic
language, "is desirous that her son
should thank you for saving both their
lives; but the boy refuses, saying you
are too ugly." Ali turned his
intelligent countenance towards the boy,
on whom he gazed without any apparent
emotion; but the spasmodic working of
the nostrils showed to the practiced eye
of Monte Cristo that the Arab had been
wounded to the heart.

"Will you permit me to inquire," said
Madame de Villefort, as she arose to
take her leave, "whether you usually
reside here?"

"No, I do not," replied Monte Cristo;
"it is a small place I have purchased
quite lately. My place of abode is No.
30, Avenue des Champs Elysees; but I see
you have quite recovered from your
fright, and are, no doubt, desirous of
returning home. Anticipating your
wishes, I have desired the same horses
you came with to be put to one of my
carriages, and Ali, he whom you think so
very ugly," continued he, addressing the
boy with a smiling air, "will have the
honor of driving you home, while your
coachman remains here to attend to the
necessary repairs of your calash. As
soon as that important business is
concluded, I will have a pair of my own
horses harnessed to convey it direct to
Madame Danglars."

"I dare not return with those dreadful
horses," said Madame de Villefort.

"You will see," replied Monte Cristo,
"that they will be as different as
possible in the hands of Ali. With him
they will be gentle and docile as
lambs." Ali had, indeed, given proof of
this; for, approaching the animals, who
had been got upon their legs with
considerable difficulty, he rubbed their
foreheads and nostrils with a sponge
soaked in aromatic vinegar, and wiped
off the sweat and foam that covered
their mouths. Then, commencing a loud
whistling noise, he rubbed them well all
over their bodies for several minutes;
then, undisturbed by the noisy crowd
collected round the broken carriage, Ali
quietly harnessed the pacified animals
to the count's chariot, took the reins
in his hands, and mounted the box, when
to the utter astonishment of those who
had witnessed the ungovernable spirit
and maddened speed of the same horses,
he was actually compelled to apply his
whip in no very gentle manner before he
could induce them to start; and even
then all that could be obtained from the
celebrated "dappled grays," now changed
into a couple of dull, sluggish, stupid
brutes, was a slow, pottering pace, kept
up with so much difficulty that Madame
de Villefort was more than two hours
returning to her residence in the
Faubourg St. Honore.

Scarcely had the first congratulations
upon her marvellous escape been gone
through when she wrote the following
letter to Madame Danglars: --

Dear Hermine, -- I have just had a
wonderful escape from the most imminent
danger, and I owe my safety to the very
Count of Monte Cristo we were talking
about yesterday, but whom I little
expected to see to-day. I remember how
unmercifully I laughed at what I
considered your eulogistic and
exaggerated praises of him; but I have
now ample cause to admit that your
enthusiastic description of this
wonderful man fell far short of his
merits. Your horses got as far as
Ranelagh, when they darted forward like
mad things, and galloped away at so
fearful a rate, that there seemed no
other prospect for myself and my poor
Edward but that of being dashed to
pieces against the first object that
impeded their progress, when a
strange-looking man, -- an Arab, a
negro, or a Nubian, at least a black of
some nation or other -- at a signal from
the count, whose domestic he is,
suddenly seized and stopped the
infuriated animals, even at the risk of
being trampled to death himself; and
certainly he must have had a most
wonderful escape. The count then
hastened to us, and took us into his
house, where he speedily recalled my
poor Edward to life. He sent us home in
his own carriage. Yours will be returned
to you to-morrow. You will find your
horses in bad condition, from the
results of this accident; they seem
thoroughly stupefied, as if sulky and
vexed at having been conquered by man.
The count, however, his commissioned me
to assure you that two or three days'
rest, with plenty of barley for their
sole food during that time, will bring
them back to as fine, that is as
terrifying, a condition as they were in
yesterday. Adieu! I cannot return you
many thanks for the drive of yesterday;
but, after all, I ought not to blame you
for the misconduct of your horses, more
especially as it procured me the
pleasure of an introduction to the Count
of Monte Cristo, -- and certainly that
illustrious personage, apart from the
millions he is said to be so very
anxious to dispose of, seemed to me one
of those curiously interesting problems
I, for one, delight in solving at any
risk, even if it were to necessitate
another drive to the Bois behind your
horses. Edward endured the accident with
miraculous courage -- he did not utter a
single cry, but fell lifeless into my
arms; nor did a tear fall from his eyes
after it was over. I doubt not you will
consider these praises the result of
blind maternal affection, but there is a
soul of iron in that delicate, fragile
body. Valentine sends many affectionate
remembrances to your dear Eugenie. I
embrace you with all my heart.

Heloise de Villefort.

P.S. -- Do pray contrive some means for
me to meet the Count of Monte Cristo at
your house. I must and will see him
again. I have just made M. de Villefort
promise to call on him, and I hope the
visit will be returned.

That night the adventure at Auteuil was
talked of everywhere. Albert related it
to his mother; Chateau-Renaud recounted
it at the Jockey Club, and Debray
detailed it at length in the salons of
the minister; even Beauchamp accorded
twenty lines in his journal to the
relation of the count's courage and
gallantry, thereby celebrating him as
the greatest hero of the day in the eyes
of all the feminine members of the
aristocracy. Vast was the crowd of
visitors and inquiring friends who left
their names at the residence of Madame
de Villefort, with the design of
renewing their visit at the right
moment, of hearing from her lips all the
interesting circumstances of this most
romantic adventure. As for M. de
Villefort, he fulfilled the predictions
of Heloise to the letter, -- donned his
dress suit, drew on a pair of white
gloves, ordered the servants to attend
the carriage dressed in their full
livery, and drove that same night to No.
30 in the Avenue des Champs-Elysees.



Chapter 48 Ideology.

If the Count of Monte Cristo had been
for a long time familiar with the ways
of Parisian society, he would have
appreciated better the significance of
the step which M. de Villefort had
taken. Standing well at court, whether
the king regnant was of the older or
younger branch, whether the government
was doctrinaire liberal, or
conservative; looked upon by all as a
man of talent, since those who have
never experienced a political check are
generally so regarded; hated by many,
but warmly supported by others, without
being really liked by anybody, M. de
Villefort held a high position in the
magistracy, and maintained his eminence
like a Harlay or a Mole. His
drawing-room, under the regenerating
influence of a young wife and a daughter
by his first marriage, scarcely
eighteen, was still one of the
well-regulated Paris salons where the
worship of traditional customs and the
observance of rigid etiquette were
carefully maintained. A freezing
politeness, a strict fidelity to
government principles, a profound
contempt for theories and theorists, a
deep-seated hatred of ideality, -- these
were the elements of private and public
life displayed by M. de Villefort.

He was not only a magistrate, he was
almost a diplomatist. His relations with
the former court, of which he always
spoke with dignity and respect, made him
respected by the new one, and he knew so
many things, that not only was he always
carefully considered, but sometimes
consulted. Perhaps this would not have
been so had it been possible to get rid
of M. de Villefort; but, like the feudal
barons who rebelled against their
sovereign, he dwelt in an impregnable
fortress. This fortress was his post as
king's attorney, all the advantages of
which he exploited with marvellous
skill, and which he would not have
resigned but to be made deputy, and thus
to replace neutrality by opposition.
Ordinarily M. de Villefort made and
returned very few visits. His wife
visited for him, and this was the
received thing in the world, where the
weighty and multifarious occupations of
the magistrate were accepted as an
excuse for what was really only
calculated pride, a manifestation of
professed superiority -- in fact, the
application of the axiom, "Pretend to
think well of yourself, and the world
will think well of you," an axiom a
hundred times more useful in society
nowadays than that of the Greeks, "Know
thyself," a knowledge for which, in our
days, we have substituted the less
difficult and more advantageous science
of knowing others.

To his friends M. de Villefort was a
powerful protector; to his enemies, he
was a silent, but bitter opponent; for
those who were neither the one nor the
other, he was a statue of the law-made
man. He had a haughty bearing, a look
either steady and impenetrable or
insolently piercing and inquisitorial.
Four successive revolutions had built
and cemented the pedestal upon which his
fortune was based. M. de Villefort had
the reputation of being the least
curious and the least wearisome man in
France. He gave a ball every year, at
which he appeared for a quarter of an
hour only, -- that is to say, five and
forty minutes less than the king is
visible at his balls. He was never seen
at the theatres, at concerts, or in any
place of public resort. Occasionally,
but seldom, he played at whist, and then
care was taken to select partners worthy
of him -- sometimes they were
ambassadors, sometimes archbishops, or
sometimes a prince, or a president, or
some dowager duchess. Such was the man
whose carriage had just now stopped
before the Count of Monte Cristo's door.
The valet de chambre announced M. de
Villefort at the moment when the count,
leaning over a large table, was tracing
on a map the route from St. Petersburg
to China.

The procureur entered with the same
grave and measured step he would have
employed in entering a court of justice.
He was the same man, or rather the
development of the same man, whom we
have heretofore seen as assistant
attorney at Marseilles. Nature,
according to her way, had made no
deviation in the path he had marked out
for himself. From being slender he had
now become meagre; once pale, he was now
yellow; his deep-set eyes were hollow,
and the gold spectacles shielding his
eyes seemed to be an integral portion of
his face. He dressed entirely in black,
with the exception of his white tie, and
his funeral appearance was only
mitigated by the slight line of red
ribbon which passed almost imperceptibly
through his button-hole, and appeared
like a streak of blood traced with a
delicate brush. Although master of
himself, Monte Cristo, scrutinized with
irrepressible curiosity the magistrate
whose salute he returned, and who,
distrustful by habit, and especially
incredulous as to social prodigies, was
much more dispised to look upon "the
noble stranger," as Monte Cristo was
already called, as an adventurer in
search of new fields, or an escaped
criminal, rather than as a prince of the
Holy See, or a sultan of the Thousand
and One Nights.

"Sir," said Villefort, in the squeaky
tone assumed by magistrates in their
oratorical periods, and of which they
cannot, or will not, divest themselves
in society, "sir, the signal service
which you yesterday rendered to my wife
and son has made it a duty for me to
offer you my thanks. I have come,
therefore, to discharge this duty, and
to express to you my overwhelming
gratitude." And as he said this, the
"eye severe" of the magistrate had lost
nothing of its habitual arrogance. He
spoke in a voice of the
procureur-general, with the rigid
inflexibility of neck and shoulders
which caused his flatterers to say (as
we have before observed) that he was the
living statue of the law.

"Monsieur," replied the count, with a
chilling air, "I am very happy to have
been the means of preserving a son to
his mother, for they say that the
sentiment of maternity is the most holy
of all; and the good fortune which
occurred to me, monsieur, might have
enabled you to dispense with a duty
which, in its discharge, confers an
undoubtedly great honor; for I am aware
that M. de Villefort is not usually
lavish of the favor which he now bestows
on me, -- a favor which, however
estimable, is unequal to the
satisfaction which I have in my own
consciousness." Villefort, astonished at
this reply, which he by no means
expected, started like a soldier who
feels the blow levelled at him over the
armor he wears, and a curl of his
disdainful lip indicated that from that
moment he noted in the tablets of his
brain that the Count of Monte Cristo was
by no means a highly bred gentleman. He
glanced around. in order to seize on
something on which the conversation
might turn, and seemed to fall easily on
a topic. He saw the map which Monte
Cristo had been examining when he
entered, and said, "You seem
geographically engaged, sir? It is a
rich study for you, who, as I learn,
have seen as many lands as are
delineated on this map."

"Yes, sir," replied the count; "l have
sought to make of the human race, taken
in the mass, what you practice every day
on individuals -- a physiological study.
I have believed it was much easier to
descend from the whole to a part than to
ascend from a part to the whole. It is
an algebraic axiom, which makes us
proceed from a known to an unknown
quantity, and not from an unknown to a
known; but sit down, sir, I beg of you."

Monte Cristo pointed to a chair, which
the procureur was obliged to take the
trouble to move forwards himself, while
the count merely fell back into his own,
on which he had been kneeling when M.
Villefort entered. Thus the count was
halfway turned towards his visitor,
having his back towards the window, his
elbow resting on the geographical chart
which furnished the theme of
conversation for the moment, -- a
conversation which assumed, as in the
case of the interviews with Danglars and
Morcerf, a turn analogous to the
persons, if not to the situation. "Ah,
you philosophize," replied Villefort,
after a moment's silence, during which,
like a wrestler who encounters a
powerful opponent, he took breath;
"well, sir, really, if, like you, I had
nothing else to do, I should seek a more
amusing occupation."

"Why, in truth, sir," was Monte Cristo's
reply, "man is but an ugly caterpillar
for him who studies him through a solar
microscope; but you said, I think, that
I had nothing else to do. Now, really,
let me ask, sir, have you? -- do you
believe you have anything to do? or to
speak in plain terms, do you really
think that what you do deserves being
called anything?"

Villefort's astonishment redoubled at
this second thrust so forcibly made by
his strange adversary. It was a long
time since the magistrate had heard a
paradox so strong, or rather, to say the
truth more exactly, it was the first
time he had ever heard of it. The
procureur exerted himself to reply.
"Sir," he responded, "you are a
stranger, and I believe you say yourself
that a portion of your life has been
spent in Oriental countries, so you are
not aware how human justice, so
expeditions in barbarous countries,
takes with us a prudent and well-studied
course."

"Oh, yes -- yes, I do, sir; it is the
pede claudo of the ancients. I know all
that, for it is with the justice of all
countries especially that I have
occupied myself -- it is with the
criminal procedure of all nations that I
have compared natural justice, and I
must say, sir, that it is the law of
primitive nations, that is, the law of
retaliation, that I have most frequently
found to be according to the law of
God."

"If this law were adopted, sir," said
the procureur, "it would greatly
simplify our legal codes, and in that
case the magistrates would not (as you
just observed) have much to do."

"It may, perhaps, come to this in time,"
observed Monte Cristo; "you know that
human inventions march from the complex
to the simple, and simplicity is always
perfection."

"In the meanwhile," continued the
magistrate, "our codes are in full
force, with all their contradictory
enactments derived from Gallic customs,
Roman laws, and Frank usages; the
knowledge of all which, you will agree,
is not to be acquired without extended
labor; it needs tedious study to acquire
this knowledge, and, when acquired, a
strong power of brain to retain it."

"I agree with you entirely, sir; but all
that even you know with respect to the
French code, I know, not only in
reference to that code, but as regards
the codes of all nations. The English,
Turkish, Japanese, Hindu laws, are as
familiar to me as the French laws, and
thus I was right, when I said to you,
that relatively (you know that
everything is relative, sir) -- that
relatively to what I have done, you have
very little to do; but that relatively
to all I have learned, you have yet a
great deal to learn."

"But with what motive have you learned
all this?" inquired Villefort, in
astonishment. Monte Cristo smiled.
"Really, sir," he observed, "I see that
in spite of the reputation which you
have acquired as a superior man, you
look at everything from the material and
vulgar view of society, beginning with
man, and ending with man -- that is to
say, in the most restricted, most narrow
view which it is possible for human
understanding to embrace."

"Pray, sir, explain yourself," said
Villefort, more and more astonished, "I
really do -- not -- understand you --
perfectly."

"I say, sir, that with the eyes fixed on
the social organization of nations, you
see only the springs of the machine, and
lose sight of the sublime workman who
makes them act; I say that you do not
recognize before you and around you any
but those office-holders whose
commissions have been signed by a
minister or king; and that the men whom
God has put above those office-holders,
ministers, and kings, by giving them a
mission to follow out, instead of a post
to fill -- I say that they escape your
narrow, limited field of observation. It
is thus that human weakness fails, from
its debilitated and imperfect organs.
Tobias took the angel who restored him
to light for an ordinary young man. The
nations took Attila, who was doomed to
destroy them, for a conqueror similar to
other conquerors, and it was necessary
for both to reveal their missions, that
they might be known and acknowledged;
one was compelled to say, `I am the
angel of the Lord'; and the other, `I am
the hammer of God,' in order that the
divine essence in both might be
revealed."

"Then," said Villefort, more and more
amazed, and really supposing he was
speaking to a mystic or a madman, "you
consider yourself as one of those
extraordinary beings whom you have
mentioned?"

"And why not?" said Monte Cristo coldly.

"Your pardon, sir," replied Villefort,
quite astounded, "but you will excuse me
if, when I presented myself to you, I
was unaware that I should meet with a
person whose knowledge and understanding
so far surpass the usual knowledge and
understanding of men. It is not usual
with us corrupted wretches of
civilization to find gentlemen like
yourself, possessors, as you are, of
immense fortune -- at least, so it is
said -- and I beg you to observe that I
do not inquire, I merely repeat; -- it
is not usual, I say, for such privileged
and wealthy beings to waste their time
in speculations on the state of society,
in philosophical reveries, intended at
best to console those whom fate has
disinherited from the goods of this
world."

"Really, sir," retorted the count, "have
you attained the eminent situation in
which you are, without having admitted,
or even without having met with
exceptions? and do you never use your
eyes, which must have acquired so much
finesse and certainty, to divine, at a
glance, the kind of man by whom you are
confronted? Should not a magistrate be
not merely the best administrator of the
law, but the most crafty expounder of
the chicanery of his profession, a steel
probe to search hearts, a touchstone to
try the gold which in each soul is
mingled with more or less of alloy?"

"Sir," said Villefort, "upon my word,
you overcome me. I really never heard a
person speak as you do."

"Because you remain eternally encircled
in a round of general conditions, and
have never dared to raise your wings
into those upper spheres which God has
peopled with invisible or exceptional
beings."

"And you allow then, sir, that spheres
exist, and that these marked and
invisible beings mingle amongst us?"

"Why should they not? Can you see the
air you breathe, and yet without which
you could not for a moment exist?"

"Then we do not see those beings to whom
you allude?"

"Yes, we do; you see them whenever God
pleases to allow them to assume a
material form. You touch them, come in
contact with them, speak to them, and
they reply to you."

"Ah," said Villefort, smiling, "I
confess I should like to be warned when
one of these beings is in contact with
me."

"You have been served as you desire,
monsieur, for you were warned just now,
and I now again warn you."

"Then you yourself are one of these
marked beings?"

"Yes, monsieur, I believe so; for until
now, no man has found himself in a
position similar to mine. The dominions
of kings are limited either by mountains
or rivers, or a change of manners, or an
alteration of language. My kingdom is
bounded only by the world, for I am not
an Italian, or a Frenchman, or a Hindu,
or an American, or a Spaniard -- I am a
cosmopolite. No country can say it saw
my birth. God alone knows what country
will see me die. I adopt all customs,
speak all languages. You believe me to
be a Frenchman, for I speak French with
the same facility and purity as
yourself. Well, Ali, my Nubian, believes
me to be an Arab; Bertuccio, my steward,
takes me for a Roman; Haidee, my slave,
thinks me a Greek. You may, therefore,
comprehend, that being of no country,
asking no protection from any
government, acknowledging no man as my
brother, not one of the scruples that
arrest the powerful, or the obstacles
which paralyze the weak, paralyzes or
arrests me. I have only two
adversaries -- I will not say two
conquerors, for with perseverance I
subdue even them, -- they are time and
distance. There is a third, and the most
terrible -- that is my condition as a
mortal being. This alone can stop me in
my onward career, before I have attained
the goal at which I aim, for all the
rest I have reduced to mathematical
terms. What men call the chances of
fate -- namely, ruin, change,
circumstances -- I have fully
anticipated, and if any of these should
overtake me, yet it will not overwhelm
me. Unless I die, I shall always be what
I am, and therefore it is that I utter
the things you have never heard, even
from the mouths of kings -- for kings
have need, and other persons have fear
of you. For who is there who does not
say to himself, in a society as
incongruously organized as ours,
`Perhaps some day I shall have to do
with the king's attorney'?"

"But can you not say that, sir? The
moment you become an inhabitant of
France, you are naturally subjected to
the French law."

"I know it sir," replied Monte Cristo;
"but when I visit a country I begin to
study, by all the means which are
available, the men from whom I may have
anything to hope or to fear, till I know
them as well as, perhaps better than,
they know themselves. It follows from
this, that the king's attorney, be he
who he may, with whom I should have to
deal, would assuredly be more
embarrassed than I should."

"That is to say," replied Villefort with
hesitation, "that human nature being
weak, every man, according to your
creed, has committed faults."

"Faults or crimes," responded Monte
Cristo with a negligent air.

"And that you alone, amongst the men
whom you do not recognize as your
brothers -- for you have said so,"
observed Villefort in a tone that
faltered somewhat -- "you alone are
perfect."

"No, not perfect," was the count's
reply; "only impenetrable, that's all.
But let us leave off this strain, sir,
if the tone of it is displeasing to you;
I am no more disturbed by your justice
than are you by my second-sight."

"No, no, -- by no means," said
Villefort, who was afraid of seeming to
abandon his ground. "No; by your
brilliant and almost sublime
conversation you have elevated me above
the ordinary level; we no longer talk,
we rise to dissertation. But you know
how the theologians in their collegiate
chairs, and philosophers in their
controversies, occasionally say cruel
truths; let us suppose for the moment
that we are theologizing in a social
way, or even philosophically, and I will
say to you, rude as it may seem, `My
brother, you sacrifice greatly to pride;
you may be above others, but above you
there is God.'"

"Above us all, sir," was Monte Cristo's
response, in a tone and with an emphasis
so deep that Villefort involuntarily
shuddered. "I have my pride for men --
serpents always ready to threaten every
one who would pass without crushing them
under foot. But I lay aside that pride
before God, who has taken me from
nothing to make me what I am."

"Then, count, I admire you," said
Villefort, who, for the first time in
this strange conversation, used the
aristocratic form to the unknown
personage, whom, until now, he had only
called monsieur. "Yes, and I say to you,
if you are really strong, really
superior, really pious, or impenetrable,
which you were right in saying amounts
to the same thing -- then be proud, sir,
for that is the characteristic of
predominance. Yet you have
unquestionably some ambition."

"I have, sir."

"And what may it be?"

"I too, as happens to every man once in
his life, have been taken by Satan into
the highest mountain in the earth, and
when there he showed me all the kingdoms
of the world, and as he said before, so
said he to me, `Child of earth, what
wouldst thou have to make thee adore
me?' I reflected long, for a gnawing
ambition had long preyed upon me, and
then I replied, `Listen, -- I have
always heard of providence, and yet I
have never seen him, or anything that
resembles him, or which can make me
believe that he exists. I wish to be
providence myself, for I feel that the
most beautiful, noblest, most sublime
thing in the world, is to recompense and
punish.' Satan bowed his head, and
groaned. `You mistake,' he said,
`providence does exist, only you have
never seen him, because the child of God
is as invisible as the parent. You have
seen nothing that resembles him, because
he works by secret springs, and moves by
hidden ways. All I can do for you is to
make you one of the agents of that
providence.' The bargain was concluded.
I may sacrifice my soul, but what
matters it?" added Monte Cristo. "If the
thing were to do again, I would again do
it." Villefort looked at Monte Cristo
with extreme amazement. "Count," he
inquired, "have you any relations?"

"No, sir, I am alone in the world."

"So much the worse."

"Why?" asked Monte Cristo.

"Because then you might witness a
spectacle calculated to break down your
pride. You say you fear nothing but
death?"

"I did not say that I feared it; I only
said that death alone could check the
execution of my plans."

"And old age?"

"My end will be achieved before I grow
old."

"And madness?"

"I have been nearly mad; and you know
the axiom, -- non bis in idem. It is an
axiom of criminal law, and,
consequently, you understand its full
application."

"Sir," continued Villefort, "there is
something to fear besides death, old
age, and madness. For instance, there is
apoplexy -- that lightning-stroke which
strikes but does not destroy you, and
yet which brings everything to an end.
You are still yourself as now, and yet
you are yourself no longer; you who,
like Ariel, verge on the angelic, are
but an inert mass, which, like Caliban,
verges on the brutal; and this is called
in human tongues, as I tell you, neither
more nor less than apoplexy. Come, if so
you will, count, and continue this
conversation at my house, any day you
may be willing to see an adversary
capable of understanding and anxious to
refute you, and I will show you my
father, M. Noirtier de Villefort, one of
the most fiery Jacobins of the French
Revolution; that is to say, he had the
most remarkable audacity, seconded by a
most powerful organization -- a man who
has not, perhaps, like yourself seen all
the kingdoms of the earth, but who has
helped to overturn one of the greatest;
in fact, a man who believed himself,
like you, one of the envoys, not of God,
but of a supreme being; not of
providence, but of fate. Well, sir, the
rupture of a blood-vessel on the lobe of
the brain has destroyed all this, not in
a day, not in an hour, but in a second.
M. Noirtier, who, on the previous night,
was the old Jacobin, the old senator,
the old Carbonaro, laughing at the
guillotine, the cannon, and the
dagger -- M. Noirtier, playing with
revolutions -- M. Noirtier, for whom
France was a vast chess-board, from
which pawns, rooks, knights, and queens
were to disappear, so that the king was
checkmated -- M. Noirtier, the
redoubtable, was the next morning `poor
M. Noirtier,' the helpless old man, at
the tender mercies of the weakest
creature in the household, that is, his
grandchild, Valentine; a dumb and frozen
carcass, in fact, living painlessly on,
that time may be given for his frame to
decompose without his consciousness of
its decay."

"Alas, sir," said Monte Cristo "this
spectacle is neither strange to my eye
nor my thought. I am something of a
physician, and have, like my fellows,
sought more than once for the soul in
living and in dead matter; yet, like
providence, it has remained invisible to
my eyes, although present to my heart. A
hundred writers since Socrates, Seneca,
St. Augustine, and Gall, have made, in
verse and prose, the comparison you have
made, and yet I can well understand that
a father's sufferings may effect great
changes in the mind of a son. I will
call on you, sir, since you bid me
contemplate, for the advantage of my
pride, this terrible spectacle, which
must have been so great a source of
sorrow to your family."

"It would have been so unquestionably,
had not God given me so large a
compensation. In contrast with the old
man, who is dragging his way to the
tomb, are two children just entering
into life -- Valentine, the daughter by
my first wife -- Mademoiselle Renee de
Saint-Meran -- and Edward, the boy whose
life you have this day saved."

"And what is your deduction from this
compensation, sir?" inquired Monte
Cristo.

"My deduction is," replied Villefort,
"that my father, led away by his
passions, has committed some fault
unknown to human justice, but marked by
the justice of God. That God, desirous
in his mercy to punish but one person,
has visited this justice on him alone."
Monte Cristo with a smile on his lips,
uttered in the depths of his soul a
groan which would have made Villefort
fly had he but heard it. "Adieu, sir,"
said the magistrate, who had risen from
his seat; "I leave you, bearing a
remembrance of you -- a remembrance of
esteem, which I hope will not be
disagreeable to you when you know me
better; for I am not a man to bore my
friends, as you will learn. Besides, you
have made an eternal friend of Madame de
Villefort." The count bowed, and
contented himself with seeing Villefort
to the door of his cabinet, the
procureur being escorted to his carriage
by two footmen, who, on a signal from
their master, followed him with every
mark of attention. When he had gone,
Monte Cristo breathed a profound sigh,
and said, -- "Enough of this poison, let
me now seek the antidote." Then sounding
his bell, he said to Ali, who entered,
"I am going to madam's chamber -- have
the carriage ready at one o'clock."



Chapter 49 Haidee.

It will be recollected that the new, or
rather old, acquaintances of the Count
of Monte Cristo, residing in the Rue
Meslay, were no other than Maximilian,
Julie, and Emmanuel. The very
anticipations of delight to be enjoyed
in his forthcoming visits -- the bright,
pure gleam of heavenly happiness it
diffused over the almost deadly warfare
in which he had voluntarily engaged,
illumined his whole countenance with a
look of ineffable joy and calmness, as,
immediately after Villefort's departure,
his thoughts flew back to the cheering
prospect before him, of tasting, at
least, a brief respite from the fierce
and stormy passions of his mind. Even
Ali, who had hastened to obey the
Count's summons, went forth from his
master's presence in charmed amazement
at the unusual animation and pleasure
depicted on features ordinarily so stern
and cold; while, as though dreading to
put to flight the agreeable ideas
hovering over his patron's meditations,
whatever they were, the faithful Nubian
walked on tiptoe towards the door,
holding his breath, lest its faintest
sound should dissipate his master's
happy reverie.

It was noon, and Monte Cristo had set
apart one hour to be passed in the
apartments of Haidee, as though his
oppressed spirit could not all at once
admit the feeling of pure and unmixed
joy, but required a gradual succession
of calm and gentle emotions to prepare
his mind to receive full and perfect
happiness, in the same manner as
ordinary natures demand to be inured by
degrees to the reception of strong or
violent sensations. The young Greek, as
we have already said, occupied
apartments wholly unconnected with those
of the count. The rooms had been fitted
up in strict accordance with Oriental
ideas; the floors were covered with the
richest carpets Turkey could produce;
the walls hung with brocaded silk of the
most magnificent designs and texture;
while around each chamber luxurious
divans were placed, with piles of soft
and yielding cushions, that needed only
to be arranged at the pleasure or
convenience of such as sought repose.
Haidee and three French maids, and one
who was a Greek. The first three
remained constantly in a small
waiting-room, ready to obey the summons
of a small golden bell, or to receive
the orders of the Romaic slave, who knew
just enough French to be able to
transmit her mistress's wishes to the
three other waiting-women; the latter
had received most peremptory
instructions from Monte Cristo to treat
Haidee with all the deference they would
observe to a queen.

The young girl herself generally passed
her time in the chamber at the farther
end of her apartments. This was a sort
of boudoir, circular, and lighted only
from the roof, which consisted of
rose-colored glass. Haidee was reclining
upon soft downy cushions, covered with
blue satin spotted with silver; her
head, supported by one of her
exquisitely moulded arms, rested on the
divan immediately behind her, while the
other was employed in adjusting to her
lips the coral tube of a rich narghile,
through whose flexible pipe she drew the
smoke fragrant by its passage through
perfumed water. Her attitude, though
perfectly natural for an Eastern woman
would, in a European, have been deemed
too full of coquettish straining after
effect. Her dress, which was that of the
women of Epirus, consisted of a pair of
white satin trousers, embroidered with
pink roses, displaying feet so
exquisitely formed and so delicately
fair, that they might well have been
taken for Parian marble, had not the eye
been undeceived by their movements as
they constantly shifted in and out of a
pair of little slippers with upturned
toes, beautifully ornamented with gold
and pearls. She wore a blue and
white-striped vest, with long open
sleeves, trimmed with silver loops and
buttons of pearls, and a sort of bodice,
which, closing only from the centre to
the waist, exhibited the whole of the
ivory throat and upper part of the
bosom; it was fastened with three
magnificent diamond clasps. The junction
of the bodice and drawers was entirely
concealed by one of the many-colored
scarfs, whose brilliant hues and rich
silken fringe have rendered them so
precious in the eyes of Parisian belles.
Tilted on one side of her head she had a
small cap of gold-colored silk,
embroidered with pearls; while on the
other a purple rose mingled its glowing
colors with the luxuriant masses of her
hair, of which the blackness was so
intense that it was tinged with blue.
The extreme beauty of the countenance,
that shone forth in loveliness that
mocked the vain attempts of dress to
augment it, was peculiarly and purely
Grecian; there were the large, dark,
melting eyes, the finely formed nose,
the coral lips, and pearly teeth, that
belonged to her race and country. And,
to complete the whole, Haidee was in the
very springtide and fulness of youthful
charms -- she had not yet numbered more
than twenty summers.

Monte Cristo summoned the Greek
attendant, and bade her inquire whether
it would be agreeable to her mistress to
receive his visit. Haidee's only reply
was to direct her servant by a sign to
withdraw the tapestried curtain that
hung before the door of her boudoir, the
framework of the opening thus made
serving as a sort of border to the
graceful tableau presented by the young
girl's picturesque attitude and
appearance. As Monte Cristo approached,
she leaned upon the elbow of the arm
that held the narghile, and extending to
him her other hand, said, with a smile
of captivating sweetness, in the
sonorous language spoken by the women of
Athens and Sparta, "Why demand
permission ere you enter? Are you no
longer my master, or have I ceased to be
your slave?" Monte Cristo returned her
smile. "Haidee," said he, "you well
know."

"Why do you address me so coldly -- so
distantly?" asked the young Greek. "Have
I by any means displeased you? Oh, if
so, punish me as you will; but do not --
do not speak to me in tones and manner
so formal and constrained."

"Haidee," replied the count, "you know
that you are now in France, and are
free."

"Free to do what?" asked the young girl.

"Free to leave me."

"Leave you? Why should I leave you?"

"That is not for me to say; but we are
now about to mix in society -- to visit
and be visited."

"I don't wish to see anybody but you."

"And should you see one whom you could
prefer, I would not be so unjust" --

"I have never seen any one I preferred
to you, and I have never loved any one
but you and my father."

"My poor child," replied Monte Cristo,
"that is merely because your father and
myself are the only men who have ever
talked to you."

"I don't want anybody else to talk to
me. My father said I was his `joy' --
you style me your `love,' -- and both of
you have called me `my child.'"

"Do you remember your father, Haidee?"
The young Greek smiled. "He is here, and
here," said she, touching her eyes and
her heart. "And where am I?" inquired
Monte Cristo laughingly.

"You?" cried she, with tones of
thrilling tenderness, "you are
everywhere!" Monte Cristo took the
delicate hand of the young girl in his,
and was about to raise it to his lips,
when the simple child of nature hastily
withdrew it, and presented her cheek.
"You now understand, Haidee," said the
count, "that from this moment you are
absolutely free; that here you exercise
unlimited sway, and are at liberty to
lay aside or continue the costume of
your country, as it may suit your
inclination. Within this mansion you are
absolute mistress of your actions, and
may go abroad or remain in your
apartments as may seem most agreeable to
you. A carriage waits your orders, and
Ali and Myrtho will accompany you
whithersoever you desire to go. There is
but one favor I would entreat of you."

"Speak."

"Guard carefully the secret of your
birth. Make no allusion to the past; nor
upon any occasion be induced to
pronounce the names of your illustrious
father or ill-fated mother."

"I have already told you, my lord, that
I shall see no one."

"It is possible, Haidee, that so perfect
a seclusion, though conformable with the
habits and customs of the East, may not
be practicable in Paris. Endeavor, then,
to accustom yourself to our manner of
living in these northern climes as you
did to those of Rome, Florence, Milan,
and Madrid; it may be useful to you one
of these days, whether you remain here
or return to the East." The young girl
raised her tearful eyes towards Monte
Cristo as she said with touching
earnestness, "Whether we return to the
East, you mean to say, my lord, do you
not?"

"My child," returned Monte Cristo "you
know full well that whenever we part, it
will be no fault or wish of mine; the
tree forsakes not the flower -- the
flower falls from the tree."

"My lord," replied Haidee, "I never will
leave you, for I am sure I could not
exist without you."

"My poor girl, in ten years I shall be
old, and you will be still young."

"My father had a long white beard, but I
loved him; he was sixty years old, but
to me he was handsomer than all the fine
youths I saw."

"Then tell me, Haidee, do you believe
you shall be able to accustom yourself
to our present mode of life?"

"Shall I see you?"

"Every day."

"Then what do you fear, my lord?"

"You might find it dull."

"No, my lord. In the morning, I shall
rejoice in the prospect of your coming,
and in the evening dwell with delight on
the happiness I have enjoyed in your
presence; then too, when alone, I can
call forth mighty pictures of the past,
see vast horizons bounded only by the
towering mountains of Pindus and
Olympus. Oh, believe me, that when three
great passions, such as sorrow, love,
and gratitude fill the heart, ennui can
find no place."

"You are a worthy daughter of Epirus,
Haidee, and your charming and poetical
ideas prove well your descent from that
race of goddesses who claim your country
as their birthplace. Depend on my care
to see that your youth is not blighted,
or suffered to pass away in ungenial
solitude; and of this be well assured,
that if you love me as a father, I love
you as a child."

"You are wrong, my lord. The love I have
for you is very different from the love
I had for my father. My father died, but
I did not die. If you were to die, I
should die too." The Count, with a smile
of profound tenderness, extended his
hand, and she carried it to her lips.
Monte Cristo, thus attuned to the
interview he proposed to hold with
Morrel and his family, departed,
murmuring as he went these lines of
Pindar, "Youth is a flower of which love
is the fruit; happy is he who, after
having watched its silent growth, is
permitted to gather and call it his
own." The carriage was prepared
according to orders, and stepping
lightly into it, the count drove off at
his usual rapid pace.



Chapter 50 The Morrel Family.

In a very few minutes the count reached
No. 7 in the Rue Meslay. The house was
of white stone, and in a small court
before it were two small beds full of
beautiful flowers. In the concierge that
opened the gate the count recognized
Cocles; but as he had but one eye, and
that eye had become somewhat dim in the
course of nine years, Cocles did not
recognize the count. The carriages that
drove up to the door were compelled to
turn, to avoid a fountain that played in
a basin of rockwork, -- an ornament that
had excited the jealousy of the whole
quarter, and had gained for the place
the appellation of "The Little
Versailles." It is needless to add that
there were gold and silver fish in the
basin. The house, with kitchens and
cellars below, had above the
ground-floor, two stories and attics.
The whole of the property, consisting of
an immense workshop, two pavilions at
the bottom of the garden, and the garden
itself, had been purchased by Emmanuel,
who had seen at a glance that he could
make of it a profitable speculation. He
had reserved the house and half the
garden, and building a wall between the
garden and the workshops, had let them
upon lease with the pavilions at the
bottom of the garden. So that for a
trifling sum he was as well lodged, and
as perfectly shut out from observation,
as the inhabitants of the finest mansion
in the Faubourg St. Germain. The
breakfast-room was finished in oak; the
salon in mahogany, and the furnishings
were of blue velvet; the bedroom was in
citronwood and green damask. There was a
study for Emmanuel, who never studied,
and a music-room for Julie, who never
played. The whole of the second story
was set apart for Maximilian; it was
precisely similar to his sister's
apartments, except that for the
breakfast-parlor he had a billiard-room,
where he received his friends. He was
superintending the grooming of his
horse, and smoking his cigar at the
entrance of the garden, when the count's
carriage stopped at the gate.

Cocles opened the gate, and Baptistin,
springing from the box, inquired whether
Monsieur and Madame Herbault and
Monsieur Maximilian Morrel would see his
excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.
"The Count of Monte Cristo?" cried
Morrel, throwing away his cigar and
hastening to the carriage; "I should
think we would see him. Ah, a thousand
thanks, count, for not having forgotten
your promise." And the young officer
shook the count's hand so warmly, that
Monte Cristo could not be mistaken as to
the sincerity of his joy, and he saw
that he had been expected with
impatience, and was received with
pleasure. "Come, come," said Maximilian,
"I will serve as your guide; such a man
as you are ought not to be introduced by
a servant. My sister is in the garden
plucking the dead roses; my brother is
reading his two papers, the Presse and
the Debats, within six steps of her; for
wherever you see Madame Herbault, you
have only to look within a circle of
four yards and you will find M.
Emmanuel, and `reciprocally,' as they
say at the Polytechnic School." At the
sound of their steps a young woman of
twenty to five and twenty, dressed in a
silk morning gown, and busily engaged in
plucking the dead leaves off a noisette
rose-tree, raised her head. This was
Julie, who had become, as the clerk of
the house of Thomson & French had
predicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault. She
uttered a cry of surprise at the sight
of a stranger, and Maximilian began to
laugh. "Don't disturb yourself, Julie,"
said he. "The count has only been two or
three days in Paris, but he already
knows what a fashionable woman of the
Marais is, and if he does not, you will
show him."

"Ah, monsieur," returned Julie, "it is
treason in my brother to bring you thus,
but he never has any regard for his poor
sister. Penelon, Penelon!" An old man,
who was digging busily at one of the
beds, stuck his spade in the earth, and
approached, cap in hand, striving to
conceal a quid of tobacco he had just
thrust into his cheek. A few locks of
gray mingled with his hair, which was
still thick and matted, while his
bronzed features and determined glance
well suited an old sailor who had braved
the heat of the equator and the storms
of the tropics. "I think you hailed me,
Mademoiselle Julie?" said he. Penelon
had still preserved the habit of calling
his master's daughter "Mademoiselle
Julie," and had never been able to
change the name to Madame Herbault.
"Penelon," replied Julie, "go and inform
M. Emmanuel of this gentleman's visit,
and Maximilian will conduct him to the
salon." Then, turning to Monte
Cristo, -- "I hope you will permit me to
leave you for a few minutes," continued
she; and without awaiting any reply,
disappeared behind a clump of trees, and
escaped to the house by a lateral alley.

"I am sorry to see," observed Monte
Cristo to Morrel, "that I cause no small
disturbance in your house."

"Look there," said Maximilian, laughing;
"there is her husband changing his
jacket for a coat. I assure you, you are
well known in the Rue Meslay."

"Your family appears to be a very happy
one," said the count, as if speaking to
himself.

"Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they want
nothing that can render them happy; they
are young and cheerful, they are
tenderly attached to each other, and
with twenty-five thousand francs a year
they fancy themselves as rich as
Rothschild."

"Five and twenty thousand francs is not
a large sum, however," replied Monte
Cristo, with a tone so sweet and gentle,
that it went to Maximilian's heart like
the voice of a father; "but they will
not be content with that. Your
brother-in-law is a barrister? a
doctor?"

"He was a merchant, monsieur, and had
succeeded to the business of my poor
father. M. Morrel, at his death, left
500,000 francs, which were divided
between my sister and myself, for we
were his only children. Her husband,
who, when he married her, had no other
patrimony than his noble probity, his
first-rate ability, and his spotless
reputation, wished to possess as much as
his wife. He labored and toiled until he
had amassed 250,000 francs; six years
sufficed to achieve this object. Oh, I
assure you, sir, it was a touching
spectacle to see these young creatures,
destined by their talents for higher
stations, toiling together, and through
their unwillingness to change any of the
customs of their paternal house, taking
six years to accomplish what less
scrupulous people would have effected in
two or three. Marseilles resounded with
their well-earned praises. At last, one
day, Emmanuel came to his wife, who had
just finished making up the accounts.
`Julie,' said he to her, `Cocles has
just given me the last rouleau of a
hundred francs; that completes the
250,000 francs we had fixed as the
limits of our gains. Can you content
yourself with the small fortune which we
shall possess for the future? Listen to
me. Our house transacts business to the
amount of a million a year, from which
we derive an income of 40,000 francs. We
can dispose of the business, if we
please, in an hour, for I have received
a letter from M. Delaunay, in which he
offers to purchase the good-will of the
house, to unite with his own, for
300,000 francs. Advise me what I had
better do.' -- `Emmanuel,' returned my
sister, `the house of Morrel can only be
carried on by a Morrel. Is it not worth
300,000 francs to save our father's name
from the chances of evil fortune and
failure?' -- `I thought so,' replied
Emmanuel; `but I wished to have your
advice.' -- `This is my counsel: -- Our
accounts are made up and our bills paid;
all we have to do is to stop the issue
of any more, and close our office.' This
was done instantly. It was three
o'clock; at a quarter past, a merchant
presented himself to insure two ships;
it was a clear profit of 15,000 francs.
`Monsieur,' said Emmanuel, `have the
goodness to address yourself to M.
Delaunay. We have quitted business.' --
`How long?' inquired the astonished
merchant. `A quarter of an hour,' was
the reply. And this is the reason,
monsieur," continued Maximilian, "of my
sister and brother-in-law having only
25,000 francs a year."

Maximilian had scarcely finished his
story, during which the count's heart
had swelled within him, when Emmanuel
entered wearing a hat and coat. He
saluted the count with the air of a man
who is aware of the rank of his guest;
then, after having led Monte Cristo
around the little garden, he returned to
the house. A large vase of Japan
porcelain, filled with flowers that
loaded the air with their perfume, stood
in the salon. Julie, suitably dressed,
and her hair arranged (she had
accomplished this feat in less than ten
minutes), received the count on his
entrance. The songs of the birds were
heard in an aviary hard by, and the
branches of laburnums and rose acacias
formed an exquisite framework to the
blue velvet curtains. Everything in this
charming retreat, from the warble of the
birds to the smile of the mistress,
breathed tranquillity and repose. The
count had felt the influence of this
happiness from the moment he entered the
house, and he remained silent and
pensive, forgetting that he was expected
to renew the conversation, which had
ceased after the first salutations had
been exchanged. The silence became
almost painful when, by a violent
effort, tearing himself from his
pleasing reverie -- "Madame," said he at
length, "I pray you to excuse my
emotion, which must astonish you who are
only accustomed to the happiness I meet
here; but contentment is so new a sight
to me, that I could never be weary of
looking at yourself and your husband."

"We are very happy, monsieur," replied
Julie; "but we have also known
unhappiness, and few have ever undergone
more bitter sufferings than ourselves."
The Count's features displayed an
expression of the most intense
curiosity.

"Oh, all this is a family history, as
Chateau-Renaud told you the other day,"
observed Maximilian. "This humble
picture would have but little interest
for you, accustomed as you are to behold
the pleasures and the misfortunes of the
wealthy and industrious; but such as we
are, we have experienced bitter
sorrows."

"And God has poured balm into your
wounds, as he does into those of all who
are in affliction?" said Monte Cristo
inquiringly.

"Yes, count," returned Julie, "we may
indeed say he has, for he has done for
us what he grants only to his chosen; he
sent us one of his angels." The count's
cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed,
in order to have an excuse for putting
his handkerchief to his mouth. "Those
born to wealth, and who have the means
of gratifying every wish," said
Emmanuel, "know not what is the real
happiness of life, just as those who
have been tossed on the stormy waters of
the ocean on a few frail planks can
alone realize the blessings of fair
weather."

Monte Cristo rose, and without making
any answer (for the tremulousness of his
voice would have betrayed his emotion)
walked up and down the apartment with a
slow step.

"Our magnificence makes you smile,
count," said Maximilian, who had
followed him with his eyes. "No, no,"
returned Monte Cristo, pale as death,
pressing one hand on his heart to still
its throbbings, while with the other he
pointed to a crystal cover, beneath
which a silken purse lay on a black
velvet cushion. "I was wondering what
could be the significance of this purse,
with the paper at one end and the large
diamond at the other."

"Count," replied Maximilian, with an air
of gravity, "those are our most precious
family treasures."

"The stone seems very brilliant,"
answered the count.

"Oh, my brother does not allude to its
value, although it has been estimated at
100,000 francs; he means, that the
articles contained in this purse are the
relics of the angel I spoke of just
now."

"This I do not comprehend; and yet I may
not ask for an explanation, madame,"
replied Monte Cristo bowing. "Pardon me,
I had no intention of committing an
indiscretion."

"Indiscretion, -- oh, you make us happy
by giving us an excuse for expatiating
on this subject. If we wanted to conceal
the noble action this purse
commemorates, we should not expose it
thus to view. Oh, would we could relate
it everywhere, and to every one, so that
the emotion of our unknown benefactor
might reveal his presence."

"Ah, really," said Monte Cristo in a
half-stifled voice.

"Monsieur," returned Maximilian, raising
the glass cover, and respectfully
kissing the silken purse, "this has
touched the hand of a man who saved my
father from suicide, us from ruin, and
our name from shame and disgrace, -- a
man by whose matchless benevolence we
poor children, doomed to want and
wretchedness, can at present hear every
one envying our happy lot. This letter"
(as he spoke, Maximilian drew a letter
from the purse and gave it to the
count) -- "this letter was written by
him the day that my father had taken a
desperate resolution, and this diamond
was given by the generous unknown to my
sister as her dowry." Monte Cristo
opened the letter, and read it with an
indescribable feeling of delight. It was
the letter written (as our readers know)
to Julie, and signed "Sinbad the
Sailor." "Unknown you say, is the man
who rendered you this service -- unknown
to you?"

"Yes; we have never had the happiness of
pressing his hand," continued
Maximilian. "We have supplicated heaven
in vain to grant us this favor, but the
whole affair has had a mysterious
meaning that we cannot comprehend -- we
have been guided by an invisible
hand, -- a hand as powerful as that of
an enchanter."

"Oh," cried Julie, "I have not lost all
hope of some day kissing that hand, as I
now kiss the purse which he has touched.
Four years ago, Penelon was at
Trieste -- Penelon, count, is the old
sailor you saw in the garden, and who,
from quartermaster, has become
gardener -- Penelon, when he was at
Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman,
who was on the point of embarking on
board a yacht, and he recognized him as
the person who called on my father the
fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me
this letter on the fifth of September.
He felt convinced of his identity, but
he did not venture to address him."

"An Englishman," said Monte Cristo, who
grew uneasy at the attention with which
Julie looked at him. "An Englishman you
say?"

"Yes," replied Maximilian, "an
Englishman, who represented himself as
the confidential clerk of the house of
Thomson & French, at Rome. It was this
that made me start when you said the
other day, at M. de Morcerf's, that
Messrs. Thomson & French were your
bankers. That happened, as I told you,
in 1829. For God's sake, tell me, did
you know this Englishman?"

"But you tell me, also, that the house
of Thomson & French have constantly
denied having rendered you this
service?"

"Yes."

"Then is it not probable that this
Englishman may be some one who, grateful
for a kindness your father had shown
him, and which he himself had forgotten,
has taken this method of requiting the
obligation?"

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

"What was his name?" asked Monte Cristo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Without revealing himself?"

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

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

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

"And do you know this gentleman,
monsieur?" inquired Emmanuel.

"Oh, if you do know him," cried Julie,
"can you tell us where he is -- where we
can find him? Maximilian -- Emmanuel --
if we do but discover him, he must
believe in the gratitude of the heart!"
Monte Cristo felt tears start into his
eyes, and he again walked hastily up and
down the room.

"In the name of heaven," said
Maximilian, "if you know anything of
him, tell us what it is."

"Alas," cried Monte Cristo, striving to
repress his emotion, "if Lord Wilmore
was your unknown benefactor, I fear you
will never see him again. I parted from
him two years ago at Palermo, and he was
then on the point of setting out for the
most remote regions; so that I fear he
will never return."

"Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you,"
said Julie, much affected; and the young
lady's eyes swam with tears.

"Madame," replied Monte Cristo gravely,
and gazing earnestly on the two liquid
pearls that trickled down Julie's
cheeks, "had Lord Wilmore seen what I
now see, he would become attached to
life, for the tears you shed would
reconcile him to mankind;" and he held
out his hand to Julie, who gave him
hers, carried away by the look and
accent of the count. "But," continued
she, "Lord Wilmore had a family or
friends, he must have known some one,
can we not -- "

"Oh, it is useless to inquire," returned
the count; "perhaps, after all, he was
not the man you seek for. He was my
friend: he had no secrets from me, and
if this had been so he would have
confided in me."

"And he told you nothing?"

"Not a word."

"Nothing that would lead you to
suppose?"

"Nothing."

"And yet you spoke of him at once."

"Ah, in such a case one supposes" --

"Sister, sister," said Maximilian,
coming to the count's aid, "monsieur is
quite right. Recollect what our
excellent father so often told us, `It
was no Englishman that thus saved us.'"
Monte Cristo started. "What did your
father tell you, M. Morrel?" said he
eagerly.

"My father thought that this action had
been miraculously performed -- he
believed that a benefactor had arisen
from the grave to save us. Oh, it was a
touching superstition, monsieur, and
although I did not myself believe it, I
would not for the world have destroyed
my father's faith. How often did he muse
over it and pronounce the name of a dear
friend -- a friend lost to him forever;
and on his death-bed, when the near
approach of eternity seemed to have
illumined his mind with supernatural
light, this thought, which had until
then been but a doubt, became a
conviction, and his last words were,
`Maximilian, it was Edmond Dantes!'" At
these words the count's paleness, which
had for some time been increasing,
became alarming; he could not speak; he
looked at his watch like a man who has
forgotten the hour, said a few hurried
words to Madame Herbault, and pressing
the hands of Emmanuel and Maximilian, --
"Madame," said he, "I trust you will
allow me to visit you occasionally; I
value your friendship, and feel grateful
to you for your welcome, for this is the
first time for many years that I have
thus yielded to my feelings;" and he
hastily quitted the apartment.

"This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange
man," said Emmanuel.

"Yes," answered Maximilian, "but I feel
sure he has an excellent heart, and that
he likes us."

"His voice went to my heart," observed
Julie; "and two or three times I fancied
that I had heard it before."



Chapter 51 Pyramus and Thisbe.

About two-thirds of the way along the
Faubourg Saint-Honore, and in the rear
of one of the most imposing mansions in
this rich neighborhood, where the
various houses vie with each other for
elegance of design and magnificence of
construction, extended a large garden,
where the wide-spreading chestnut-trees
raised their heads high above the walls
in a solid rampart, and with the coming
of every spring scattered a shower of
delicate pink and white blossoms into
the large stone vases that stood upon
the two square pilasters of a curiously
wrought iron gate, that dated from the
time of Louis XII. This noble entrance,
however, in spite of its striking
appearance and the graceful effect of
the geraniums planted in the two vases,
as they waved their variegated leaves in
the wind and charmed the eye with their
scarlet bloom, had fallen into utter
disuse. The proprietors of the mansion
had many years before thought it best to
confine themselves to the possession of
the house itself, with its thickly
planted court-yard, opening into the
Faubourg Saint-Honore, and to the garden
shut in by this gate, which formerly
communicated with a fine kitchen-garden
of about an acre. For the demon of
speculation drew a line, or in other
words projected a street, at the farther
side of the kitchen-garden. The street
was laid out, a name was chosen and
posted up on an iron plate, but before
construction was begun, it occurred to
the possessor of the property that a
handsome sum might be obtained for the
ground then devoted to fruits and
vegetables, by building along the line
of the proposed street, and so making it
a branch of communication with the
Faubourg Saint-Honore itself, one of the
most important thoroughfares in the city
of Paris.

In matters of speculation, however,
though "man proposes," "money disposes."
From some such difficulty the newly
named street died almost in birth, and
the purchaser of the kitchen-garden,
having paid a high price for it, and
being quite unable to find any one
willing to take his bargain off his
hands without a considerable loss, yet
still clinging to the belief that at
some future day he should obtain a sum
for it that would repay him, not only
for his past outlay, but also the
interest upon the capital locked up in
his new acquisition, contented himself
with letting the ground temporarily to
some market-gardeners, at a yearly
rental of 500 francs. And so, as we have
said, the iron gate leading into the
kitchen-garden had been closed up and
left to the rust, which bade fair before
long to eat off its hinges, while to
prevent the ignoble glances of the
diggers and delvers of the ground from
presuming to sully the aristocratic
enclosure belonging to the mansion, the
gate had been boarded up to a height of
six feet. True, the planks were not so
closely adjusted but that a hasty peep
might be obtained through their
interstices; but the strict decorum and
rigid propriety of the inhabitants of
the house left no grounds for
apprehending that advantage would be
taken of that circumstance.

Horticulture seemed, however, to have
been abandoned in the deserted
kitchen-garden; and where cabbages,
carrots, radishes, pease, and melons had
once flourished, a scanty crop of
lucerne alone bore evidence of its being
deemed worthy of cultivation. A small,
low door gave egress from the walled
space we have been describing into the
projected street, the ground having been
abandoned as unproductive by its various
renters, and had now fallen so
completely in general estimation as to
return not even the one-half per cent it
had originally paid. Towards the house
the chestnut-trees we have before
mentioned rose high above the wall,
without in any way affecting the growth
of other luxuriant shrubs and flowers
that eagerly dressed forward to fill up
the vacant spaces, as though asserting
their right to enjoy the boon of light
and air. At one corner, where the
foliage became so thick as almost to
shut out day, a large stone bench and
sundry rustic seats indicated that this
sheltered spot was either in general
favor or particular use by some
inhabitant of the house, which was
faintly discernible through the dense
mass of verdure that partially concealed
it, though situated but a hundred paces
off.

Whoever had selected this retired
portion of the grounds as the boundary
of a walk, or as a place for meditation,
was abundantly justified in the choice
by the absence of all glare, the cool,
refreshing shade, the screen it afforded
from the scorching rays of the sun, that
found no entrance there even during the
burning days of hottest summer, the
incessant and melodious warbling of
birds, and the entire removal from
either the noise of the street or the
bustle of the mansion. On the evening of
one of the warmest days spring had yet
bestowed on the inhabitants of Paris,
might be seen negligently thrown upon
the stone bench, a book, a parasol, and
a work-basket, from which hung a partly
embroidered cambric handkerchief, while
at a little distance from these articles
was a young woman, standing close to the
iron gate, endeavoring to discern
something on the other side by means of
the openings in the planks, -- the
earnestness of her attitude and the
fixed gaze with which she seemed to seek
the object of her wishes, proving how
much her feelings were interested in the
matter. At that instant the little
side-gate leading from the waste ground
to the street was noiselessly opened,
and a tall, powerful young man appeared.
He was dressed in a common gray blouse
and velvet cap, but his carefully
arranged hair, beard and mustache, all
of the richest and glossiest black, ill
accorded with his plebeian attire. After
casting a rapid glance around him, in
order to assure himself that he was
unobserved, he entered by the small
gate, and, carefully closing and
securing it after him, proceeded with a
hurried step towards the barrier.

At the sight of him she expected, though
probably not in such a costume, the
young woman started in terror, and was
about to make a hasty retreat. But the
eye of love had already seen, even
through the narrow chinks of the wooden
palisades, the movement of the white
robe, and observed the fluttering of the
blue sash. Pressing his lips close to
the planks, he exclaimed, "Don't be
alarmed, Valentine -- it is I!" Again
the timid girl found courage to return
to the gate, saying, as she did so, "And
why do you come so late to-day? It is
almost dinner-time, and I had to use no
little diplomacy to get rid of my
watchful mother-in-law, my too-devoted
maid, and my troublesome brother, who is
always teasing me about coming to work
at my embroidery, which I am in a fair
way never to get done. So pray excuse
yourself as well as you can for having
made me wait, and, after that, tell me
why I see you in a dress so singular
that at first I did not recognize you."

"Dearest Valentine," said the young man,
"the difference between our respective
stations makes me fear to offend you by
speaking of my love, but yet I cannot
find myself in your presence without
longing to pour forth my soul, and tell
you how fondly I adore you. If it be but
to carry away with me the recollection
of such sweet moments, I could even
thank you for chiding me, for it leaves
me a gleam of hope, that if you did not
expect me (and that indeed would be
worse than vanity to suppose), at least
I was in your thoughts. You asked me the
cause of my being late, and why I come
disguised. I will candidly explain the
reason of both, and I trust to your
goodness to pardon me. I have chosen a
trade."

"A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you
jest at a time when we have such deep
cause for uneasiness?"

"Heaven keep me from jesting with that
which is far dearer to me than life
itself! But listen to me, Valentine, and
I will tell you all about it. I became
weary of ranging fields and scaling
walls, and seriously alarmed at the idea
suggested by you, that if caught
hovering about here your father would
very likely have me sent to prison as a
thief. That would compromise the honor
of the French army, to say nothing of
the fact that the continual presence of
a captain of Spahis in a place where no
warlike projects could be supposed to
account for it might well create
surprise; so I have become a gardener,
and, consequently, adopted the costume
of my calling."

"What excessive nonsense you talk,
Maximilian!"

"Nonsense? Pray do not call what I
consider the wisest action of my life by
such a name. Consider, by becoming a
gardener I effectually screen our
meetings from all suspicion or danger."

"I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease
trifling, and tell me what you really
mean."

"Simply, that having ascertained that
the piece of ground on which I stand was
to let, I made application for it, was
readily accepted by the proprietor, and
am now master of this fine crop of
lucerne. Think of that, Valentine! There
is nothing now to prevent my building
myself a little hut on my plantation,
and residing not twenty yards from you.
Only imagine what happiness that would
afford me. I can scarcely contain myself
at the bare idea. Such felicity seems
above all price -- as a thing impossible
and unattainable. But would you believe
that I purchase all this delight, joy,
and happiness, for which I would
cheerfully have surrendered ten years of
my life, at the small cost of 500 francs
per annum, paid quarterly? Henceforth we
have nothing to fear. I am on my own
ground, and have an undoubted right to
place a ladder against the wall, and to
look over when I please, without having
any apprehensions of being taken off by
the police as a suspicious character. I
may also enjoy the precious privilege of
assuring you of my fond, faithful, and
unalterable affection, whenever you
visit your favorite bower, unless,
indeed, it offends your pride to listen
to professions of love from the lips of
a poor workingman, clad in a blouse and
cap." A faint cry of mingled pleasure
and surprise escaped from the lips of
Valentine, who almost instantly said, in
a saddened tone, as though some envious
cloud darkened the joy which illumined
her heart, "Alas, no, Maximilian, this
must not be, for many reasons. We should
presume too much on our own strength,
and, like others, perhaps, be led astray
by our blind confidence in each other's
prudence."

"How can you for an instant entertain so
unworthy a thought, dear Valentine? Have
I not, from the first blessed hour of
our acquaintance, schooled all my words
and actions to your sentiments and
ideas? And you have, I am sure, the
fullest confidence in my honor. When you
spoke to me of experiencing a vague and
indefinite sense of coming danger, I
placed myself blindly and devotedly at
your service, asking no other reward
than the pleasure of being useful to
you; and have I ever since, by word or
look, given you cause of regret for
having selected me from the numbers that
would willingly have sacrificed their
lives for you? You told me, my dear
Valentine, that you were engaged to M.
d'Epinay, and that your father was
resolved upon completing the match, and
that from his will there was no appeal,
as M. de Villefort was never known to
change a determination once formed. I
kept in the background, as you wished,
and waited, not for the decision of your
heart or my own, but hoping that
providence would graciously interpose in
our behalf, and order events in our
favor. But what cared I for delays or
difficulties, Valentine, as long as you
confessed that you loved me, and took
pity on me? If you will only repeat that
avowal now and then, I can endure
anything."

"Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing
that makes you so bold, and which
renders me at once so happy and unhappy,
that I frequently ask myself whether it
is better for me to endure the harshness
of my mother-in-law, and her blind
preference for her own child, or to be,
as I now am, insensible to any pleasure
save such as I find in these meetings,
so fraught with danger to both."

"I will not admit that word," returned
the young man; "it is at once cruel and
unjust. Is it possible to find a more
submissive slave than myself? You have
permitted me to converse with you from
time to time, Valentine, but forbidden
my ever following you in your walks or
elsewhere -- have I not obeyed? And
since I found means to enter this
enclosure to exchange a few words with
you through this gate -- to be close to
you without really seeing you -- have I
ever asked so much as to touch the hem
of your gown or tried to pass this
barrier which is but a trifle to one of
my youth and strength? Never has a
complaint or a murmur escaped me. I have
been bound by my promises as rigidly as
any knight of olden times. Come, come,
dearest Valentine, confess that what I
say is true, lest I be tempted to call
you unjust."

"It is true," said Valentine, as she
passed the end of her slender fingers
through a small opening in the planks,
and permitted Maximilian to press his
lips to them, "and you are a true and
faithful friend; but still you acted
from motives of self-interest, my dear
Maximilian, for you well knew that from
the moment in which you had manifested
an opposite spirit all would have been
ended between us. You promised to bestow
on me the friendly affection of a
brother. For I have no friend but
yourself upon earth, who am neglected
and forgotten by my father, harassed and
persecuted by my mother-in-law, and left
to the sole companionship of a paralyzed
and speechless old man, whose withered
hand can no longer press mine, and who
can speak to me with the eye alone,
although there still lingers in his
heart the warmest tenderness for his
poor grandchild. Oh, how bitter a fate
is mine, to serve either as a victim or
an enemy to all who are stronger than
myself, while my only friend and
supporter is a living corpse! Indeed,
indeed, Maximilian, I am very miserable,
and if you love me it must be out of
pity."

"Valentine," replied the young man,
deeply affected, "I will not say you are
all I love in the world, for I dearly
prize my sister and brother-in-law; but
my affection for them is calm and
tranquil, in no manner resembling what I
feel for you. When I think of you my
heart beats fast, the blood burns in my
veins, and I can hardly breathe; but I
solemnly promise you to restrain all
this ardor, this fervor and intensity of
feeling, until you yourself shall
require me to render them available in
serving or assisting you. M. Franz is
not expected to return home for a year
to come, I am told; in that time many
favorable and unforeseen chances may
befriend us. Let us, then, hope for the
best; hope is so sweet a comforter.
Meanwhile, Valentine, while reproaching
me with selfishness, think a little what
you have been to me -- the beautiful but
cold resemblance of a marble Venus. What
promise of future reward have you made
me for all the submission and obedience
I have evinced? -- none whatever. What
granted me? -- scarcely more. You tell
me of M. Franz d'Epinay, your betrothed
lover, and you shrink from the idea of
being his wife; but tell me, Valentine,
is there no other sorrow in your heart?
You see me devoted to you, body and
soul, my life and each warm drop that
circles round my heart are consecrated
to your service; you know full well that
my existence is bound up in yours --
that were I to lose you I would not
outlive the hour of such crushing
misery; yet you speak with calmness of
the prospect of your being the wife of
another! Oh, Valentine, were I in your
place, and did I feel conscious, as you
do, of being worshipped, adored, with
such a love as mine, a hundred times at
least should I have passed my hand
between these iron bars, and said, `Take
this hand, dearest Maximilian, and
believe that, living or dead, I am
yours -- yours only, and forever!'" The
poor girl made no reply, but her lover
could plainly hear her sobs and tears. A
rapid change took place in the young
man's feelings. "Dearest, dearest
Valentine," exclaimed he, "forgive me if
I have offended you, and forget the
words I spoke if they have unwittingly
caused you pain."

"No, Maximilian, I am not offended,"
answered she, "but do you not see what a
poor, helpless being I am, almost a
stranger and an outcast in my father's
house, where even he is seldom seen;
whose will has been thwarted, and
spirits broken, from the age of ten
years, beneath the iron rod so sternly
held over me; oppressed, mortified, and
persecuted, day by day, hour by hour,
minute by minute, no person has cared
for, even observed my sufferings, nor
have I ever breathed one word on the
subject save to yourself. Outwardly and
in the eyes of the world, I am
surrounded by kindness and affection;
but the reverse is the case. The general
remark is, `Oh, it cannot be expected
that one of so stern a character as M.
Villefort could lavish the tenderness
some fathers do on their daughters. What
though she has lost her own mother at a
tender age, she has had the happiness to
find a second mother in Madame de
Villefort.' The world, however, is
mistaken; my father abandons me from
utter indifference, while my
mother-in-law detests me with a hatred
so much the more terrible because it is
veiled beneath a continual smile."

"Hate you, sweet Valentine," exclaimed
the young man; "how is it possible for
any one to do that?"

"Alas," replied the weeping girl, "I am
obliged to own that my mother-in-law's
aversion to me arises from a very
natural source -- her overweening love
for her own child, my brother Edward."

"But why should it?"

"I do not know; but, though unwilling to
introduce money matters into our present
conversation, I will just say this
much -- that her extreme dislike to me
has its origin there; and I much fear
she envies me the fortune I enjoy in
right of my mother, and which will be
more than doubled at the death of M. and
Mme. de Saint-Meran, whose sole heiress
I am. Madame de Villefort has nothing of
her own, and hates me for being so
richly endowed. Alas, how gladly would I
exchange the half of this wealth for the
happiness of at least sharing my
father's love. God knows, I would prefer
sacrificing the whole, so that it would
obtain me a happy and affectionate
home."

"Poor Valentine!"

"I seem to myself as though living a
life of bondage, yet at the same time am
so conscious of my own weakness that I
fear to break the restraint in which I
am held, lest I fall utterly helpless.
Then, too, my father is not a person
whose orders may be infringed with
impunity; protected as he is by his high
position and firmly established
reputation for talent and unswerving
integrity, no one could oppose him; he
is all-powerful even with the king; he
would crush you at a word. Dear
Maximilian, believe me when I assure you
that if I do not attempt to resist my
father's commands it is more on your
account than my own."

"But why, Valentine, do you persist in
anticipating the worst, -- why picture
so gloomy a future?"

"Because I judge it from the past."

"Still, consider that although I may not
be, strictly speaking, what is termed an
illustrious match for you, I am, for
many reasons, not altogether so much
beneath your alliance. The days when
such distinctions were so nicely weighed
and considered no longer exist in
France, and the first families of the
monarchy have intermarried with those of
the empire. The aristocracy of the lance
has allied itself with the nobility of
the cannon. Now I belong to this
last-named class; and certainly my
prospects of military preferment are
most encouraging as well as certain. My
fortune, though small, is free and
unfettered, and the memory of my late
father is respected in our country,
Valentine, as that of the most upright
and honorable merchant of the city; I
say our country, because you were born
not far from Marseilles."

"Don't speak of Marseilles, I beg of
you, Maximilian; that one word brings
back my mother to my recollection -- my
angel mother, who died too soon for
myself and all who knew her; but who,
after watching over her child during the
brief period allotted to her in this
world, now, I fondly hope, watches from
her home in heaven. Oh, if my mother
were still living, there would be
nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would
tell her that I loved you, and she would
protect us."

"I fear, Valentine," replied the lover,
"that were she living I should never
have had the happiness of knowing you;
you would then have been too happy to
have stooped from your grandeur to
bestow a thought on me."

"Now it is you who are unjust,
Maximilian," cried Valentine; "but there
is one thing I wish to know."

"And what is that?" inquired the young
man, perceiving that Valentine
hesitated.

"Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in
former days, when our fathers dwelt at
Marseilles, there was ever any
misunderstanding between them?"

"Not that I am aware of," replied the
young man, "unless, indeed, any
ill-feeling might have arisen from their
being of opposite parties -- your father
was, as you know, a zealous partisan of
the Bourbons, while mine was wholly
devoted to the emperor; there could not
possibly be any other difference between
them. But why do you ask?"

"I will tell you," replied the young
girl, "for it is but right you should
know. Well, on the day when your
appointment as an officer of the Legion
of honor was announced in the papers, we
were all sitting with my grandfather, M.
Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also --
you recollect M. Danglars, do you not,
Maximilian, the banker, whose horses ran
away with my mother-in-law and little
brother, and very nearly killed them?
While the rest of the company were
discussing the approaching marriage of
Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the
paper to my grandfather; but when I came
to the paragraph about you, although I
had done nothing else but read it over
to myself all the morning (you know you
had told me all about it the previous
evening), I felt so happy, and yet so
nervous, at the idea of speaking your
name aloud, and before so many people,
that I really think I should have passed
it over, but for the fear that my doing
so might create suspicions as to the
cause of my silence; so I summoned up
all my courage, and read it as firmly
and as steadily as I could."

"Dear Valentine!"

"Well, would you believe it? directly my
father caught the sound of your name he
turned round quite hastily, and, like a
poor silly thing, I was so persuaded
that every one must be as much affected
as myself by the utterance of your name,
that I was not surprised to see my
father start, and almost tremble; but I
even thought (though that surely must
have been a mistake) that M. Danglars
trembled too."

"`Morrel, Morrel,' cried my father,
`stop a bit;' then knitting his brows
into a deep frown, he added, `surely
this cannot be one of the Morrel family
who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so
much trouble from their violent
Bonapartism -- I mean about the year
1815.' -- `Yes,' replied M. Danglars, `I
believe he is the son of the old
shipowner.'"

"Indeed," answered Maximilian; "and what
did your father say then, Valentine?"

"Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don't
dare to tell you."

"Always tell me everything," said
Maximilian with a smile.

"`Ah,' continued my father, still
frowning, `their idolized emperor
treated these madmen as they deserved;
he called them `food for powder,' which
was precisely all they were good for;
and I am delighted to see that the
present government have adopted this
salutary principle with all its pristine
vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing
but to furnish the means of carrying so
admirable an idea into practice, it
would be an acquisition well worthy of
struggling to obtain. Though it
certainly does cost France somewhat dear
to assert her rights in that uncivilized
country.'"

"Brutal politics, I must confess." said
Maximilian; "but don't attach any
serious importance, dear, to what your
father said. My father was not a bit
behind yours in that sort of talk.
`Why,' said he, `does not the emperor,
who has devised so many clever and
efficient modes of improving the art of
war, organize a regiment of lawyers,
judges and legal practitioners, sending
them in the hottest fire the enemy could
maintain, and using them to save better
men?' You see, my dear, that for
picturesque expression and generosity of
spirit there is not much to choose
between the language of either party.
But what did M. Danglars say to this
outburst on the part of the procureur?"

"Oh, he laughed, and in that singular
manner so peculiar to himself --
half-malicious, half-ferocious; he
almost immediately got up and took his
leave; then, for the first time, I
observed the agitation of my
grandfather, and I must tell you,
Maximilian, that I am the only person
capable of discerning emotion in his
paralyzed frame. And I suspected that
the conversation that had been carried
on in his presence (for they always say
and do what they like before the dear
old man, without the smallest regard for
his feelings) had made a strong
impression on his mind; for, naturally
enough, it must have pained him to hear
the emperor he so devotedly loved and
served spoken of in that depreciating
manner."

"The name of M. Noirtier," interposed
Maximilian, "is celebrated throughout
Europe; he was a statesman of high
standing, and you may or may not know,
Valentine, that he took a leading part
in every Bonapartist conspiracy set on
foot during the restoration of the
Bourbons."

"Oh, I have often heard whispers of
things that seem to me most strange --
the father a Bonapartist, the son a
Royalist; what can have been the reason
of so singular a difference in parties
and politics? But to resume my story; I
turned towards my grandfather, as though
to question him as to the cause of his
emotion; he looked expressively at the
newspaper I had been reading. `What is
the matter, dear grandfather?' said I,
`are you pleased?' He gave me a sign in
the affirmative. `With what my father
said just now?' He returned a sign in
the negative. `Perhaps you liked what M.
Danglars said?' Another sign in the
negative. `Oh, then, you were glad to
hear that M. Morrel (I didn't dare to
say Maximilian) had been made an officer
of the Legion of Honor?' He signified
assent; only think of the poor old man's
being so pleased to think that you, who
were a perfect stranger to him, had been
made an officer of the Legion of Honor!
Perhaps it was a mere whim on his part,
for he is falling, they say, into second
childhood, but I love him for showing so
much interest in you."

"How singular," murmured Maximilian;
"your father hates me, while your
grandfather, on the contrary -- What
strange feelings are aroused by
politics."

"Hush," cried Valentine, suddenly; "some
one is coming!" Maximilian leaped at one
bound into his crop of lucerne, which he
began to pull up in the most ruthless
way, under the pretext of being occupied
in weeding it.

"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" exclaimed
a voice from behind the trees. "Madame
is searching for you everywhere; there
is a visitor in the drawing-room."

"A visitor?" inquired Valentine, much
agitated; "who is it?"

"Some grand personage -- a prince I
believe they said -- the Count of Monte
Cristo."

"I will come directly," cried Valentine
aloud. The name of Monte Cristo sent an
electric shock through the young man on
the other side of the iron gate, to whom
Valentine's "I am coming" was the
customary signal of farewell. "Now,
then," said Maximilian, leaning on the
handle of his spade, "I would give a
good deal to know how it comes about
that the Count of Monte Cristo is
acquainted with M. de Villefort."



Chapter 52 Toxicology.

It was really the Count of Monte Cristo
who had just arrived at Madame de
Villefort's for the purpose of returning
the procureur's visit, and at his name,
as may be easily imagined, the whole
house was in confusion. Madame de
Villefort, who was alone in her
drawing-room when the count was
announced, desired that her son might be
brought thither instantly to renew his
thanks to the count; and Edward, who
heard this great personage talked of for
two whole days, made all possible haste
to come to him, not from obedience to
his mother, or out of any feeling of
gratitude to the count, but from sheer
curiosity, and that some chance remark
might give him the opportunity for
making one of the impertinent speeches
which made his mother say, -- "Oh, that
naughty child! But I can't be severe
with him, he is really so bright."

After the usual civilities, the count
inquired after M. de Villefort. "My
husband dines with the chancellor,"
replied the young lady; "he has just
gone, and I am sure he'll be exceedingly
sorry not to have had the pleasure of
seeing you before he went." Two visitors
who were there when the count arrived,
having gazed at him with all their eyes,
retired after that reasonable delay
which politeness admits and curiosity
requires. "What is your sister Valentine
doing?" inquired Madame de Villefort of
Edward; "tell some one to bid her come
here, that I may have the honor of
introducing her to the count."

"You have a daughter, then, madame?"
inquired the count; "very young, I
presume?"

"The daughter of M. de Villefort by his
first marriage," replied the young wife,
"a fine well-grown girl."

"But melancholy," interrupted Master
Edward, snatching the feathers out of
the tail of a splendid parroquet that
was screaming on its gilded perch, in
order to make a plume for his hat.
Madame de Villefort merely cried, -- "Be
still, Edward!" She then added, -- "This
young madcap is, however, very nearly
right, and merely re-echoes what he has
heard me say with pain a hundred times;
for Mademoiselle de Villefort is, in
spite of all we can do to rouse her, of
a melancholy disposition and taciturn
habit, which frequently injure the
effect of her beauty. But what detains
her? Go, Edward, and see."

"Because they are looking for her where
she is not to be found."

"And where are they looking for her?"

"With grandpapa Noirtier."

"And do you think she is not there?"

"No, no, no, no, no, she is not there,"
replied Edward, singing his words.

"And where is she, then? If you know,
why don't you tell?"

"She is under the big chestnut-tree,"
replied the spoiled brat, as he gave, in
spite of his mother's commands, live
flies to the parrot, which seemed keenly
to relish such fare. Madame de Villefort
stretched out her hand to ring,
intending to direct her waiting-maid to
the spot where she would find Valentine,
when the young lady herself entered the
apartment. She appeared much dejected;
and any person who considered her
attentively might have observed the
traces of recent tears in her eyes.

Valentine, whom we have in the rapid
march of our narrative presented to our
readers without formally introducing
her, was a tall and graceful girl of
nineteen, with bright chestnut hair,
deep blue eyes, and that reposeful air
of quiet distinction which characterized
her mother. Her white and slender
fingers, her pearly neck, her cheeks
tinted with varying hues reminded one of
the lovely Englishwomen who have been so
poetically compared in their manner to
the gracefulness of a swan. She entered
the apartment, and seeing near her
stepmother the stranger of whom she had
already heard so much, saluted him
without any girlish awkwardness, or even
lowering her eyes, and with an elegance
that redoubled the count's attention. He
rose to return the salutation.
"Mademoiselle de Villefort, my
daughter-in-law," said Madame de
Villefort to Monte Cristo, leaning back
on her sofa and motioning towards
Valentine with her hand. "And M. de
Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of
Cochin-China," said the young imp,
looking slyly towards his sister.

Madame de Villefort at this really did
turn pale, and was very nearly angry
with this household plague, who answered
to the name of Edward; but the count, on
the contrary, smiled, and appeared to
look at the boy complacently, which
caused the maternal heart to bound again
with joy and enthusiasm.

"But, madame," replied the count,
continuing the conversation, and looking
by turns at Madame de Villefort and
Valentine, "have I not already had the
honor of meeting yourself and
mademoiselle before? I could not help
thinking so just now; the idea came over
my mind, and as mademoiselle entered the
sight of her was an additional ray of
light thrown on a confused remembrance;
excuse the remark."

"I do not think it likely, sir;
Mademoiselle de Villefort is not very
fond of society, and we very seldom go
out," said the young lady.

"Then it was not in society that I met
with mademoiselle or yourself, madame,
or this charming little merry boy.
Besides, the Parisian world is entirely
unknown to me, for, as I believe I told
you, I have been in Paris but very few
days. No, -- but, perhaps, you will
permit me to call to mind -- stay!" The
Count placed his hand on his brow as if
to collect his thoughts. "No -- it was
somewhere -- away from here -- it was --
I do not know -- but it appears that
this recollection is connected with a
lovely sky and some religious fete;
mademoiselle was holding flowers in her
hand, the interesting boy was chasing a
beautiful peacock in a garden, and you,
madame, were under the trellis of some
arbor. Pray come to my aid, madame; do
not these circumstances appeal to your
memory?"

"No, indeed," replied Madame de
Villefort; "and yet it appears to me,
sir, that if I had met you anywhere, the
recollection of you must have been
imprinted on my memory."

"Perhaps the count saw us in Italy,"
said Valentine timidly.

"Yes, in Italy; it was in Italy most
probably," replied Monte Cristo; "you
have travelled then in Italy,
mademoiselle?"

"Yes; madame and I were there two years
ago. The doctors, anxious for my lungs,
had prescribed the air of Naples. We
went by Bologna, Perugia, and Rome."

"Ah, yes -- true, mademoiselle,"
exclaimed Monte Cristo as if this simple
explanation was sufficient to revive the
recollection he sought. "It was at
Perugia on Corpus Christi Day, in the
garden of the Hotel des Postes, when
chance brought us together; you, Madame
de Villefort, and her son; I now
remember having had the honor of meeting
you."

"I perfectly well remember Perugia, sir,
and the Hotel des Postes, and the
festival of which you speak," said
Madame de Villefort, "but in vain do I
tax my memory, of whose treachery I am
ashamed, for I really do not recall to
mind that I ever had the pleasure of
seeing you before."

"It is strange, but neither do I
recollect meeting with you," observed
Valentine, raising her beautiful eyes to
the count.

"But I remember it perfectly,"
interposed the darling Edward.

"I will assist your memory, madame,"
continued the count; "the day had been
burning hot; you were waiting for
horses, which were delayed in
consequence of the festival.
Mademoiselle was walking in the shade of
the garden, and your son disappeared in
pursuit of the peacock."

"And I caught it, mamma, don't you
remember?" interposed Edward, "and I
pulled three such beautiful feathers out
of his tail."

"You, madame, remained under the arbor;
do you not remember, that while you were
seated on a stone bench, and while, as I
told you, Mademoiselle de Villefort and
your young son were absent, you
conversed for a considerable time with
somebody?"

"Yes, in truth, yes," answered the young
lady, turning very red, "I do remember
conversing with a person wrapped in a
long woollen mantle; he was a medical
man, I think."

"Precisely so, madame; this man was
myself; for a fortnight I had been at
that hotel, during which period I had
cured my valet de chambre of a fever,
and my landlord of the jaundice, so that
I really acquired a reputation as a
skilful physician. We discoursed a long
time, madame, on different subjects; of
Perugino, of Raffaelle, of manners,
customs, of the famous aquatofana, of
which they had told you, I think you
said, that certain individuals in
Perugia had preserved the secret."

"Yes, true," replied Madame de
Villefort, somewhat uneasily, "I
remember now."

"I do not recollect now all the various
subjects of which we discoursed,
madame," continued the count with
perfect calmness; "but I perfectly
remember that, falling into the error
which others had entertained respecting
me, you consulted me as to the health of
Mademoiselle de Villefort."

"Yes, really, sir, you were in fact a
medical man," said Madame de Villefort,
"since you had cured the sick."

"Moliere or Beaumarchais would reply to
you, madame, that it was precisely
because I was not, that I had cured my
patients; for myself, I am content to
say to you that I have studied chemistry
and the natural sciences somewhat
deeply, but still only as an amateur,
you understand." -- At this moment the
clock struck six. "It is six o'clock,"
said Madame de Villefort, evidently
agitated. "Valentine, will you not go
and see if your grandpapa will have his
dinner?" Valentine rose, and saluting
the count, left the apartment without
speaking.

"Oh, madame," said the count, when
Valentine had left the room, "was it on
my account that you sent Mademoiselle de
Villefort away?"

"By no means," replied the young lady
quickly; "but this is the hour when we
usually give M. Noirtier the unwelcome
meal that sustains his pitiful
existence. You are aware, sir, of the
deplorable condition of my husband's
father?"

"Yes, madame, M. de Villefort spoke of
it to me -- a paralysis, I think."

"Alas, yes; the poor old gentleman is
entirely helpless; the mind alone is
still active in this human machine, and
that is faint and flickering, like the
light of a lamp about to expire. But
excuse me, sir, for talking of our
domestic misfortunes; I interrupted you
at the moment when you were telling me
that you were a skilful chemist."

"No, madame, I did not say as much as
that," replied the count with a smile;
"quite the contrary. I have studied
chemistry because, having determined to
live in eastern climates I have been
desirous of following the example of
King Mithridates."

"Mithridates rex Ponticus," said the
young scamp, as he tore some beautiful
portraits out of a splendid album, "the
individual who took cream in his cup of
poison every morning at breakfast."

"Edward, you naughty boy," exclaimed
Madame de Villefort, snatching the
mutilated book from the urchin's grasp,
"you are positively past bearing; you
really disturb the conversation; go,
leave us, and join your sister Valentine
in dear grandpapa Noirtier's room."

"The album," said Edward sulkily.

"What do you mean? -- the album!"

"I want the album."

"How dare you tear out the drawings?"

"Oh, it amuses me."

"Go -- go at once."

"I won't go unless you give me the
album," said the boy, seating himself
doggedly in an arm-chair, according to
his habit of never giving way.

"Take it, then, and pray disturb us no
longer," said Madame de Villefort,
giving the album to Edward, who then
went towards the door, led by his
mother. The count followed her with his
eyes.

"Let us see if she shuts the door after
him," he muttered. Madame de Villefort
closed the door carefully after the
child, the count appearing not to notice
her; then casting a scrutinizing glance
around the chamber, the young wife
returned to her chair, in which she
seated herself. "Allow me to observe,
madame," said the count, with that kind
tone he could assume so well, "you are
really very severe with that dear clever
child."

"Oh, sometimes severity is quite
necessary," replied Madame de Villefort,
with all a mother's real firmness.

"It was his Cornelius Nepos that Master
Edward was repeating when he referred to
King Mithridates," continued the count,
"and you interrupted him in a quotation
which proves that his tutor has by no
means neglected him, for your son is
really advanced for his years."

"The fact is, count," answered the
mother, agreeably flattered, "he has
great aptitude, and learns all that is
set before him. He has but one fault, he
is somewhat wilful; but really, on
referring for the moment to what he
said, do you truly believe that
Mithridates used these precautions, and
that these precautions were
efficacious?"

"I think so, madame, because I myself
have made use of them, that I might not
be poisoned at Naples, at Palermo, and
at Smyrna -- that is to say, on three
several occasions when, but for these
precautions, I must have lost my life."

"And your precautions were successful?"

"Completely so."

"Yes, I remember now your mentioning to
me at Perugia something of this sort."

"Indeed?" said the count with an air of
surprise, remarkably well counterfeited;
"I really did not remember."

"I inquired of you if poisons acted
equally, and with the same effect, on
men of the North as on men of the South;
and you answered me that the cold and
sluggish habits of the North did not
present the same aptitude as the rich
and energetic temperaments of the
natives of the South."

"And that is the case," observed Monte
Cristo. "I have seen Russians devour,
without being visibly inconvenienced,
vegetable substances which would
infallibly have killed a Neapolitan or
an Arab."

"And you really believe the result would
be still more sure with us than in the
East, and in the midst of our fogs and
rains a man would habituate himself more
easily than in a warm latitude to this
progressive absorption of poison?"

"Certainly; it being at the same time
perfectly understood that he should have
been duly fortified against the poison
to which he had not been accustomed."

"Yes, I understand that; and how would
you habituate yourself, for instance, or
rather, how did you habituate yourself
to it?"

"Oh, very easily. Suppose you knew
beforehand the poison that would be made
use of against you; suppose the poison
was, for instance, brucine" --

"Brucine is extracted from the false
angostura* is it not?" inquired Madame
de Villefort.

"Precisely, madame," replied Monte
Cristo; "but I perceive I have not much
to teach you. Allow me to compliment you
on your knowledge; such learning is very
rare among ladies."

* Brucoea ferruginea.

"Oh, I am aware of that," said Madame de
Villefort; "but I have a passion for the
occult sciences, which speak to the
imagination like poetry, and are
reducible to figures, like an algebraic
equation; but go on, I beg of you; what
you say interests me to the greatest
degree."

"Well," replied Monte Cristo "suppose,
then, that this poison was brucine, and
you were to take a milligramme the first
day, two milligrammes the second day,
and so on. Well, at the end of ten days
you would have taken a centigramme, at
the end of twenty days, increasing
another milligramme, you would have
taken three hundred centigrammes; that
is to say, a dose which you would
support without inconvenience, and which
would be very dangerous for any other
person who had not taken the same
precautions as yourself. Well, then, at
the end of a month, when drinking water
from the same carafe, you would kill the
person who drank with you, without your
perceiving, otherwise than from slight
inconvenience, that there was any
poisonous substance mingled with this
water."

"Do you know any other counter-poisons?"

"I do not."

"I have often read, and read again, the
history of Mithridates," said Madame de
Villefort in a tone of reflection, "and
had always considered it a fable."

"No, madame, contrary to most history,
it is true; but what you tell me,
madame, what you inquire of me, is not
the result of a chance query, for two
years ago you asked me the same
questions, and said then, that for a
very long time this history of
Mithridates had occupied your mind."

"True, sir. The two favorite studies of
my youth were botany and mineralogy, and
subsequently, when I learned that the
use of simples frequently explained the
whole history of a people, and the
entire life of individuals in the East,
as flowers betoken and symbolize a love
affair, I have regretted that I was not
a man, that I might have been a Flamel,
a Fontana, or a Cabanis."

"And the more, madame," said Monte
Cristo, "as the Orientals do not confine
themselves, as did Mithridates, to make
a cuirass of his poisons, but they also
made them a dagger. Science becomes, in
their hands, not only a defensive
weapon, but still more frequently an
offensive one; the one serves against
all their physical sufferings, the other
against all their enemies. With opium,
belladonna, brucaea, snake-wood, and the
cherry-laurel, they put to sleep all who
stand in their way. There is not one of
those women, Egyptian, Turkish, or
Greek, whom here you call `good women,'
who do not know how, by means of
chemistry, to stupefy a doctor, and in
psychology to amaze a confessor."

"Really," said Madame de Villefort,
whose eyes sparkled with strange fire at
this conversation.

"Oh, yes, indeed, madame," continued
Monte Cristo, "the secret dramas of the
East begin with a love philtre and end
with a death potion -- begin with
paradise and end with -- hell. There are
as many elixirs of every kind as there
are caprices and peculiarities in the
physical and moral nature of humanity;
and I will say further -- the art of
these chemists is capable with the
utmost precision to accommodate and
proportion the remedy and the bane to
yearnings for love or desires for
vengeance."

"But, sir," remarked the young woman,
"these Eastern societies, in the midst
of which you have passed a portion of
your existence, are as fantastic as the
tales that come from their strange land.
A man can easily be put out of the way
there, then; it is, indeed, the Bagdad
and Bassora of the `Thousand and One
Nights.' The sultans and viziers who
rule over society there, and who
constitute what in France we call the
government, are really
Haroun-al-Raschids and Giaffars, who not
only pardon a poisoner, but even make
him a prime minister, if his crime has
been an ingenious one, and who, under
such circumstances, have the whole story
written in letters of gold, to divert
their hours of idleness and ennui."

"By no means, madame; the fanciful
exists no longer in the East. There,
disguised under other names, and
concealed under other costumes, are
police agents, magistrates,
attorneys-general, and bailiffs. They
hang, behead, and impale their criminals
in the most agreeable possible manner;
but some of these, like clever rogues,
have contrived to escape human justice,
and succeed in their fraudulent
enterprises by cunning stratagems.
Amongst us a simpleton, possessed by the
demon of hate or cupidity, who has an
enemy to destroy, or some near relation
to dispose of, goes straight to the
grocer's or druggist's, gives a false
name, which leads more easily to his
detection than his real one, and under
the pretext that the rats prevent him
from sleeping, purchases five or six
grammes of arsenic -- if he is really a
cunning fellow, he goes to five or six
different druggists or grocers, and
thereby becomes only five or six times
more easily traced; -- then, when he has
acquired his specific, he administers
duly to his enemy, or near kinsman, a
dose of arsenic which would make a
mammoth or mastodon burst, and which,
without rhyme or reason, makes his
victim utter groans which alarm the
entire neighborhood. Then arrive a crowd
of policemen and constables. They fetch
a doctor, who opens the dead body, and
collects from the entrails and stomach a
quantity of arsenic in a spoon. Next day
a hundred newspapers relate the fact,
with the names of the victim and the
murderer. The same evening the grocer or
grocers, druggist or druggists, come and
say, `It was I who sold the arsenic to
the gentleman;' and rather than not
recognize the guilty purchaser, they
will recognize twenty. Then the foolish
criminal is taken, imprisoned,
interrogated, confronted, confounded,
condemned, and cut off by hemp or steel;
or if she be a woman of any
consideration, they lock her up for
life. This is the way in which you
Northerns understand chemistry, madame.
Desrues was, however, I must confess,
more skilful."

"What would you have, sir?" said the
lady, laughing; "we do what we can. All
the world has not the secret of the
Medicis or the Borgias."

"Now," replied the count, shrugging his
shoulders, "shall I tell you the cause
of all these stupidities? It is because,
at your theatres, by what at least I
could judge by reading the pieces they
play, they see persons swallow the
contents of a phial, or suck the button
of a ring, and fall dead instantly. Five
minutes afterwards the curtain falls,
and the spectators depart. They are
ignorant of the consequences of the
murder; they see neither the police
commissary with his badge of office, nor
the corporal with his four men; and so
the poor fools believe that the whole
thing is as easy as lying. But go a
little way from France -- go either to
Aleppo or Cairo, or only to Naples or
Rome, and you will see people passing by
you in the streets -- people erect,
smiling, and fresh-colored, of whom
Asmodeus, if you were holding on by the
skirt of his mantle, would say, `That
man was poisoned three weeks ago; he
will be a dead man in a month.'"

"Then," remarked Madame de Villefort,
"they have again discovered the secret
of the famous aquatofana that they said
was lost at Perugia."

"Ah, but madame, does mankind ever lose
anything? The arts change about and make
a tour of the world; things take a
different name, and the vulgar do not
follow them -- that is all; but there is
always the same result. Poisons act
particularly on some organ or another --
one on the stomach, another on the
brain, another on the intestines. Well,
the poison brings on a cough, the cough
an inflammation of the lungs, or some
other complaint catalogued in the book
of science, which, however, by no means
precludes it from being decidedly
mortal; and if it were not, would be
sure to become so, thanks to the
remedies applied by foolish doctors, who
are generally bad chemists, and which
will act in favor of or against the
malady, as you please; and then there is
a human being killed according to all
the rules of art and skill, and of whom
justice learns nothing, as was said by a
terrible chemist of my acquaintance, the
worthy Abbe Adelmonte of Taormina, in
Sicily, who has studied these national
phenomena very profoundly."

"It is quite frightful, but deeply
interesting," said the young lady,
motionless with attention. "I thought, I
must confess, that these tales, were
inventions of the Middle Ages."

"Yes, no doubt, but improved upon by
ours. What is the use of time, rewards
of merit, medals, crosses, Monthyon
prizes, if they do not lead society
towards more complete perfection? Yet
man will never be perfect until he
learns to create and destroy; he does
know how to destroy, and that is half
the battle."

"So," added Madame de Villefort,
constantly returning to her object, "the
poisons of the Borgias, the Medicis, the
Renes, the Ruggieris, and later,
probably, that of Baron de Trenck, whose
story has been so misused by modern
drama and romance" --

"Were objects of art, madame, and
nothing more," replied the count. "Do
you suppose that the real savant
addresses himself stupidly to the mere
individual? By no means. Science loves
eccentricities, leaps and bounds, trials
of strength, fancies, if I may be
allowed so to term them. Thus, for
instance, the excellent Abbe Adelmonte,
of whom I spoke just now, made in this
way some marvellous experiments."

"Really?"

"Yes; I will mention one to you. He had
a remarkably fine garden, full of
vegetables, flowers, and fruit. From
amongst these vegetables he selected the
most simple -- a cabbage, for instance.
For three days he watered this cabbage
with a distillation of arsenic; on the
third, the cabbage began to droop and
turn yellow. At that moment he cut it.
In the eyes of everybody it seemed fit
for table, and preserved its wholesome
appearance. It was only poisoned to the
Abbe Adelmonte. He then took the cabbage
to the room where he had rabbits -- for
the Abbe Adelmonte had a collection of
rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully as
fine as his collection of vegetables,
flowers, and fruit. Well, the Abbe
Adelmonte took a rabbit, and made it eat
a leaf of the cabbage. The rabbit died.
What magistrate would find, or even
venture to insinuate, anything against
this? What procureur has ever ventured
to draw up an accusation against M.
Magendie or M. Flourens, in consequence
of the rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs
they have killed? -- not one. So, then,
the rabbit dies, and justice takes no
notice. This rabbit dead, the Abbe
Adelmonte has its entrails taken out by
his cook and thrown on the dunghill; on
this dunghill is a hen, who, pecking
these intestines, is in her turn taken
ill, and dies next day. At the moment
when she is struggling in the
convulsions of death, a vulture is
flying by (there are a good many
vultures in Adelmonte's country); this
bird darts on the dead fowl, and carries
it away to a rock, where it dines off
its prey. Three days afterwards, this
poor vulture, which has been very much
indisposed since that dinner, suddenly
feels very giddy while flying aloft in
the clouds, and falls heavily into a
fish-pond. The pike, eels, and carp eat
greedily always, as everybody knows --
well, they feast on the vulture. Now
suppose that next day, one of these
eels, or pike, or carp, poisoned at the
fourth remove, is served up at your
table. Well, then, your guest will be
poisoned at the fifth remove, and die,
at the end of eight or ten days, of
pains in the intestines, sickness, or
abscess of the pylorus. The doctors open
the body and say with an air of profound
learning, `The subject his died of a
tumor on the liver, or of typhoid
fever!'"

"But," remarked Madame de Villefort,
"all these circumstances which you link
thus to one another may be broken by the
least accident; the vulture may not see
the fowl, or may fall a hundred yards
from the fish-pond."

"Ah, that is where the art comes in. To
be a great chemist in the East, one must
direct chance; and this is to be
achieved." -- Madame de Villefort was in
deep thought, yet listened attentively.
"But," she exclaimed, suddenly, "arsenic
is indelible, indestructible; in
whatsoever way it is absorbed, it will
be found again in the body of the victim
from the moment when it has been taken
in sufficient quantity to cause death."

"Precisely so," cried Monte Cristo --
"precisely so; and this is what I said
to my worthy Adelmonte. He reflected,
smiled, and replied to me by a Sicilian
proverb, which I believe is also a
French proverb, `My son, the world was
not made in a day -- but in seven.
Return on Sunday.' On the Sunday
following I did return to him. Instead
of having watered his cabbage with
arsenic, he had watered it this time
with a solution of salts, having their
basis in strychnine, strychnos
colubrina, as the learned term it. Now,
the cabbage had not the slightest
appearance of disease in the world, and
the rabbit had not the smallest
distrust; yet, five minutes afterwards,
the rabbit was dead. The fowl pecked at
the rabbit, and the next day was a dead
hen. This time we were the vultures; so
we opened the bird, and this time all
special symptoms had disappeared, there
were only general symptoms. There was no
peculiar indication in any organ -- an
excitement of the nervous system -- that
was it; a case of cerebral congestion --
nothing more. The fowl had not been
poisoned -- she had died of apoplexy.
Apoplexy is a rare disease among fowls,
I believe, but very common among men."
Madame de Villefort appeared more and
more thoughtful.

"It is very fortunate," she observed,
"that such substances could only be
prepared by chemists; otherwise, all the
world would be poisoning each other."

"By chemists and persons who have a
taste for chemistry," said Monte Cristo
carelessly.

"And then," said Madame de Villefort,
endeavoring by a struggle, and with
effort, to get away from her thoughts,
"however skilfully it is prepared, crime
is always crime, and if it avoid human
scrutiny, it does not escape the eye of
God. The Orientals are stronger than we
are in cases of conscience, and, very
prudently, have no hell -- that is the
point."

"Really, madame, this is a scruple which
naturally must occur to a pure mind like
yours, but which would easily yield
before sound reasoning. The bad side of
human thought will always be defined by
the paradox of Jean Jacques Rousseau, --
you remember, -- the mandarin who is
killed five hundred leagues off by
raising the tip of the finger. Man's
whole life passes in doing these things,
and his intellect is exhausted by
reflecting on them. You will find very
few persons who will go and brutally
thrust a knife in the heart of a
fellow-creature, or will administer to
him, in order to remove him from the
surface of the globe on which we move
with life and animation, that quantity
of arsenic of which we just now talked.
Such a thing is really out of rule --
eccentric or stupid. To attain such a
point, the blood must be heated to
thirty-six degrees, the pulse be, at
least, at ninety, and the feelings
excited beyond the ordinary limit. But
suppose one pass, as is permissible in
philology, from the word itself to its
softened synonym, then, instead of
committing an ignoble assassination you
make an `elimination;' you merely and
simply remove from your path the
individual who is in your way, and that
without shock or violence, without the
display of the sufferings which, in the
case of becoming a punishment, make a
martyr of the victim, and a butcher, in
every sense of the word, of him who
inflicts them. Then there will be no
blood, no groans, no convulsions, and
above all, no consciousness of that
horrid and compromising moment of
accomplishing the act, -- then one
escapes the clutch of the human law,
which says, `Do not disturb society!'
This is the mode in which they manage
these things, and succeed in Eastern
climes, where there are grave and
phlegmatic persons who care very little
for the questions of time in
conjunctures of importance."

"Yet conscience remains," remarked
Madame de Villefort in an agitated
voice, and with a stifled sigh.

"Yes," answered Monte Cristo "happily,
yes, conscience does remain; and if it
did not, how wretched we should be!
After every action requiring exertion,
it is conscience that saves us, for it
supplies us with a thousand good
excuses, of which we alone are judges;
and these reasons, howsoever excellent
in producing sleep, would avail us but
very little before a tribunal, when we
were tried for our lives. Thus Richard
III., for instance, was marvellously
served by his conscience after the
putting away of the two children of
Edward IV.; in fact, he could say,
`These two children of a cruel and
persecuting king, who have inherited the
vices of their father, which I alone
could perceive in their juvenile
propensities -- these two children are
impediments in my way of promoting the
happiness of the English people, whose
unhappiness they (the children) would
infallibly have caused.' Thus was Lady
Macbeth served by her conscience, when
she sought to give her son, and not her
husband (whatever Shakspeare may say), a
throne. Ah, maternal love is a great
virtue, a powerful motive -- so powerful
that it excuses a multitude of things,
even if, after Duncan's death, Lady
Macbeth had been at all pricked by her
conscience."

Madame de Villefort listened with
avidity to these appalling maxims and
horrible paradoxes, delivered by the
count with that ironical simplicity
which was peculiar to him. After a
moment's silence, the lady inquired, "Do
you know, my dear count," she said,
"that you are a very terrible reasoner,
and that you look at the world through a
somewhat distempered medium? Have you
really measured the world by scrutinies,
or through alembics and crucibles? For
you must indeed be a great chemist, and
the elixir you administered to my son,
which recalled him to life almost
instantaneously" --

"Oh, do not place any reliance on that,
madame; one drop of that elixir sufficed
to recall life to a dying child, but
three drops would have impelled the
blood into his lungs in such a way as to
have produced most violent palpitations;
six would have suspended his
respiration, and caused syncope more
serious than that in which he was; ten
would have destroyed him. You know,
madame, how suddenly I snatched him from
those phials which he so imprudently
touched?"

"Is it then so terrible a poison?"

"Oh, no. In the first place, let us
agree that the word poison does not
exist, because in medicine use is made
of the most violent poisons, which
become, according as they are employed,
most salutary remedies."

"What, then, is it?"

"A skilful preparation of my friend's
the worthy Abbe Adelmonte, who taught me
the use of it."

"Oh," observed Madame de Villefort, "it
must be an admirable anti-spasmodic."

"Perfect, madame, as you have seen,"
replied the count; "and I frequently
make use of it -- with all possible
prudence though, be it observed," he
added with a smile of intelligence.

"Most assuredly," responded Madame de
Villefort in the same tone. "As for me,
so nervous, and so subject to fainting
fits, I should require a Doctor
Adelmonte to invent for me some means of
breathing freely and tranquillizing my
mind, in the fear I have of dying some
fine day of suffocation. In the
meanwhile, as the thing is difficult to
find in France, and your abbe is not
probably disposed to make a journey to
Paris on my account, I must continue to
use Monsieur Planche's anti-spasmodics;
and mint and Hoffman's drops are among
my favorite remedies. Here are some
lozenges which I have made up on
purpose; they are compounded doubly
strong." Monte Cristo opened the
tortoise-shell box, which the lady
presented to him, and inhaled the odor
of the lozenges with the air of an
amateur who thoroughly appreciated their
composition. "They are indeed
exquisite," he said; "but as they are
necessarily submitted to the process of
deglutition -- a function which it is
frequently impossible for a fainting
person to accomplish -- I prefer my own
specific."

"Undoubtedly, and so should I prefer it,
after the effects I have seen produced;
but of course it is a secret, and I am
not so indiscreet as to ask it of you."

"But I," said Monte Cristo, rising as he
spoke -- "I am gallant enough to offer
it you."

"How kind you are."

"Only remember one thing -- a small dose
is a remedy, a large one is poison. One
drop will restore life, as you have
seen; five or six will inevitably kill,
and in a way the more terrible inasmuch
as, poured into a glass of wine, it
would not in the slightest degree affect
its flavor. But I say no more, madame;
it is really as if I were prescribing
for you." The clock struck half-past
six, and a lady was announced, a friend
of Madame de Villefort, who came to dine
with her.

"If I had had the honor of seeing you
for the third or fourth time, count,
instead of only for the second," said
Madame de Villefort; "if I had had the
honor of being your friend, instead of
only having the happiness of being under
an obligation to you, I should insist on
detaining you to dinner, and not allow
myself to be daunted by a first
refusal."

"A thousand thanks, madame," replied
Monte Cristo "but I have an engagement
which I cannot break. I have promised to
escort to the Academie a Greek princess
of my acquaintance who has never seen
your grand opera, and who relies on me
to conduct her thither."

"Adieu, then, sir, and do not forget the
prescription."

"Ah, in truth, madame, to do that I must
forget the hour's conversation I have
had with you, which is indeed
impossible." Monte Cristo bowed, and
left the house. Madame de Villefort
remained immersed in thought. "He is a
very strange man," she said, "and in my
opinion is himself the Adelmonte he
talks about." As to Monte Cristo the
result had surpassed his utmost
expectations. "Good," said he, as he
went away; "this is a fruitful soil, and
I feel certain that the seed sown will
not be cast on barren ground." Next
morning, faithful to his promise, he
sent the prescription requested.



Chapter 53 Robert le Diable.

The pretext of an opera engagement was
so much the more feasible, as there
chanced to be on that very night a more
than ordinary attraction at the Academie
Royale. Levasseur, who had been
suffering under severe illness, made his
reappearance in the character of
Bertrand, and, as usual, the
announcement of the most admired
production of the favorite composer of
the day had attracteda brilliant and
fashionable audience. Morcerf, like most
other young men of rank and fortune, had
his orchestra stall, with the certainty
of always finding a seat in at least a
dozen of the principal boxes occupied by
persons of his acquaintance; he had,
moreover, his right of entry into the
omnibus box. Chateau-Renaud rented a
stall beside his own, while Beauchamp,
as a journalist, had unlimited range all
over the theatre. It happened that on
this particular night the minister's box
was placed at the disposal of Lucien
Debray, who offered it to the Comte de
Morcerf, who again, upon his mother's
rejection of it, sent it to Danglars,
with an intimation that he should
probably do himself the honor of joining
the baroness and her daughter during the
evening, in the event of their accepting
the box in question. The ladies received
the offer with too much pleasure to
dream of a refusal. To no class of
persons is the presentation of a
gratuitous opera-box more acceptable
than to the wealthy millionaire, who
still hugs economy while boasting of
carrying a king's ransom in his
waistcoat pocket.

Danglars had, however, protested against
showing himself in a ministerial box,
declaring that his political principles,
and his parliamentary position as member
of the opposition party would not permit
him so to commit himself; the baroness
had, therefore, despatched a note to
Lucien Debray, bidding him call for
them, it being wholly impossible for her
to go alone with Eugenie to the opera.
There is no gainsaying the fact that a
very unfavorable construction would have
been put upon the circumstance if the
two women had gone without escort, while
the addition of a third, in the person
of her mother's admitted lover, enabled
Mademoiselle Danglars to defy malice and
ill-nature. One must take the world as
one finds it.

The curtain rose, as usual, to an almost
empty house, it being one of the
absurdities of Parisian fashion never to
appear at the opera until after the
beginning of the performance, so that
the first act is generally played
without the slightest attention being
paid to it, that part of the audience
already assembled being too much
occupied in observing the fresh
arrivals, while nothing is heard but the
noise of opening and shutting doors, and
the buzz of conversation. "Surely," said
Albert, as the door of a box on the
first circle opened, "that must be the
Countess G----
."

"And who is the Countess G---- ?"
inquired Chateau-Renaud.

"What a question! Now, do you know,
baron, I have a great mind to pick a
quarrel with you for asking it; as if
all the world did not know who the
Countess G---- was."

"Ah, to be sure," replied
Chateau-Renaud; "the lovely Venetian, is
it not?"

"Herself." At this moment the countess
perceived Albert, and returned his
salutation with a smile. "You know her,
it seems?" said Chateau-Renaud.

"Franz introduced me to her at Rome,"
replied Albert.

"Well, then, will you do as much for me
in Paris as Franz did for you in Rome?"

"With pleasure."

There was a cry of "Shut up!" from the
audience. This manifestation on the part
of the spectators of their wish to be
allowed to hear the music, produced not
the slightest effect on the two young
men, who continued their conversation.
"The countess was present at the races
in the Champ-de-Mars," said
Chateau-Renaud.

"To-day?"

"Yes."

"Bless me, I quite forgot the races. Did
you bet?"

"Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis."

"And who was the winner?"

"Nautilus. I staked on him."

"But there were three races, were there
not?"

"Yes; there was the prize given by the
Jockey Club -- a gold cup, you know --
and a very singular circumstance
occurred about that race."

"What was it?"

"Oh, shut up!" again interposed some of
the audience.

"Why, it was won by a horse and rider
utterly unknown on the course."

"Is that possible?"

"True as day. The fact was, nobody had
observed a horse entered by the name of
Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job,
when, at the last moment, a splendid
roan, mounted by a jockey about as big
as your fist, presented themselves at
the starting-post. They were obliged to
stuff at least twenty pounds weight of
shot in the small rider's pockets, to
make him weight; but with all that he
outstripped Ariel and Barbare, against
whom he ran, by at least three whole
lengths."

"And was it not found out at last to
whom the horse and jockey belonged?"

"No."

"You say that the horse was entered
under the name of Vampa?"

"Exactly; that was the title."

"Then," answered Albert, "I am better
informed than you are, and know who the
owner of that horse was."

"Shut up, there!" cried the pit in
chorus. And this time the tone and
manner in which the command was given,
betokened such growing hostility that
the two young men perceived, for the
first time, that the mandate was
addressed to them. Leisurely turning
round, they calmly scrutinized the
various countenances around them, as
though demanding some one person who
would take upon himself the
responsibility of what they deemed
excessive impertinence; but as no one
responded to the challenge, the friends
turned again to the front of the
theatre, and affected to busy themselves
with the stage. At this moment the door
of the minister's box opened, and Madame
Danglars, accompanied by her daughter,
entered, escorted by Lucien Debray, who
assiduously conducted them to their
seats.

"Ha, ha," said Chateau-Renaud, "here
comes some friends of yours, viscount!
What are you looking at there? don't you
see they are trying to catch your eye?"
Albert turned round, just in time to
receive a gracious wave of the fan from
the baroness; as for Mademoiselle
Eugenie, she scarcely vouchsafed to
waste the glances of her large black
eyes even upon the business of the
stage. "I tell you what, my dear
fellow," said Chateau-Renaud, "I cannot
imagine what objection you can possibly
have to Mademoiselle Danglars -- that
is, setting aside her want of ancestry
and somewhat inferior rank, which by the
way I don't think you care very much
about. Now, barring all that, I mean to
say she is a deuced fine girl!"

"Handsome, certainly," replied Albert,
"but not to my taste, which I confess,
inclines to something softer, gentler,
and more feminine."

"Ah, well," exclaimed Chateau-Renaud,
who because he had seen his thirtieth
summer fancied himself duly warranted in
assuming a sort of paternal air with his
more youthful friend, "you young people
are never satisfied; why, what would you
have more? your parents have chosen you
a bride built on the model of Diana, the
huntress, and yet you are not content."

"No, for that very resemblance affrights
me; I should have liked something more
in the manner of the Venus of Milo or
Capua; but this chase-loving Diana
continually surrounded by her nymphs
gives me a sort of alarm lest she should
some day bring on me the fate of
Actaeon."

And, indeed, it required but one glance
at Mademoiselle Danglars to comprehend
the justness of Morcerf's remark -- she
was beautiful, but her beauty was of too
marked and decided a character to please
a fastidious taste; her hair was raven
black, but its natural waves seemed
somewhat rebellious; her eyes, of the
same color as her hair, were surmounted
by well-arched brows, whose great
defect, however, consisted in an almost
habitual frown, while her whole
physiognomy wore that expression of
firmness and decision so little in
accordance with the gentler attributes
of her sex -- her nose was precisely
what a sculptor would have chosen for a
chiselled Juno. Her mouth, which might
have been found fault with as too large,
displayed teeth of pearly whiteness,
rendered still more conspicuous by the
brilliant carmine of her lips,
contrasting vividly with her naturally
pale complexion. But that which
completed the almost masculine look
Morcerf found so little to his taste,
was a dark mole, of much larger
dimensions than these freaks of nature
generally are, placed just at the corner
of her mouth; and the effect tended to
increase the expression of
self-dependence that characterized her
countenance. The rest of Mademoiselle
Eugenie's person was in perfect keeping
with the head just described; she,
indeed, reminded one of Diana, as
Chateau-Renaud observed, but her bearing
was more haughty and resolute. As
regarded her attainments, the only fault
to be found with them was the same that
a fastidious connoisseur might have
found with her beauty, that they were
somewhat too erudite and masculine for
so young a person. She was a perfect
linguist, a first-rate artist, wrote
poetry, and composed music; to the study
of the latter she professed to be
entirely devoted, following it with an
indefatigable perseverance, assisted by
a schoolfellow, -- a young woman without
fortune whose talent promised to develop
into remarkable powers as a singer. It
was rumored that she was an object of
almost paternal interest to one of the
principal composers of the day, who
excited her to spare no pains in the
cultivation of her voice, which might
hereafter prove a source of wealth and
independence. But this counsel
effectually decided Mademoiselle
Danglars never to commit herself by
being seen in public with one destined
for a theatrical life; and acting upon
this principle, the banker's daughter,
though perfectly willing to allow
Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly (that was
the name of the young virtuosa) to
practice with her through the day, took
especial care not to be seen in her
company. Still, though not actually
received at the Hotel Danglars in the
light of an acknowledged friend, Louise
was treated with far more kindness and
consideration than is usually bestowed
on a governess.

The curtain fell almost immediately
after the entrance of Madame Danglars
into her box, the band quitted the
orchestra for the accustomed half-hour's
interval allowed between the acts, and
the audience were left at liberty to
promenade the salon or lobbies, or to
pay and receive visits in their
respective boxes. Morcerf and
Chateau-Renaud were amongst the first to
avail themselves of this permission. For
an instant the idea struck Madame
Danglars that this eagerness on the part
of the young viscount arose from his
impatience to join her party, and she
whispered her expectations to her
daughter, that Albert was hurrying to
pay his respects to them. Mademoiselle
Eugenie, however, merely returned a
dissenting movement of the head, while,
with a cold smile, she directed the
attention of her mother to an opposite
box on the first circle, in which sat
the Countess G---- , and where Morcerf
had just made his appearance. "So we
meet again, my travelling friend, do
we?" cried the countess, extending her
hand to him with all the warmth and
cordiality of an old acquaintance; "it
was really very good of you to recognize
me so quickly, and still more so to
bestow your first visit on me."

"Be assured," replied Albert, "that if I
had been aware of your arrival in Paris,
and had known your address, I should
have paid my respects to you before
this. Allow me to introduce my friend,
Baron de Chateau-Renaud, one of the few
true gentlemen now to be found in
France, and from whom I have just
learned that you were a spectator of the
races in the Champ-de-Mars, yesterday."
Chateau-Renaud bowed to the countess.

"So you were at the races, baron?"
inquired the countess eagerly.

"Yes, madame."

"Well, then," pursued Madame G---- with
considerable animation, "you can
probably tell me who won the Jockey Club
stakes?"

"I am sorry to say I cannot," replied
the baron; "and I was just asking the
same question of Albert."

"Are you very anxious to know,
countess?" asked Albert.

"To know what?"

"The name of the owner of the winning
horse?"

"Excessively; only imagine -- but do
tell me, viscount, whether you really
are acquainted with it or no?"

"I beg your pardon, madame, but you were
about to relate some story, were you
not? You said, `only imagine,' -- and
then paused. Pray continue."

"Well, then, listen. You must know I
felt so interested in the splendid roan
horse, with his elegant little rider, so
tastefully dressed in a pink satin
jacket and cap, that I could not help
praying for their success with as much
earnestness as though the half of my
fortune were at stake; and when I saw
them outstrip all the others, and come
to the winning-post in such gallant
style, I actually clapped my hands with
joy. Imagine my surprise, when, upon
returning home, the first object I met
on the staircase was the identical
jockey in the pink jacket! I concluded
that, by some singular chance, the owner
of the winning horse must live in the
same hotel as myself; but, as I entered
my apartments, I beheld the very gold
cup awarded as a prize to the unknown
horse and rider. Inside the cup was a
small piece of paper, on which were
written these words -- `From Lord
Ruthven to Countess G---- .'"

"Precisely; I was sure of it," said
Morcerf.

"Sure of what?"

"That the owner of the horse was Lord
Ruthven himself."

"What Lord Ruthven do you mean?"

"Why, our Lord Ruthven -- the Vampire of
the Salle Argentino!"

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the
countess; "is he here in Paris?"

"To be sure, -- why not?"

"And you visit him? -- meet him at your
own house and elsewhere?"

"I assure you he is my most intimate
friend, and M. de Chateau-Renaud has
also the honor of his acquaintance."

"But why are you so sure of his being
the winner of the Jockey Club prize?"

"Was not the winning horse entered by
the name of Vampa?"

"What of that?"

"Why, do you not recollect the name of
the celebrated bandit by whom I was made
prisoner?"

"Oh, yes."

"And from whose hands the count
extricated me in so wonderful a manner?"

"To be sure, I remember it all now."

"He called himself Vampa. You see. it's
evident where the count got the name."

"But what could have been his motive for
sending the cup to me?"

"In the first place, because I had
spoken much of you to him, as you may
believe; and in the second, because he
delighted to see a countrywoman take so
lively an interest in his success."

"I trust and hope you never repeated to
the count all the foolish remarks we
used to make about him?"

"I should not like to affirm upon oath
that I have not. Besides, his presenting
you the cup under the name of Lord
Ruthven" --

"Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man
must owe me a fearful grudge."

"Does his action appear like that of an
enemy?"

"No; certainly not."

"Well, then" --

"And so he is in Paris?"

"Yes."

"And what effect does he produce?"

"Why," said Albert, "he was talked about
for a week; then the coronation of the
queen of England took place, followed by
the theft of Mademoiselle Mars's
diamonds; and so people talked of
something else."

"My good fellow," said Chateau-Renaud,
"the count is your friend and you treat
him accordingly. Do not believe what
Albert is telling you, countess; so far
from the sensation excited in the
Parisian circles by the appearance of
the Count of Monte Cristo having abated,
I take upon myself to declare that it is
as strong as ever. His first astounding
act upon coming amongst us was to
present a pair of horses, worth 32,000
francs, to Madame Danglars; his second,
the almost miraculous preservation of
Madame de Villefort's life; now it seems
that he has carried off the prize
awarded by the Jockey Club. I therefore
maintain, in spite of Morcerf, that not
only is the count the object of interest
at this present moment, but also that he
will continue to be so for a month
longer if he pleases to exhibit an
eccentricity of conduct which, after
all, may be his ordinary mode of
existence."

"Perhaps you are right," said Morcerf;
"meanwhile, who is in the Russian
ambassador's box?"

"Which box do you mean?" asked the
countess.

"The one between the pillars on the
first tier -- it seems to have been
fitted up entirely afresh."

"Did you observe any one during the
first act?" asked Chateau-Renaud.

"Where?"

"In that box."

"No," replied the countess, "it was
certainly empty during the first act;"
then, resuming the subject of their
previous conversation, she said, "And so
you really believe it was your
mysterious Count of Monte Cristo that
gained the prize?"

"I am sure of it."

"And who afterwards sent the cup to me?"

"Undoubtedly."

"But I don't know him," said the
countess; "I have a great mind to return
it."

"Do no such thing, I beg of you; he
would only send you another, formed of a
magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of
a gigantic ruby. It is his way, and you
must take him as you find him." At this
moment the bell rang to announce the
drawing up of the curtain for the second
act. Albert rose to return to his place.
"Shall I see you again?" asked the
countess. "At the end of the next act,
with your permission, I will come and
inquire whether there is anything I can
do for you in Paris?"

"Pray take notice," said the countess,
"that my present residence is 22 Rue de
Rivoli, and that I am at home to my
friends every Saturday evening. So now,
you are both forewarned." The young men
bowed, and quitted the box. Upon
reaching their stalls, they found the
whole of the audience in the parterre
standing up and directing their gaze
towards the box formerly possessed by
the Russian ambassador. A man of from
thirty-five to forty years of age,
dressed in deep black, had just entered,
accompanied by a young woman dressed
after the Eastern style. The lady was
surpassingly beautiful, while the rich
magnificence of her attire drew all eyes
upon her. "Hullo," said Albert; "it is
Monte Cristo and his Greek!"

The strangers were, indeed, no other
than the count and Haidee. In a few
moments the young girl had attracted the
attention of the whole house, and even
the occupants of the boxes leaned
forward to scrutinize her magnificent
diamonds. The second act passed away
during one continued buzz of voices --
one deep whisper -- intimating that some
great and universally interesting event
had occurred; all eyes, all thoughts,
were occupied with the young and
beautiful woman, whose gorgeous apparel
and splendid jewels made a most
extraordinary spectacle. Upon this
occasion an unmistakable sign from
Madame Danglars intimated her desire to
see Albert in her box directly the
curtain fell on the second act, and
neither the politeness nor good taste of
Morcerf would permit his neglecting an
invitation so unequivocally given. At
the close of the act he therefore went
to the baroness. Having bowed to the two
ladies, he extended his hand to Debray.
By the baroness he was most graciously
welcomed, while Eugenie received him
with her accustomed coldness.

"My dear fellow," said Debray, "you have
come in the nick of time. There is
madame overwhelming me with questions
respecting the count; she insists upon
it that I can tell her his birth,
education, and parentage, where he came
from, and whither he is going. Being no
disciple of Cagliostro, I was wholly
unable to do this; so, by way of getting
out of the scrape, I said, `Ask Morcerf;
he has got the whole history of his
beloved Monte Cristo at his fingers'
ends;' whereupon the baroness signified
her desire to see you."

"Is it not almost incredible," said
Madame Danglars, "that a person having
at least half a million of
secret-service money at his command,
should possess so little information?"

"Let me assure you, madame," said
Lucien, "that had I really the sum you
mention at my disposal, I would employ
it more profitably than in troubling
myself to obtain particulars respecting
the Count of Monte Cristo, whose only
merit in my eyes consists in his being
twice as rich as a nabob. However, I
have turned the business over to
Morcerf, so pray settle it with him as
may be most agreeable to you; for my own
part, I care nothing about the count or
his mysterious doings."

"I am very sure no nabob would have sent
me a pair of horses worth 32,000 francs,
wearing on their heads four diamonds
valued at 5,000 francs each."

"He seems to have a mania for diamonds,"
said Morcerf, smiling, "and I verily
believe that, like Potemkin, he keeps
his pockets filled, for the sake of
strewing them along the road, as Tom
Thumb did his flint stones."

"Perhaps he has discovered some mine,"
said Madame Danglars. "I suppose you
know he has an order for unlimited
credit on the baron's banking
establishment?"

"I was not aware of it," replied Albert,
"but I can readily believe it."

"And, further, that he stated to M.
Danglars his intention of only staying a
year in Paris, during which time he
proposed to spend six millions.

"He must be the Shah of Persia,
travelling incog."

"Have you noticed the remarkable beauty
of the young woman, M. Lucien?" inquired
Eugenie.

"I really never met with one woman so
ready to do justice to the charms of
another as yourself," responded Lucien,
raising his lorgnette to his eye. "A
most lovely creature, upon my soul!" was
his verdict.

"Who is this young person, M. de
Morcerf?" inquired Eugenie; "does
anybody know?"

"Mademoiselle," said Albert, replying to
this direct appeal, "I can give you very
exact information on that subject, as
well as on most points relative to the
mysterious person of whom we are now
conversing -- the young woman is a
Greek."

"So I should suppose by her dress; if
you know no more than that, every one
here is as well-informed as yourself."

"I am extremely sorry you find me so
ignorant a cicerone," replied Morcerf,
"but I am reluctantly obliged to
confess, I have nothing further to
communicate -- yes, stay, I do know one
thing more, namely, that she is a
musician, for one day when I chanced to
be breakfasting with the count, I heard
the sound of a guzla -- it is impossible
that it could have been touched by any
other finger than her own."

"Then your count entertains visitors,
does he?" asked Madame Danglars.

"Indeed he does, and in a most lavish
manner, I can assure you."

"I must try and persuade M. Danglars to
invite him to a ball or dinner, or
something of the sort, that he may be
compelled to ask us in return."

"What," said Debray, laughing; "do you
really mean you would go to his house?"

"Why not? my husband could accompany
me."

"But do you know this mysterious count
is a bachelor?"

"You have ample proof to the contrary,
if you look opposite," said the
baroness, as she laughingly pointed to
the beautiful Greek.

"No, no!" exclaimed Debray; "that girl
is not his wife: he told us himself she
was his slave. Do you not recollect,
Morcerf, his telling us so at your
breakfast?"

"Well, then," said the baroness, "if
slave she be, she has all the air and
manner of a princess."

"Of the `Arabian Nights'?"

"If you like; but tell me, my dear
Lucien, what it is that constitutes a
princess. Why, diamonds -- and she is
covered with them."

"To me she seems overloaded," observed
Eugenie; "she would look far better if
she wore fewer, and we should then be
able to see her finely formed throat and
wrists."

"See how the artist peeps out!"
exclaimed Madame Danglars. "My poor
Eugenie, you must conceal your passion
for the fine arts."

"I admire all that is beautiful,"
returned the young lady.

"What do you think of the count?"
inquired Debray; "he is not much amiss,
according to my ideas of good looks."

"The count," repeated Eugenie, as though
it had not occurred to her to observe
him sooner; "the count? -- oh, he is so
dreadfully pale."

"I quite agree with you," said Morcerf;
"and the secret of that very pallor is
what we want to find out. The Countess
G---- insists upon it that he is a
vampire."

"Then the Countess G---- has returned to
Paris, has she?" inquired the baroness.

"Is that she, mamma?" asked Eugenie;
"almost opposite to us, with that
profusion of beautiful light hair?"

"Yes," said Madame Danglars, "that is
she. Shall I tell you what you ought to
do, Morcerf?"

"Command me, madame."

"Well, then, you should go and bring
your Count of Monte Cristo to us."

"What for?" asked Eugenie.

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

"None whatever," replied Eugenie.

"Strange child," murmured the baroness.

"He will very probably come of his own
accord," said Morcerf. "There; do you
see, madame, he recognizes you, and
bows." The baroness returned the salute
in the most smiling and graceful manner.

"Well," said Morcerf, "I may as well be
magnanimous, and tear myself away to
forward your wishes. Adieu; I will go
and try if there are any means of
speaking to him."

"Go straight to his box; that will be
the simplest plan."

"But I have never been presented."

"Presented to whom?"

"To the beautiful Greek."

"You say she is only a slave?"

"While you assert that she is a queen,
or at least a princess. No; I hope that
when he sees me leave you, he will come
out."

"That is possible -- go."

"I am going," said Albert, as he made
his parting bow. Just as he was passing
the count's box, the door opened, and
Monte Cristo came forth. After giving
some directions to Ali, who stood in the
lobby, the count took Albert's arm.
Carefully closing the box door, Ali
placed himself before it, while a crowd
of spectators assembled round the
Nubian.

"Upon my word," said Monte Cristo,
"Paris is a strange city, and the
Parisians a very singular people. See
that cluster of persons collected around
poor Ali, who is as much astonished as
themselves; really one might suppose he
was the only Nubian they had ever
beheld. Now I can promise you, that a
Frenchman might show himself in public,
either in Tunis, Constantinople, Bagdad,
or Cairo, without being treated in that
way."

"That shows that the Eastern nations
have too much good sense to waste their
time and attention on objects
undeserving of either. However, as far
as Ali is concerned, I can assure you,
the interest he excites is merely from
the circumstance of his being your
attendant -- you, who are at this moment
the most celebrated and fashionable
person in Paris."

"Really? and what has procured me so
fluttering a distinction?"

"What? why, yourself, to be sure! You
give away horses worth a thousand louis;
you save the lives of ladies of high
rank and beauty; under the name of Major
Brack you run thoroughbreds ridden by
tiny urchins not larger than marmots;
then, when you have carried off the
golden trophy of victory, instead of
setting any value on it, you give it to
the first handsome woman you think of!"

"And who has filled your head with all
this nonsense?"

"Why, in the first place, I heard it
from Madame Danglars, who, by the by, is
dying to see you in her box, or to have
you seen there by others; secondly, I
learned it from Beauchamp's journal; and
thirdly, from my own imagination. Why,
if you sought concealment, did you call
your horse Vampa?"

"That was an oversight, certainly,"
replied the count; "but tell me, does
the Count of Morcerf never visit the
Opera? I have been looking for him, but
without success."

"He will be here to-night."

"In what part of the house?"

"In the baroness's box, I believe."

"That charming young woman with her is
her daughter?"

"Yes."

"I congratulate you." Morcerf smiled.
"We will discuss that subject at length
some future time," said he. "But what do
you think of the music?"

"What music?"

"Why, the music you have been listening
to."

"Oh, it is well enough as the production
of a human composer, sung by featherless
bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes."

"From which it would seem, my dear
count, that you can at pleasure enjoy
the seraphic strains that proceed from
the seven choirs of paradise?"

"You are right, in some degree; when I
wish to listen to sounds more
exquisitely attuned to melody than
mortal ear ever yet listened to, I go to
sleep."

"Then sleep here, my dear count. The
conditions are favorable; what else was
opera invented for?"

"No, thank you. Your orchestra is too
noisy. To sleep after the manner I speak
of, absolute calm and silence are
necessary, and then a certain
preparation" --

"I know -- the famous hashish!"

"Precisely. So, my dear viscount,
whenever you wish to be regaled with
music come and sup with me."

"I have already enjoyed that treat when
breakfasting with you," said Morcerf.

"Do you mean at Rome?"

"I do."

"Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haidee's
guzla; the poor exile frequently
beguiles a weary hour in playing over to
me the airs of her native land." Morcerf
did not pursue the subject, and Monte
Cristo himself fell into a silent
reverie. The bell rang at this moment
for the rising of the curtain. "You will
excuse my leaving you," said the count,
turning in the direction of his box.

"What? Are you going?"

"Pray, say everything that is kind to
Countess G---- on the part of her friend
the Vampire."

"And what message shall I convey to the
baroness!"

"That, with her permission, I shall do
myself the honor of paying my respects
in the course of the evening."

The third act had begun; and during its
progress the Count of Morcerf, according
to his promise, made his appearance in
the box of Madame Danglars. The Count of
Morcerf was not a person to excite
either interest or curiosity in a place
of public amusement; his presence,
therefore, was wholly unnoticed, save by
the occupants of the box in which he had
just seated himself. The quick eye of
Monte Cristo however, marked his coming;
and a slight though meaning smile passed
over his lips. Haidee, whose soul seemed
centred in the business of the stage,
like all unsophisticated natures,
delighted in whatever addressed itself
to the eye or ear.

The third act passed off as usual.
Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julie, and Leroux
executed the customary pirouettes;
Robert duly challenged the Prince of
Granada; and the royal father of the
princess Isabella, taking his daughter
by the hand, swept round the stage with
majestic strides, the better to display
the rich folds of his velvet robe and
mantle. After which the curtain again
fell, and the spectators poured forth
from the theatre into the lobbies and
salon. The count left his box, and a
moment later was saluting the Baronne
Danglars, who could not restrain a cry
of mingled pleasure and surprise. "You
are welcome, count!" she exclaimed, as
he entered. "I have been most anxious to
see you, that I might repeat orally the
thanks writing can so ill express."

"Surely so trifling a circumstance
cannot deserve a place in your
remembrance. Believe me, madame, I had
entirely forgotten it."

"But it is not so easy to forget,
monsieur, that the very next day after
your princely gift you saved the life of
my dear friend, Madame de Villefort,
which was endangered by the very animals
your generosity restored to me."

"This time, at least, I do not deserve
your thanks. It was Ali, my Nubian
slave, who rendered this service to
Madame de Villefort."

"Was it Ali," asked the Count of
Morcerf, "who rescued my son from the
hands of bandits?"

"No, count," replied Monte Cristo taking
the hand held out to him by the general;
"in this instance I may fairly and
freely accept your thanks; but you have
already tendered them, and fully
discharged your debt -- if indeed there
existed one -- and I feel almost
mortified to find you still reverting to
the subject. May I beg of you, baroness,
to honor me with an introduction to your
daughter?"

"Oh, you are no stranger -- at least not
by name," replied Madame Danglars, "and
the last two or three days we have
really talked of nothing but you.
Eugenie," continued the baroness,
turning towards her daughter, "this is
the Count of Monte Cristo." The Count
bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent
her head slightly. "You have a charming
young person with you to-night, count,"
said Eugenie. "Is she your daughter?"

"No, mademoiselle," said Monte Cristo,
astonished at the coolness and freedom
of the question. "She is a poor
unfortunate Greek left under my care."

"And what is her name?"

"Haidee," replied Monte Cristo.

"A Greek?" murmured the Count of
Morcerf.

"Yes, indeed, count," said Madame
Danglars; "and tell me, did you ever see
at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you
so gloriously and valiantly served, a
more exquisite beauty or richer
costume?"

"Did I hear rightly, monsieur," said
Monte Cristo "that you served at
Yanina?"

"I was inspector-general of the pasha's
troops," replied Morcerf; "and it is no
secret that I owe my fortune, such as it
is, to the liberality of the illustrious
Albanese chief."

"But look!" exclaimed Madame Danglars.

"Where?" stammered Morcerf.

"There," said Monte Cristo placing his
arms around the count, and leaning with
him over the front of the box, just as
Haidee, whose eyes were occupied in
examining the theatre in search of her
guardian, perceived his pale features
close to Morcerf's face. It was as if
the young girl beheld the head of
Medusa. She bent forwards as though to
assure herself of the reality of what
she saw, then, uttering a faint cry,
threw herself back in her seat. The
sound was heard by the people about Ali,
who instantly opened the box-door. "Why,
count," exclaimed Eugenie, "what has
happened to your ward? she seems to have
been taken suddenly ill."

"Very probably," answered the count.
"But do not be alarmed on her account.
Haidee's nervous system is delicately
organized, and she is peculiarly
susceptible to the odors even of
flowers -- nay, there are some which
cause her to faint if brought into her
presence. However," continued Monte
Cristo, drawing a small phial from his
pocket, "I have an infallible remedy."
So saying, he bowed to the baroness and
her daughter, exchanged a parting shake
of the hand with Debray and the count,
and left Madame Danglars' box. Upon his
return to Haidee he found her still very
pale. As soon as she saw him she seized
his hand; her own hands were moist and
icy cold. "Who was it you were talking
with over there?" she asked.

"With the Count of Morcerf," answered
Monte Cristo. "He tells me he served
your illustrious father, and that he
owes his fortune to him."

"Wretch!" exclaimed Haidee, her eyes
flashing with rage; "he sold my father
to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts
of was the price of his treachery! Did
not you know that, my dear lord?"

"Something of this I heard in Epirus,"
said Monte Cristo; "but the particulars
are still unknown to me. You shall
relate them to me, my child. They are,
no doubt, both curious and interesting."

"Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as
though it would kill me to remain long
near that dreadful man." So saying,
Haidee arose, and wrapping herself in
her burnoose of white cashmire
embroidered with pearls and coral, she
hastily quitted the box at the moment
when the curtain was rising upon the
fourth act.

"Do you observe," said the Countess
G---- to Albert, who had returned to her
side, "that man does nothing like other
people; he listens most devoutly to the
third act of `Robert le Diable,' and
when the fourth begins, takes his
departure."



Chapter 54 A Flurry in Stocks.

Some days after this meeting, Albert de
Morcerf visited the Count of Monte
Cristo at his house in the Champs
Elysees, which had already assumed that
palace-like appearance which the count's
princely fortune enabled him to give
even to his most temporary residences.
He came to renew the thanks of Madame
Danglars which had been already conveyed
to the count through the medium of a
letter, signed "Baronne Danglars, nee
Hermine de Servieux." Albert was
accompanied by Lucien Debray, who,
joining in his friend's conversation,
added some passing compliments, the
source of which the count's talent for
finesse easily enabled him to guess. He
was convinced that Lucien's visit was
due to a double feeling of curiosity,
the larger half of which sentiment
emanated from the Rue de la Chaussee
d'Antin. In short, Madame Danglars, not
being able personally to examine in
detail the domestic economy and
household arrangements of a man who gave
away horses worth 30,000 francs and who
went to the opera with a Greek slave
wearing diamonds to the amount of a
million of money, had deputed those
eyes, by which she was accustomed to
see, to give her a faithful account of
the mode of life of this
incomprehensible person. But the count
did not appear to suspect that there
could be the slightest connection
between Lucien's visit and the curiosity
of the baroness.

"You are in constant communication with
the Baron Danglars?" the count inquired
of Albert de Morcerf.

"Yes, count, you know what I told you?"

"All remains the same, then, in that
quarter?"

"It is more than ever a settled thing,"
said Lucien, -- and, considering that
this remark was all that he was at that
time called upon to make, he adjusted
the glass to his eye, and biting the top
of his gold headed cane, began to make
the tour of the apartment, examining the
arms and the pictures.

"Ah," said Monte Cristo "I did not
expect that the affair would be so
promptly concluded."

"Oh, things take their course without
our assistance. While we are forgetting
them, they are falling into their
appointed order; and when, again, our
attention is directed to them, we are
surprised at the progress they have made
towards the proposed end. My father and
M. Danglars served together in Spain, my
father in the army and M. Danglars in
the commissariat department. It was
there that my father, ruined by the
revolution, and M. Danglars, who never
had possessed any patrimony, both laid
the foundations of their different
fortunes."

"Yes," said Monte Cristo "I think M.
Danglars mentioned that in a visit which
I paid him; and," continued he, casting
a side-glance at Lucien, who was turning
over the leaves of an album,
"Mademoiselle Eugenie is pretty -- I
think I remember that to be her name."

"Very pretty, or rather, very
beautiful," replied Albert, "but of that
style of beauty which I do not
appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow."

"You speak as if you were already her
husband."

"Ah," returned Albert, in his turn
looking around to see what Lucien was
doing.

"Really," said Monte Cristo, lowering
his voice, "you do not appear to me to
be very enthusiastic on the subject of
this marriage."

"Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for
me," replied Morcerf, "and that
frightens me."

"Bah," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "that's a
fine reason to give. Are you not rich
yourself?"

"My father's income is about 50,000
francs per annum; and he will give me,
perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I
marry."

"That, perhaps, might not be considered
a large sum, in Paris especially," said
the count; "but everything does not
depend on wealth, and it is a fine thing
to have a good name, and to occupy a
high station in society. Your name is
celebrated, your position magnificent;
and then the Comte de Morcerf is a
soldier, and it is pleasing to see the
integrity of a Bayard united to the
poverty of a Duguesclin;
disinterestedness is the brightest ray
in which a noble sword can shine. As for
me, I consider the union with
Mademoiselle Danglars a most suitable
one; she will enrich you, and you will
ennoble her." Albert shook his head, and
looked thoughtful. "There is still
something else," said he.

"I confess," observed Monte Cristo,
"that I have some difficulty in
comprehending your objection to a young
lady who is both rich and beautiful."

"Oh," said Morcerf, "this repugnance, if
repugnance it may be called, is not all
on my side."

"Whence can it arise, then? for you told
me your father desired the marriage."

"It is my mother who dissents; she has a
clear and penetrating judgment, and does
not smile on the proposed union. I
cannot account for it, but she seems to
entertain some prejudice against the
Danglars."

"Ah," said the count, in a somewhat
forced tone, "that may be easily
explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who
is aristocracy and refinement itself,
does not relish the idea of being allied
by your marriage with one of ignoble
birth; that is natural enough."

"I do not know if that is her reason,"
said Albert, "but one thing I do know,
that if this marriage be consummated, it
will render her quite miserable. There
was to have been a meeting six weeks ago
in order to talk over and settle the
affair; but I had such a sudden attack
of indisposition" --

"Real?" interrupted the count, smiling.

"Oh, real enough, from anxiety
doubtless, -- at any rate they postponed
the matter for two months. There is no
hurry, you know. I am not yet
twenty-one, and Eugenie is only
seventeen; but the two months expire
next week. It must be done. My dear
count, you cannot imagine now my mind is
harassed. How happy you are in being
exempt from all this!"

"Well, and why should not you be free,
too? What prevents you from being so?"

"Oh, it will be too great a
disappointment to my father if I do not
marry Mademoiselle Danglars."

"Marry her then," said the count, with a
significant shrug of the shoulders.

"Yes," replied Morcerf, "but that will
plunge my mother into positive grief."

"Then do not marry her," said the count.

"Well, I shall see. I will try and think
over what is the best thing to be done;
you will give me your advice, will you
not, and if possible extricate me from
my unpleasant position? I think, rather
than give pain to my dear mother, I
would run the risk of offending the
count." Monte Cristo turned away; he
seemed moved by this last remark. "Ah,"
said he to Debray, who had thrown
himself into an easy-chair at the
farthest extremity of the salon, and who
held a pencil in his right hand and an
account book in his left, "what are you
doing there? Are you making a sketch
after Poussin?"

"Oh, no," was the tranquil response; "I
am too fond of art to attempt anything
of that sort. I am doing a little sum in
arithmetic."

"In arithmetic?"

"Yes; I am calculating -- by the way,
Morcerf, that indirectly concerns you --
I am calculating what the house of
Danglars must have gained by the last
rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have
risen to 409 in three days, and the
prudent banker had purchased at 206;
therefore he must have made 300,000
livres."

"That is not his biggest scoop," said
Morcerf; "did he not make a million in
Spaniards this last year?"

"My dear fellow," said Lucien, "here is
the Count of Monte Cristo, who will say
to you, as the Italians do, --

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

* "Money and sanctity, Each in a moiety.

"When they tell me such things, I only
shrug my shoulders and say nothing."

"But you were speaking of Haitians?"
said Monte Cristo.

"Ah, Haitians, -- that is quite another
thing! Haitians are the ecarte of French
stock-jobbing. We may like bouillotte,
delight in whist, be enraptured with
boston, and yet grow tired of them all;
but we always come back to ecarte -- it
is not only a game, it is a
hors-d'oeuvre! M. Danglars sold
yesterday at 405, and pockets 300,000
francs. Had he but waited till to-day,
the price would have fallen to 205, and
instead of gaining 300,000 francs, he
would have lost 20 or 25,000."

"And what has caused the sudden fall
from 409 to 206?" asked Monte Cristo. "I
am profoundly ignorant of all these
stock-jobbing intrigues."

"Because," said Albert, laughing, "one
piece of news follows another, and there
is often great dissimilarity between
them."

"Ah," said the count, "I see that M.
Danglars is accustomed to play at
gaining or losing 300,000 francs in a
day; he must be enormously rich."

"It is not he who plays!" exclaimed
Lucien; "it is Madame Danglars: she is
indeed daring."

"But you who are a reasonable being,
Lucien, and who know how little
dependence is to be placed on the news,
since you are at the fountain-head,
surely you ought to prevent it," said
Morcerf, with a smile.

"How can I, if her husband fails in
controlling her?" asked Lucien; "you
know the character of the baroness -- no
one has any influence with her, and she
does precisely what she pleases."

"Ah, if I were in your place" -- said
Albert.

"Well?"

"I would reform her; it would be
rendering a service to her future
son-in-law."

"How would you set about it?"

"Ah, that would be easy enough -- I
would give her a lesson."

"A lesson?"

"Yes. Your position as secretary to the
minister renders your authority great on
the subject of political news; you never
open your mouth but the stockbrokers
immediately stenograph your words. Cause
her to lose a hundred thousand francs,
and that would teach her prudence."

"I do not understand," stammered Lucien.

"It is very clear, notwithstanding,"
replied the young man, with an
artlessness wholly free from
affectation; "tell her some fine morning
an unheard-of piece of intelligence --
some telegraphic despatch, of which you
alone are in possession; for instance,
that Henri IV. was seen yesterday at
Gabrielle's. That would boom the market;
she will buy heavily, and she will
certainly lose when Beauchamp announces
the following day, in his gazette, `The
report circulated by some usually
well-informed persons that the king was
seen yesterday at Gabrielle's house, is
totally without foundation. We can
positively assert that his majesty did
not quit the Pont-Neuf.'" Lucien half
smiled. Monte Cristo, although
apparently indifferent, had not lost one
word of this conversation, and his
penetrating eye had even read a hidden
secret in the embarrassed manner of the
secretary. This embarrassment had
completely escaped Albert, but it caused
Lucien to shorten his visit; he was
evidently ill at ease. The count, in
taking leave of him, said something in a
low voice, to which he answered,
"Willingly, count; I accept." The count
returned to young Morcerf.

"Do you not think, on reflection," said
he to him, "that you have done wrong in
thus speaking of your mother-in-law in
the presence of M. Debray?"

"My dear count," said Morcerf, "I beg of
you not to apply that title so
prematurely."

"Now, speaking without any exaggeration,
is your mother really so very much
averse to this marriage?"

"So much so that the baroness very
rarely comes to the house, and my
mother, has not, I think, visited Madame
Danglars twice in her whole life."

"Then," said the count, "I am emboldened
to speak openly to you. M. Danglars is
my banker; M. de Villefort has
overwhelmed me with politeness in return
for a service which a casual piece of
good fortune enabled me to render him. I
predict from all this an avalanche of
dinners and routs. Now, in order not to
presume on this, and also to be
beforehand with them, I have, if
agreeable to you, thought of inviting M.
and Madame Danglars, and M. and Madame
de Villefort, to my country-house at
Auteuil. If I were to invite you and the
Count and Countess of Morcerf to this
dinner, I should give it the appearance
of being a matrimonial meeting, or at
least Madame de Morcerf would look upon
the affair in that light, especially if
Baron Danglars did me the honor to bring
his daughter. In that case your mother
would hold me in aversion, and I do not
at all wish that; on the contrary, I
desire to stand high in her esteem."

"Indeed, count," said Morcerf, "I thank
you sincerely for having used so much
candor towards me, and I gratefully
accept the exclusion which you propose.
You say you desire my mother's good
opinion; I assure you it is already
yours to a very unusual extent."

"Do you think so?" said Monte Cristo,
with interest.

"Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you
an hour after you left us the other day.
But to return to what we were saying. If
my mother could know of this attention
on your part -- and I will venture to
tell her -- I am sure that she will be
most grateful to you; it is true that my
father will be equally angry." The count
laughed. "Well," said he to Morcerf,
"but I think your father will not be the
only angry one; M. and Madame Danglars
will think me a very ill-mannered
person. They know that I am intimate
with you -- that you are, in fact; one
of the oldest of my Parisian
acquaintances -- and they will not find
you at my house; they will certainly ask
me why I did not invite you. Be sure to
provide yourself with some previous
engagement which shall have a semblance
of probability, and communicate the fact
to me by a line in writing. You know
that with bankers nothing but a written
document will be valid."

"I will do better than that," said
Albert; "my mother is wishing to go to
the sea-side -- what day is fixed for
your dinner?"

"Saturday."

"This is Tuesday -- well, to-morrow
evening we leave, and the day after we
shall be at Treport. Really, count, you
have a delightful way of setting people
at their ease."

"Indeed, you give me more credit than I
deserve; I only wish to do what will be
agreeable to you, that is all."

"When shall you send your invitations?"

"This very day."

"Well, I will immediately call on M.
Danglars, and tell him that my mother
and myself must leave Paris to-morrow. I
have not seen you, consequently I know
nothing of your dinner."

"How foolish you are! Have you forgotten
that M. Debray has just seen you at my
house?"

"Ah, true,"

"Fix it this way. I have seen you, and
invited you without any ceremony, when
you instantly answered that it would be
impossible for you to accept, as you
were going to Treport."

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

"Before to-morrow? -- that will be a
difficult matter to arrange, besides, I
shall just be in the way of all the
preparations for departure."

"Well, you can do better. You were only
a charming man before, but, if you
accede to my proposal, you will be
adorable."

"What must I do to attain such
sublimity?"

"You are to-day free as air -- come and
dine with me; we shall be a small
party -- only yourself, my mother, and
I. You have scarcely seen my mother; you
shall have an opportunity of observing
her more closely. She is a remarkable
woman, and I only regret that there does
not exist another like her, about twenty
years younger; in that case, I assure
you, there would very soon be a Countess
and Viscountess of Morcerf. As to my
father, you will not see him; he is
officially engaged, and dines with the
chief referendary. We will talk over our
travels; and you, who have seen the
whole world, will relate your
adventures -- you shall tell us the
history of the beautiful Greek who was
with you the other night at the Opera,
and whom you call your slave, and yet
treat like a princess. We will talk
Italian and Spanish. Come, accept my
invitation, and my mother will thank
you."

"A thousand thanks," said the count,
"your invitation is most gracious, and I
regret exceedingly that it is not in my
power to accept it. I am not so much at
liberty as you suppose; on the contrary,
I have a most important engagement."

"Ah, take care, you were teaching me
just now how, in case of an invitation
to dinner, one might creditably make an
excuse. I require the proof of a
pre-engagement. I am not a banker, like
M. Danglars, but I am quite as
incredulous as he is."

"I am going to give you a proof,"
replied the count, and he rang the bell.

"Humph," said Morcerf, "this is the
second time you have refused to dine
with my mother; it is evident that you
wish to avoid her." Monte Cristo
started. "Oh, you do not mean that,"
said he; "besides, here comes the
confirmation of my assertion." Baptistin
entered, and remained standing at the
door. "I had no previous knowledge of
your visit, had I?"

"Indeed, you are such an extraordinary
person, that I would not answer for it."

"At all events, I could not guess that
you would invite me to dinner."

"Probably not."

"Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I
tell you this morning when I called you
into my laboratory?"

"To close the door against visitors as
soon as the clock struck five," replied
the valet.

"What then?"

"Ah, my dear count," said Albert.

"No, no, I wish to do away with that
mysterious reputation that you have
given me, my dear viscount; it is
tiresome to be always acting Manfred. I
wish my life to be free and open. Go on,
Baptistin."

"Then to admit no one except Major
Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son."

"You hear -- Major Bartolomeo
Cavalcanti -- a man who ranks amongst
the most ancient nobility of Italy,
whose name Dante has celebrated in the
tenth canto of `The Inferno,' you
remember it, do you not? Then there is
his son, Andrea, a charming young man,
about your own age, viscount, bearing
the same title as yourself, and who is
making his entry into the Parisian
world, aided by his father's millions.
The major will bring his son with him
this evening, the contino, as we say in
Italy; he confides him to my care. If he
proves himself worthy of it, I will do
what I can to advance his interests. You
will assist me in the work, will you
not?"

"Most undoubtedly. This Major Cavalcanti
is an old friend of yours, then?"

"By no means. He is a perfect nobleman,
very polite, modest, and agreeable, such
as may be found constantly in Italy,
descendants of very ancient families. I
have met him several times at Florence,
Bologna and Lucca, and he has now
communicated to me the fact of his
arrival in Paris. The acquaintances one
makes in travelling have a sort of claim
on one; they everywhere expect to
receive the same attention which you
once paid them by chance, as though the
civilities of a passing hour were likely
to awaken any lasting interest in favor
of the man in whose society you may
happen to be thrown in the course of
your journey. This good Major Cavalcanti
is come to take a second view of Paris,
which he only saw in passing through in
the time of the Empire, when he was on
his way to Moscow. I shall give him a
good dinner, he will confide his son to
my care, I will promise to watch over
him, I shall let him follow in whatever
path his folly may lead him, and then I
shall have done my part."

"Certainly; I see you are a model
Mentor," said Albert "Good-by, we shall
return on Sunday. By the way, I have
received news of Franz."

"Have you? Is he still amusing himself
in Italy?"

"I believe so; however, he regrets your
absence extremely . He says you were the
sun of Rome, and that without you all
appears dark and cloudy; I do not know
if he does not even go so far as to say
that it rains."

"His opinion of me is altered for the
better, then?"

"No, he still persists in looking upon
you as the most incomprehensible and
mysterious of beings."

"He is a charming young man," said Monte
Cristo "and I felt a lively interest in
him the very first evening of my
introduction, when I met him in search
of a supper, and prevailed upon him to
accept a portion of mine. He is, I
think, the son of General d'Epinay?"

"He is."

"The same who was so shamefully
assassinated in 1815?"

"By the Bonapartists."

"Yes. Really I like him extremely; is
there not also a matrimonial engagement
contemplated for him?"

"Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de
Villefort."

"Indeed?"

"And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle
Danglars," said Albert, laughing.

"You smile."

"Yes."

"Why do you do so?"

"I smile because there appears to me to
be about as much inclination for the
consummation of the engagement in
question as there is for my own. But
really, my dear count, we are talking as
much of women as they do of us; it is
unpardonable." Albert rose.

"Are you going?"

"Really, that is a good idea! -- two
hours have I been boring you to death
with my company, and then you, with the
greatest politeness, ask me if I am
going. Indeed, count, you are the most
polished man in the world. And your
servants, too, how very well behaved
they are; there is quite a style about
them. Monsieur Baptistin especially; I
could never get such a man as that. My
servants seem to imitate those you
sometimes see in a play, who, because
they have only a word or two to say,
aquit themselves in the most awkward
manner possible. Therefore, if you part
with M. Baptistin, give me the refusal
of him."

"By all means."

"That is not all; give my compliments to
your illustrious Luccanese, Cavalcante
of the Cavalcanti; and if by any chance
he should be wishing to establish his
son, find him a wife very rich, very
noble on her mother's side at least, and
a baroness in right of her father, I
will help you in the search."

"Ah, ha; you will do as much as that,
will you?"

"Yes."

"Well, really, nothing is certain in
this world."

"Oh, count, what a service you might
render me! I should like you a hundred
times better if, by your intervention, I
could manage to remain a bachelor, even
were it only for ten years."

"Nothing is impossible," gravely replied
Monte Cristo; and taking leave of
Albert, he returned into the house, and
struck the gong three times. Bertuccio
appeared. "Monsieur Bertuccio, you
understand that I intend entertaining
company on Saturday at Auteuil."
Bertuccio slightly started. "I shall
require your services to see that all be
properly arranged. It is a beautiful
house, or at all events may be made so."

"There must be a good deal done before
it can deserve that title, your
excellency, for the tapestried hangings
are very old."

"Let them all be taken away and changed,
then, with the exception of the
sleeping-chamber which is hung with red
damask; you will leave that exactly as
it is." Bertuccio bowed. "You will not
touch the garden either; as to the yard,
you may do what you please with it; I
should prefer that being altered beyond
all recognition."

"I will do everything in my power to
carry out your wishes, your excellency.
I should be glad, however, to receive
your excellency's commands concerning
the dinner."

"Really, my dear M. Bertuccio," said the
count, "since you have been in Paris,
you have become quite nervous, and
apparently out of your element; you no
longer seem to understand me."

"But surely your excellency will be so
good as to inform me whom you are
expecting to receive?"

"I do not yet know myself, neither is it
necessary that you should do so.
`Lucullus dines with Lucullus,' that is
quite sufficient." Bertuccio bowed, and
left the room.



Chapter 55 Major Cavalcanti.

Both the count and Baptistin had told
the truth when they announced to Morcerf
the proposed visit of the major, which
had served Monte Cristo as a pretext for
declining Albert's invitation. Seven
o'clock had just struck, and M.
Bertuccio, according to the command
which had been given him, had two hours
before left for Auteuil, when a cab
stopped at the door, and after
depositing its occupant at the gate,
immediately hurried away, as if ashamed
of its employment. The visitor was about
fifty-two years of age, dressed in one
of the green surtouts, ornamented with
black frogs, which have so long
maintained their popularity all over
Europe. He wore trousers of blue cloth,
boots tolerably clean, but not of the
brightest polish, and a little too thick
in the soles, buckskin gloves, a hat
somewhat resembling in shape those
usually worn by the gendarmes, and a
black cravat striped with white, which,
if the proprietor had not worn it of his
own free will, might have passed for a
halter, so much did it resemble one.
Such was the picturesque costume of the
person who rang at the gate, and
demanded if it was not at No. 30 in the
Avenue des Champs-Elysees that the Count
of Monte Cristo lived, and who, being
answered by the porter in the
affirmative, entered, closed the gate
after him, and began to ascend the
steps.

The small and angular head of this man,
his white hair and thick gray mustaches,
caused him to be easily recognized by
Baptistin, who had received an exact
description of the expected visitor, and
who was awaiting him in the hall.
Therefore, scarcely had the stranger
time to pronounce his name before the
count was apprised of his arrival. He
was ushered into a simple and elegant
drawing-room, and the count rose to meet
him with a smiling air. "Ah, my dear
sir, you are most welcome; I was
expecting you."

"Indeed," said the Italian, "was your
excellency then aware of my visit?"

"Yes; I had been told that I should see
you to-day at seven o'clock."

"Then you have received full information
concerning my arrival?"

"Of course."

"Ah, so much the better, I feared this
little precaution might have been
forgotten."

"What precaution?"

"That of informing you beforehand of my
coming."

"Oh, no, it has not."

"But you are sure you are not mistaken."

"Very sure."

"It really was I whom your excellency
expected at seven o'clock this evening?"

"I will prove it to you beyond a doubt."

"Oh, no, never mind that," said the
Italian; "it is not worth the trouble."

"Yes, yes," said Monte Cristo. His
visitor appeared slightly uneasy. "Let
me see," said the count; "are you not
the Marquis Bartolomeo Cavalcanti?"

"Bartolomeo Cavalcanti," joyfully
replied the Italian; "yes, I am really
he."

"Ex-major in the Austrian service?"

"Was I a major?" timidly asked the old
soldier.

"Yes," said Monte Cristo "you were a
major; that is the title the French give
to the post which you filled in Italy."

"Very good," said the major, "I do not
demand more, you understand" --

"Your visit here to-day is not of your
own suggestion, is it?" said Monte
Cristo.

"No, certainly not."

"You were sent by some other person?"

"Yes."

"By the excellent Abbe Busoni?"

"Exactly so," said the delighted major.

"And you have a letter?"

"Yes, there it is."

"Give it me, then;" and Monte Cristo
took the letter, which he opened and
read. The major looked at the count with
his large staring eyes, and then took a
survey of the apartment, but his gaze
almost immediately reverted to the
proprietor of the room. "Yes, yes, I
see. `Major Cavalcanti, a worthy
patrician of Lucca, a descendant of the
Cavalcanti of Florence,'" continued
Monte Cristo, reading aloud,
"`possessing an income of half a
million.'" Monte Cristo raised his eyes
from the paper, and bowed. "Half a
million," said he, "magnificent!"

"Half a million, is it?" said the major.

"Yes, in so many words; and it must be
so, for the abbe knows correctly the
amount of all the largest fortunes in
Europe."

"Be it half a million. then; but on my
word of honor, I had no idea that it was
so much."

"Because you are robbed by your steward.
You must make some reformation in that
quarter."

"You have opened my eyes," said the
Italian gravely; "I will show the
gentlemen the door." Monte Cristo
resumed the perusal of the letter: --

"`And who only needs one thing more to
make him happy.'"

"Yes, indeed but one!" said the major
with a sigh.

"`Which is to recover a lost and adored
son.'"

"A lost and adored son!"

"`Stolen away in his infancy, either by
an enemy of his noble family or by the
gypsies.'"

"At the age of five years!" said the
major with a deep sigh, and raising his
eye to heaven.

"Unhappy father," said Monte Cristo. The
count continued: --

"`I have given him renewed life and
hope, in the assurance that you have the
power of restoring the son whom he has
vainly sought for fifteen years.'" The
major looked at the count with an
indescribable expression of anxiety. "I
have the power of so doing," said Monte
Cristo. The major recovered his
self-possession. "So, then," said he,
"the letter was true to the end?"

"Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur
Bartolomeo?"

"No, indeed; certainly not; a good man,
a man holding religious office, as does
the Abbe Busoni, could not condescend to
deceive or play off a joke; but your
excellency has not read all."

"Ah, true," said Monte Cristo "there is
a postscript."

"Yes, yes," repeated the major, "yes --
there -- is -- a -- postscript."

"`In order to save Major Cavalcanti the
trouble of drawing on his banker, I send
him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray
his travelling expenses, and credit on
you for the further sum of 48,000
francs, which you still owe me.'" The
major awaited the conclusion of the
postscript, apparently with great
anxiety. "Very good," said the count.

"He said `very good,'" muttered the
major, "then -- sir" -- replied he.

"Then what?" asked Monte Cristo.

"Then the postscript" --

"Well; what of the postscript?"

"Then the postscript is as favorably
received by you as the rest of the
letter?"

"Certainly; the Abbe Busoni and myself
have a small account open between us. I
do not remember if it is exactly 48,000
francs, which I am still owing him, but
I dare say we shall not dispute the
difference. You attached great
importance, then, to this postscript, my
dear Monsieur Cavalcanti?"

"I must explain to you," said the major,
"that, fully confiding in the signature
of the Abbe Busoni, I had not provided
myself with any other funds; so that if
this resource had failed me, I should
have found myself very unpleasantly
situated in Paris."

"Is it possible that a man of your
standing should be embarrassed
anywhere?" said Monte Cristo.

"Why, really I know no one," said the
major.

"But then you yourself are known to
others?"

"Yes, I am known, so that" --

"Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti."

"So that you will remit to me these
48,000 francs?"

"Certainly, at your first request." The
major's eyes dilated with pleasing
astonishment. "But sit down," said Monte
Cristo; "really I do not know what I
have been thinking of -- I have
positively kept you standing for the
last quarter of an hour."

"Don't mention it." The major drew an
arm-chair towards him, and proceeded to
seat himself.

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

"Alicante, if you please; it is my
favorite wine."

"I have some that is very good. You will
take a biscuit with it, will you not?"

"Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are
so obliging."

Monte Cristo rang; Baptistin appeared.
The count advanced to meet him. "Well?"
said he in a low voice. "The young man
is here," said the valet de chambre in
the same tone.

"Into what room did you take him?"

"Into the blue drawing-room, according
to your excellency's orders."

"That's right; now bring the Alicante
and some biscuits."

Baptistin left the room. "Really," said
the major, "I am quite ashamed of the
trouble I am giving you."

"Pray don't mention such a thing," said
the count. Baptistin re-entered with
glasses, wine, and biscuits. The count
filled one glass, but in the other he
only poured a few drops of the
ruby-colored liquid. The bottle was
covered with spiders' webs, and all the
other signs which indicate the age of
wine more truly than do wrinkles on a
man's face. The major made a wise
choice; he took the full glass and a
biscuit. The count told Baptistin to
leave the plate within reach of his
guest, who began by sipping the Alicante
with an expression of great
satisfaction, and then delicately
steeped his biscuit in the wine.

"So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you?
You were rich, noble, held in great
esteem -- had all that could render a
man happy?"

"All," said the major, hastily
swallowing his biscuit, "positively
all."

"And yet there was one thing wanting in
order to complete your happiness?"

"Only one thing," said the Italian.

"And that one thing, your lost child."

"Ah," said the major, taking a second
biscuit, "that consummation of my
happiness was indeed wanting." The
worthy major raised his eyes to heaven
and sighed.

"Let me hear, then," said the count,
"who this deeply regretted son was; for
I always understood you were a
bachelor."

"That was the general opinion, sir,"
said the major, "and I" --

"Yes," replied the count, "and you
confirmed the report. A youthful
indiscretion, I suppose, which you were
anxious to conceal from the world at
large?" The major recovered himself, and
resumed his usual calm manner, at the
same time casting his eyes down, either
to give himself time to compose his
countenance, or to assist his
imagination, all the while giving an
under-look at the count, the protracted
smile on whose lips still announced the
same polite curiosity. "Yes," said the
major, "I did wish this fault to be
hidden from every eye."

"Not on your own account, surely,"
replied Monte Cristo; "for a man is
above that sort of thing?"

"Oh, no, certainly not on my own
account," said the major with a smile
and a shake of the head.

"But for the sake of the mother?" said
the count.

"Yes, for the mother's sake -- his poor
mother!" cried the major, taking a third
biscuit.

"Take some more wine, my dear
Cavalcanti," said the count, pouring out
for him a second glass of Alicante;
"your emotion has quite overcome you."

"His poor mother," murmured the major,
trying to get the lachrymal gland in
operation, so as to moisten the corner
of his eye with a false tear.

"She belonged to one of the first
families in Italy, I think, did she
not?"

"She was of a noble family of Fiesole,
count."

"And her name was" --

"Do you desire to know her name?" --

"Oh," said Monte Cristo "it would be
quite superfluous for you to tell me,
for I already know it."

"The count knows everything," said the
Italian, bowing.

"Oliva Corsinari, was it not?"

"Oliva Corsinari."

"A marchioness?"

"A marchioness."

"And you married her at last,
notwithstanding the opposition of her
family?"

"Yes, that was the way it ended."

"And you have doubtless brought all your
papers with you?" said Monte Cristo.

"What papers?"

"The certificate of your marriage with
Oliva Corsinari, and the register of
your child's birth."

"The register of my child's birth?"

"The register of the birth of Andrea
Cavalcanti -- of your son; is not his
name Andrea?"

"I believe so," said the major.

"What? You believe so?"

"I dare not positively assert it, as he
has been lost for so long a time."

"Well, then," said Monte Cristo "you
have all the documents with you?"

"Your excellency, I regret to say that,
not knowing it was necessary to come
provided with these papers, I neglected
to bring them."

"That is unfortunate," returned Monte
Cristo.

"Were they, then, so necessary?"

"They were indispensable."

The major passed his hand across his
brow. "Ah, per Bacco, indispensable,
were they?"

"Certainly they were; supposing there
were to be doubts raised as to the
validity of your marriage or the
legitimacy of your child?"

"True," said the major, "there might be
doubts raised."

"In that case your son would be very
unpleasantly situated."

"It would be fatal to his interests."

"It might cause him to fail in some
desirable matrimonial alliance."

"O peccato!"

"You must know that in France they are
very particular on these points; it is
not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to
the priest and say, `We love each other,
and want you to marry us.' Marriage is a
civil affair in France, and in order to
marry in an orthodox manner you must
have papers which undeniably establish
your identity."

"That is the misfortune! You see I have
not these necessary papers."

"Fortunately, I have them, though," said
Monte Cristo.

"You?"

"Yes."

"You have them?"

"I have them."

"Ah, indeed?" said the major, who,
seeing the object of his journey
frustrated by the absence of the papers,
feared also that his forgetfulness might
give rise to some difficulty concerning
the 48,000 francs -- "ah, indeed, that
is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that
really is lucky, for it never occurred
to me to bring them."

"I do not at all wonder at it -- one
cannot think of everything; but,
happily, the Abbe Busoni thought for
you."

"He is an excellent person."

"He is extremely prudent and thoughtful"

"He is an admirable man," said the
major; "and he sent them to you?"

"Here they are."

The major clasped his hands in token of
admiration. "You married Oliva Corsinari
in the church of San Paolo del
Monte-Cattini; here is the priest's
certificate."

"Yes indeed, there it is truly," said
the Italian, looking on with
astonishment.

"And here is Andrea Cavalcanti's
baptismal register, given by the curate
of Saravezza."

"All quite correct."

"Take these documents, then; they do not
concern me. You will give them to your
son, who will, of course, take great
care of them."

"I should think so, indeed! If he were
to lose them" --

"Well, and if he were to lose them?"
said Monte Cristo.

"In that case," replied the major, "it
would be necessary to write to the
curate for duplicates, and it would be
some time before they could be
obtained."

"It would be a difficult matter to
arrange," said Monte Cristo.

"Almost an impossibility," replied the
major.

"I am very glad to see that you
understand the value of these papers."

"I regard them as invaluable."

"Now," said Monte Cristo "as to the
mother of the young man" --

"As to the mother of the young man" --
repeated the Italian, with anxiety.

"As regards the Marchesa Corsinari" --

"Really," said the major, "difficulties
seem to thicken upon us; will she be
wanted in any way?"

"No, sir," replied Monte Cristo;
"besides, has she not" --

"Yes, sir," said the major, "she has" --

"Paid the last debt of nature?"

"Alas, yes," returned the Italian.

"I knew that," said Monte Cristo; "she
has been dead these ten years."

"And I am still mourning her loss,"
exclaimed the major, drawing from his
pocket a checked handkerchief, and
alternately wiping first the left and
then the right eye.

"What would you have?" said Monte
Cristo; "we are all mortal. Now, you
understand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti,
that it is useless for you to tell
people in France that you have been
separated from your son for fifteen
years. Stories of gypsies, who steal
children, are not at all in vogue in
this part of the world, and would not be
believed. You sent him for his education
to a college in one of the provinces,
and now you wish him to complete his
education in the Parisian world. That is
the reason which has induced you to
leave Via Reggio, where you have lived
since the death of your wife. That will
be sufficient."

"You think so?"

"Certainly."

"Very well, then."

"If they should hear of the
separation" --

"Ah, yes; what could I say?"

"That an unfaithful tutor, bought over
by the enemies of your family" --

"By the Corsinari?"

"Precisely. Had stolen away this child,
in order that your name might become
extinct."

"That is reasonable, since he is an only
son."

"Well, now that all is arranged, do not
let these newly awakened remembrances be
forgotten. You have, doubtless, already
guessed that I was preparing a surprise
for you?"

"An agreeable one?" asked the Italian.

"Ah, I see the eye of a father is no
more to be deceived than his heart."

"Hum!" said the major.

"Some one has told you the secret; or,
perhaps, you guessed that he was here."

"That who was here?"

"Your child -- your son -- your Andrea!"

"I did guess it," replied the major with
the greatest possible coolness. "Then he
is here?"

"He is," said Monte Cristo; "when the
valet de chambre came in just now, he
told me of his arrival."

"Ah, very well, very well," said the
major, clutching the buttons of his coat
at each exclamation.

"My dear sir," said Monte Cristo, "I
understand your emotion; you must have
time to recover yourself. I will, in the
meantime, go and prepare the young man
for this much-desired interview, for I
presume that he is not less impatient
for it than yourself."

"I should quite imagine that to be the
case," said Cavalcanti.

"Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall
be with you."

"You will bring him, then? You carry
your goodness so far as even to present
him to me yourself?"

"No; I do not wish to come between a
father and son. Your interview will be
private. But do not be uneasy; even if
the powerful voice of nature should be
silent, you cannot well mistake him; he
will enter by this door. He is a fine
young man, of fair complexion -- a
little too fair, perhaps -- pleasing in
manners; but you will see and judge for
yourself."

"By the way," said the major, "you know
I have only the 2,000 francs which the
Abbe Busoni sent me; this sum I have
expended upon travelling expenses,
and" --

"And you want money; that is a matter of
course, my dear M. Cavalcanti. Well,
here are 8,000 francs on account."

The major's eyes sparkled brilliantly.

"It is 40,000 francs which I now owe
you," said Monte Cristo.

"Does your excellency wish for a
receipt?" said the major, at the same
time slipping the money into the inner
pocket of his coat.

"For what?" said the count.

"I thought you might want it to show the
Abbe Busoni."

"Well, when you receive the remaining
40,000, you shall give me a receipt in
full. Between honest men such excessive
precaution is, I think, quite
unnecessary."

"Yes, so it is, between perfectly
upright people."

"One word more," said Monte Cristo.

"Say on."

"You will permit me to make one remark?"

"Certainly; pray do so."

"Then I should advise you to leave off
wearing that style of dress."

"Indeed," said the major, regarding
himself with an air of complete
satisfaction.

"Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but
that costume, however elegant in itself,
has long been out of fashion in Paris."

"That's unfortunate."

"Oh, if you really are attached to your
old mode of dress; you can easily resume
it when you leave Paris."

"But what shall I wear?"

"What you find in your trunks."

"In my trunks? I have but one
portmanteau."

"I dare say you have nothing else with
you. What is the use of boring one's
self with so many things? Besides an old
soldier always likes to march with as
little baggage as possible."

"That is just the case -- precisely so."

"But you are a man of foresight and
prudence, therefore you sent your
luggage on before you. It has arrived at
the Hotel des Princes, Rue de Richelieu.
It is there you are to take up your
quarters."

"Then, in these trunks" --

"I presume you have given orders to your
valet de chambre to put in all you are
likely to need, -- your plain clothes
and your uniform. On grand occasions you
must wear your uniform; that will look
very well. Do not forget your crosses.
They still laugh at them in France, and
yet always wear them, for all that."

"Very well, very well," said the major,
who was in ecstasy at the attention paid
him by the count.

"Now," said Monte Cristo, "that you have
fortified yourself against all painful
excitement, prepare yourself, my dear M.
Cavalcanti, to meet your lost Andrea."
Saying which Monte Cristo bowed, and
disappeared behind the tapestry, leaving
the major fascinated beyond expression
with the delightful reception which he
had received at the hands of the count.



Chapter 56 Andrea Cavalcanti.

The Count of Monte Cristo entered the
adjoining room, which Baptistin had
designated as the drawing-room, and
found there a young man, of graceful
demeanor and elegant appearance, who had
arrived in a cab about half an hour
previously. Baptistin had not found any
difficulty in recognizing the person who
presented himself at the door for
admittance. He was certainly the tall
young man with light hair, red heard,
black eyes, and brilliant complexion,
whom his master had so particularly
described to him. When the count entered
the room the young man was carelessly
stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot
with the gold-headed cane which he held
in his hand. On perceiving the count he
rose quickly. "The Count of Monte
Cristo, I believe?" said he.

"Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor
of addressing Count Andrea Cavalcanti?"

"Count Andrea Cavalcanti," repeated the
young man, accompanying his words with a
bow.

"You are charged with a letter of
introduction addressed to me, are you
not?" said the count.

"I did not mention that, because the
signature seemed to me so strange."

"The letter signed `Sinbad the Sailor,'
is it not?"

"Exactly so. Now, as I have never known
any Sinbad, with the exception of the
one celebrated in the `Thousand and One
Nights'" --

"Well, it is one of his descendants, and
a great friend of mine; he is a very
rich Englishman, eccentric almost to
insanity, and his real name is Lord
Wilmore."

"Ah, indeed? Then that explains
everything that is extraordinary," said
Andrea. "He is, then, the same
Englishman whom I met -- at -- ah --
yes, indeed. Well, monsieur, I am at
your service."

"If what you say be true," replied the
count, smiling, "perhaps you will be
kind enough to give me some account of
yourself and your family?"

"Certainly, I will do so," said the
young man, with a quickness which gave
proof of his ready invention. "I am (as
you have said) the Count Andrea
Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo
Cavalcanti, a descendant of the
Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in
the golden book at Florence. Our family,
although still rich (for my father's
income amounts to half a million), has
experienced many misfortunes, and I
myself was, at the age of five years,
taken away by the treachery of my tutor,
so that for fifteen years I have not
seen the author of my existence. Since I
have arrived at years of discretion and
become my own master, I have been
constantly seeking him, but all in vain.
At length I received this letter from
your friend, which states that my father
is in Paris, and authorizes me to
address myself to you for information
respecting him."

"Really, all you have related to me is
exceedingly interesting," said Monte
Cristo, observing the young man with a
gloomy satisfaction; "and you have done
well to conform in everything to the
wishes of my friend Sinbad; for your
father is indeed here, and is seeking
you."

The count from the moment of first
entering the drawing-room, had not once
lost sight of the expression of the
young man's countenance; he had admired
the assurance of his look and the
firmness of his voice; but at these
words, so natural in themselves, "Your
father is indeed here, and is seeking
you," young Andrea started, and
exclaimed, "My father? Is my father
here?"

"Most undoubtedly," replied Monte
Cristo; "your father, Major Bartolomeo
Cavalcanti." The expression of terror
which, for the moment, had overspread
the features of the young man, had now
disappeared. "Ah, yes, that is the name,
certainly. Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti.
And you really mean to say; monsieur,
that my dear father is here?"

"Yes, sir; and I can even add that I
have only just left his company. The
history which he related to me of his
lost son touched me to the quick;
indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on
that subject might furnish material for
a most touching and pathetic poem. At
length, he one day received a letter,
stating that the abductors of his son
now offered to restore him, or at least
to give notice where he might be found,
on condition of receiving a large sum of
money, by way of ransom. Your father did
not hesitate an instant, and the sum was
sent to the frontier of Piedmont, with a
passport signed for Italy. You were in
the south of France, I think?"

"Yes," replied Andrea, with an
embarrassed air, "I was in the south of
France."

"A carriage was to await you at Nice?"

"Precisely so; and it conveyed me from
Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to Turin, from
Turin to Chambery, from Chambery to
Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and from
Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris."

"Indeed? Then your father ought to have
met with you on the road, for it is
exactly the same route which he himself
took, and that is how we have been able
to trace your journey to this place."

"But," said Andrea, "if my father had
met me, I doubt if he would have
recognized me; I must be somewhat
altered since he last saw me."

"Oh, the voice of nature," said Monte
Cristo.

"True," interrupted the young man, "I
had not looked upon it in that light."

"Now," replied Monte Cristo "there is
only one source of uneasiness left in
your father's mind, which is this -- he
is anxious to know how you have been
employed during your long absence from
him, how you have been treated by your
persecutors, and if they have conducted
themselves towards you with all the
deference due to your rank. Finally, he
is anxious to see if you have been
fortunate enough to escape the bad moral
influence to which you have been
exposed, and which is infinitely more to
be dreaded than any physical suffering;
he wishes to discover if the fine
abilities with which nature had endowed
you have been weakened by want of
culture; and, in short, whether you
consider yourself capable of resuming
and retaining in the world the high
position to which your rank entitles
you."

"Sir!" exclaimed the young man, quite
astounded, "I hope no false report" --

"As for myself, I first heard you spoken
of by my friend Wilmore, the
philanthropist. I believe he found you
in some unpleasant position, but do not
know of what nature, for I did not ask,
not being inquisitive. Your misfortunes
engaged his sympathies, so you see you
must have been interesting. He told me
that he was anxious to restore you to
the position which you had lost, and
that he would seek your father until he
found him. He did seek, and has found
him, apparently, since he is here now;
and, finally, my friend apprised me of
your coming, and gave me a few other
instructions relative to your future
fortune. I am quite aware that my friend
Wilmore is peculiar, but he is sincere,
and as rich as a gold-mine,
consequently, he may indulge his
eccentricities without any fear of their
ruining him, and I have promised to
adhere to his instructions. Now, sir,
pray do not be offended at the question
I am about to put to you, as it comes in
the way of my duty as your patron. I
would wish to know if the misfortunes
which have happened to you --
misfortunes entirely beyond your
control, and which in no degree diminish
my regard for you -- I would wish to
know if they have not, in some measure,
contributed to render you a stranger to
the world in which your fortune and your
name entitle you to make a conspicuous
figure?"

"Sir," returned the young man, with a
reassurance of manner, "make your mind
easy on this score. Those who took me
from my father, and who always intended,
sooner or later, to sell me again to my
original proprietor, as they have now
done, calculated that, in order to make
the most of their bargain, it would be
politic to leave me in possession of all
my personal and hereditary worth, and
even to increase the value, if possible.
I have, therefore, received a very good
education, and have been treated by
these kidnappers very much as the slaves
were treated in Asia Minor, whose
masters made them grammarians, doctors,
and philosophers, in order that they
might fetch a higher price in the Roman
market." Monte Cristo smiled with
satisfaction; it appeared as if he had
not expected so much from M. Andrea
Cavalcanti. "Besides," continued the
young man, "if there did appear some
defect in education, or offence against
the established forms of etiquette, I
suppose it would be excused, in
consideration of the misfortunes which
accompanied my birth, and followed me
through my youth."

"Well," said Monte Cristo in an
indifferent tone, "you will do as you
please, count, for you are the master of
your own actions, and are the person
most concerned in the matter, but if I
were you, I would not divulge a word of
these adventures. Your history is quite
a romance, and the world, which delights
in romances in yellow covers, strangely
mistrusts those which are bound in
living parchment, even though they be
gilded like yourself. This is the kind
of difficulty which I wished to
represent to you, my dear count. You
would hardly have recited your touching
history before it would go forth to the
world, and be deemed unlikely and
unnatural. You would be no longer a lost
child found, but you would be looked
upon as an upstart, who had sprung up
like a mushroom in the night. You might
excite a little curiosity, but it is not
every one who likes to be made the
centre of observation and the subject of
unpleasant remark."

"I agree with you, monsieur," said the
young man, turning pale, and, in spite
of himself, trembling beneath the
scrutinizing look of his companion,
"such consequences would be extremely
unpleasant."

"Nevertheless, you must not exaggerate
the evil," said Monte Cristo, "for by
endeavoring to avoid one fault you will
fall into another. You must resolve upon
one simple and single line of conduct,
and for a man of your intelligence, this
plan is as easy as it is necessary; you
must form honorable friendships, and by
that means counteract the prejudice
which may attach to the obscurity of
your former life." Andrea visibly
changed countenance. "I would offer
myself as your surety and friendly
adviser," said Monte Cristo, "did I not
possess a moral distrust of my best
friends, and a sort of inclination to
lead others to doubt them too;
therefore, in departing from this rule,
I should (as the actors say) be playing
a part quite out of my line, and should,
therefore, run the risk of being hissed,
which would be an act of folly."

"However, your excellency," said Andrea,
"in consideration of Lord Wilmore, by
whom I was recommended to you -- "

"Yes, certainly," interrupted Monte
Cristo; "but Lord Wilmore did not omit
to inform me, my dear M. Andrea, that
the season of your youth was rather a
stormy one. Ah," said the count,
watching Andrea's countenance, "I do not
demand any confession from you; it is
precisely to avoid that necessity that
your father was sent for from Lucca. You
shall soon see him. He is a little stiff
and pompous in his manner, and he is
disfigured by his uniform; but when it
becomes known that he has been for
eighteen years in the Austrian service,
all that will be pardoned. We are not
generally very severe with the
Austrians. In short, you will find your
father a very presentable person, I
assure you."

"Ah, sir, you have given me confidence;
it is so long since we were separated,
that I have not the least remembrance of
him, and, besides, you know that in the
eyes of the world a large fortune covers
all defects."

"He is a millionaire -- his income is
500,000 francs."

"Then," said the young man, with
anxiety, "I shall be sure to be placed
in an agreeable position."

"One of the most agreeable possible, my
dear sir; he will allow you an income of
50,000 livres per annum during the whole
time of your stay in Paris."

"Then in that case I shall always choose
to remain there."

"You cannot control circumstances, my
dear sir; `man proposes, and God
disposes.'" Andrea sighed. "But," said
he, "so long as I do remain in Paris,
and nothing forces me to quit it, do you
mean to tell me that I may rely on
receiving the sum you just now mentioned
to me?"

"You may."

"Shall I receive it from my father?"
asked Andrea, with some uneasiness.

"Yes, you will receive it from your
father personally, but Lord Wilmore will
be the security for the money. He has,
at the request of your father, opened an
account of 6,000 francs a month at M.
Danglars', which is one of the safest
banks in Paris."

"And does my father mean to remain long
in Paris?" asked Andrea.

"Only a few days," replied Monte Cristo.
"His service does not allow him to
absent himself more than two or three
weeks together."

"Ah, my dear father!" exclaimed Andrea,
evidently charmed with the idea of his
speedy departure.

"Therefore," said Monte Cristo feigning
to mistake his meaning -- "therefore I
will not, for another instant, retard
the pleasure of your meeting. Are you
prepared to embrace your worthy father?"

"I hope you do not doubt it."

"Go, then, into the drawing-room, my
young friend, where you will find your
father awaiting you." Andrea made a low
bow to the count, and entered the
adjoining room. Monte Cristo watched him
till he disappeared, and then touched a
spring in a panel made to look like a
picture, which, in sliding partly from
the frame, discovered to view a small
opening, so cleverly contrived that it
revealed all that was passing in the
drawing-room now occupied by Cavalcanti
and Andrea. The young man closed the
door behind him, and advanced towards
the major, who had risen when he heard
steps approaching him. "Ah, my dear
father!" said Andrea in a loud voice, in
order that the count might hear him in
the next room, "is it really you?"

"How do you do, my dear son?" said the
major gravely.

"After so many years of painful
separation," said Andrea, in the same
tone of voice, and glancing towards the
door, "what a happiness it is to meet
again!"

"Indeed it is, after so long a
separation."

"Will you not embrace me, sir?" said
Andrea.

"If you wish it, my son," said the
major; and the two men embraced each
other after the fashion of actors on the
stage; that is to say, each rested his
head on the other's shoulder.

"Then we are once more reunited?" said
Andrea.

"Once more," replied the major.

"Never more to be separated?"

"Why, as to that -- I think, my dear
son, you must be by this time so
accustomed to France as to look upon it
almost as a second country."

"The fact is," said the young man, "that
I should be exceedingly grieved to leave
it."

"As for me, you must know I cannot
possibly live out of Lucca; therefore I
shall return to Italy as soon as I can."

"But before you leave France, my dear
father, I hope you will put me in
possession of the documents which will
be necessary to prove my descent."

"Certainly; I am come expressly on that
account; it has cost me much trouble to
find you, but I had resolved on giving
them into your hands, and if I had to
recommence my search, it would occupy
all the few remaining years of my life."

"Where are these papers, then?"

"Here they are."

Andrea seized the certificate of his
father's marriage and his own baptismal
register, and after having opened them
with all the eagerness which might be
expected under the circumstances, he
read them with a facility which proved
that he was accustomed to similar
documents, and with an expression which
plainly denoted an unusual interest in
the contents. When he had perused the
documents, an indefinable expression of
pleasure lighted up his countenance, and
looking at the major with a most
peculiar smile, he said, in very
excellent Tuscan, -- "Then there is no
longer any such thing, in Italy as being
condemned to the galleys?" The major
drew himself up to his full height.

"Why? -- what do you mean by that
question?"

"I mean that if there were, it would be
impossible to draw up with impunity two
such deeds as these. In France, my dear
sir, half such a piece of effrontery as
that would cause you to be quickly
despatched to Toulon for five years, for
change of air."

"Will you be good enough to explain your
meaning?" said the major, endeavoring as
much as possible to assume an air of the
greatest majesty.

"My dear M. Cavalcanti," said Andrea,
taking the major by the arm in a
confidential manner, "how much are you
paid for being my father?" The major was
about to speak, when Andrea continued,
in a low voice.

"Nonsense, I am going to set you an
example of confidence, they give me
50,000 francs a year to be your son;
consequently, you can understand that it
is not at all likely I shall ever deny
my parent." The major looked anxiously
around him. "Make yourself easy, we are
quite alone," said Andrea; "besides, we
are conversing in Italian."

"Well, then," replied the major, "they
paid me 50,000 francs down."

"Monsieur Cavalcanti," said Andrea, "do
you believe in fairy tales?"

"I used not to do so, but I really feel
now almost obliged to have faith in
them."

"You have, then, been induced to alter
your opinion; you have had some proofs
of their truth?" The major drew from his
pocket a handful of gold. "Most palpable
proofs," said he, "as you may perceive."

"You think, then, that I may rely on the
count's promises?"

"Certainly I do."

"You are sure he will keep his word with
me?"

"To the letter, but at the same time,
remember, we must continue to play our
respective parts. I, as a tender
father" --

"And I as a dutiful son, as they choose
that I shall be descended from you."

"Whom do you mean by they?"

"Ma foi, I can hardly tell, but I was
alluding to those who wrote the letter;
you received one, did you not?"

"Yes."

"From whom?"

"From a certain Abbe Busoni."

"Have you any knowledge of him?"

"No, I have never seen him."

"What did he say in the letter?"

"You will promise not to betray me?"

"Rest assured of that; you well know
that our interests are the same."

"Then read for yourself;" and the major
gave a letter into the young man's hand.
Andrea read in a low voice --

"You are poor; a miserable old age
awaits you. Would you like to become
rich, or at least independent? Set out
immediately for Paris, and demand of the
Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs
Elysees, No. 30, the son whom you had by
the Marchesa Corsinari, and who was
taken from you at five years of age.
This son is named Andrea Cavalcanti. In
order that you may not doubt the kind
intention of the writer of this letter,
you will find enclosed an order for
2,400 francs, payable in Florence, at
Signor Gozzi's; also a letter of
introduction to the Count of Monte
Cristo, on whom I give you a draft of
48,000 francs. Remember to go to the
count on the 26th May at seven o'clock
in the evening.

(Signed)

"Abbe Busoni."

"It is the same."

"What do you mean?" said the major.

"I was going to say that I received a
letter almost to the same effect."

"You?"

"Yes."

"From the Abbe Busoni?"

"No."

"From whom, then?"

"From an Englishman, called Lord
Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbad
the Sailor."

"And of whom you have no more knowledge
than I of the Abbe Busoni?"

"You are mistaken; there I am ahead of
you."

"You have seen him, then?"

"Yes, once."

"Where?"

"Ah, that is just what I cannot tell
you; if I did, I should make you as wise
as myself, which it is not my intention
to do."

"And what did the letter contain?"

"Read it."

"`You are poor, and your future
prospects are dark and gloomy. Do you
wish for a name? should you like to be
rich, and your own master?'"

"Ma foi," said the young man; "was it
possible there could be two answers to
such a question?"

"Take the post-chaise which you will
find waiting at the Porte de Genes, as
you enter Nice; pass through Turin,
Chambery, and Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to
the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des
Champs Elysees, on the 26th of May, at
seven o'clock in the evening, and demand
of him your father. You are the son of
the Marchese Cavalcanti and the Marchesa
Oliva Corsinari. The marquis will give
you some papers which will certify this
fact, and authorize you to appear under
that name in the Parisian world. As to
your rank, an annual income of 50,000
livres will enable you to support it
admirably. I enclose a draft for 5,000
livres, payable on M. Ferrea, banker at
Nice, and also a letter of introduction
to the Count of Monte Cristo, whom I
have directed to supply all your wants.

"Sinbad the Sailor."

"Humph," said the major; "very good. You
have seen the count, you say?"

"I have only just left him "

"And has he conformed to all that the
letter specified?"

"He has."

"Do you understand it?"

"Not in the least."

"There is a dupe somewhere."

"At all events, it is neither you nor
I."

"Certainly not."

"Well, then" --

"Why, it does not much concern us, do
you think it does?"

"No; I agree with you there. We must
play the game to the end, and consent to
be blindfold."

"Ah, you shall see; I promise you I will
sustain my part to admiration."

"I never once doubted your doing so."
Monte Cristo chose this moment for
re-entering the drawing-room. On hearing
the sound of his footsteps, the two men
threw themselves in each other's arms,
and while they were in the midst of this
embrace, the count entered. "Well,
marquis," said Monte Cristo, "you appear
to be in no way disappointed in the son
whom your good fortune has restored to
you."

"Ah, your excellency, I am overwhelmed
with delight."

"And what are your feelings?" said Monte
Cristo, turning to the young man.

"As for me, my heart is overflowing with
happiness."

"Happy father, happy son!" said the
count.

"There is only one thing which grieves
me," observed the major, "and that is
the necessity for my leaving Paris so
soon."

"Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you
will not leave before I have had the
honor of presenting you to some of my
friends."

"I am at your service, sir," replied the
major.

"Now, sir," said Monte Cristo,
addressing Andrea, "make your
confession."

"To whom?"

"Tell M. Cavalcanti something of the
state of your finances."

"Ma foi, monsieur, you have touched upon
a tender chord."

"Do you hear what he says, major?"

"Certainly I do."

"But do you understand?"

"I do."

"Your son says he requires money."

"Well, what would you have me do?" said
the major.

"You should furnish him with some of
course," replied Monte Cristo.

"I?"

"Yes, you," said the count, at the same
time advancing towards Andrea, and
slipping a packet of bank-notes into the
young man's hand.

"What is this?"

"It is from your father."

"From my father?"

"Yes; did you not tell him just now that
you wanted money? Well, then, he deputes
me to give you this."

"Am I to consider this as part of my
income on account?"

"No, it is for the first expenses of
your settling in Paris."

"Ah, how good my dear father is!"

"Silence," said Monte Cristo; "he does
not wish you to know that it comes from
him."

"I fully appreciate his delicacy," said
Andrea, cramming the notes hastily into
his pocket.

"And now, gentlemen, I wish you
good-morning," said Monte Cristo.

"And when shall we have the honor of
seeing you again, your excellency?"
asked Cavalcanti.

"Ah," said Andrea, "when may we hope for
that pleasure?"

"On Saturday, if you will -- Yes. -- Let
me see -- Saturday -- I am to dine at my
country house, at Auteuil, on that day,
Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28. Several
persons are invited, and among others,
M. Danglars, your banker. I will
introduce you to him, for it will be
necessary he should know you, as he is
to pay your money."

"Full dress?" said the major, half
aloud.

"Oh, yes, certainly," said the count;
"uniform, cross, knee-breeches."

"And how shall I be dressed?" demanded
Andrea.

"Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent
leather boots, white waistcoat, either a
black or blue coat, and a long cravat.
Go to Blin or Veronique for your
clothes. Baptistin will tell you where,
if you do not know their address. The
less pretension there is in your attire,
the better will be the effect, as you
are a rich man. If you mean to buy any
horses, get them of Devedeux, and if you
purchase a phaeton, go to Baptiste for
it."

"At what hour shall we come?" asked the
young man.

"About half-past six."

"We will be with you at that time," said
the major. The two Cavalcanti bowed to
the count, and left the house. Monte
Cristo went to the window, and saw them
crossing the street, arm in arm. "There
go two miscreants;" said he, "it is a
pity they are not really related!" --
then, after an instant of gloomy
reflection, "Come, I will go to see the
Morrels," said he; "I think that disgust
is even more sickening than hatred."



Chapter 57 In the Lucerne Patch.

Our readers must now allow us to
transport them again to the enclosure
surrounding M. de Villefort's house,
and, behind the gate, half screened from
view by the large chestnut-trees, which
on all sides spread their luxuriant
branches, we shall find some people of
our acquaintance. This time Maximilian
was the first to arrive. He was intently
watching for a shadow to appear among
the trees, and awaiting with anxiety the
sound of a light step on the gravel
walk. At length, the long-desired sound
was heard, and instead of one figure, as
he had expected, he perceived that two
were approaching him. The delay had been
occasioned by a visit from Madame
Danglars and Eugenie, which had been
prolonged beyond the time at which
Valentine was expected. That she might
not appear to fail in her promise to
Maximilian, she proposed to Mademoiselle
Danglars that they should take a walk in
the garden, being anxious to show that
the delay, which was doubtless a cause
of vexation to him, was not occasioned
by any neglect on her part. The young
man, with the intuitive perception of a
lover, quickly understood the
circumstances in which she was
involuntarily placed, and he was
comforted. Besides, although she avoided
coming within speaking distance,
Valentine arranged so that Maximilian
could see her pass and repass, and each
time she went by, she managed,
unperceived by her companion, to cast an
expressive look at the young man, which
seemed to say, "Have patience! You see
it is not my fault." And Maximilian was
patient, and employed himself in
mentally contrasting the two girls, --
one fair, with soft languishing eyes, a
figure gracefully bending like a weeping
willow; the other a brunette, with a
fierce and haughty expression, and as
straight as a poplar. It is unnecessary
to state that, in the eyes of the young
man, Valentine did not suffer by the
contrast. In about half an hour the
girls went away, and Maximilian
understood that Mademoiselle Danglars'
visit had at last come to an end. In a
few minutes Valentine re-entered the
garden alone. For fear that any one
should be observing her return, she
walked slowly; and instead of
immediately directing her steps towards
the gate, she seated herself on a bench,
and, carefully casting her eyes around,
to convince herself that she was not
watched, she presently arose, and
proceeded quickly to join Maximilian.

"Good-evening, Valentine," said a
well-known voice.

"Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have
kept you waiting, but you saw the cause
of my delay."

"Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle
Danglars. I was not aware that you were
so intimate with her."

"Who told you we were intimate,
Maximilian?"

"No one, but you appeared to be so. From
the manner in which you walked and
talked together, one would have thought
you were two school-girls telling your
secrets to each other."

"We were having a confidential
conversation," returned Valentine; "she
was owning to me her repugnance to the
marriage with M. de Morcerf; and I, on
the other hand, was confessing to her
how wretched it made me to think of
marrying M. d'Epinay."

"Dear Valentine!"

"That will account to you for the
unreserved manner which you observed
between me and Eugenie, as in speaking
of the man whom I could not love, my
thoughts involuntarily reverted to him
on whom my affections were fixed."

"Ah, how good you are to say so,
Valentine! You possess a quality which
can never belong to Mademoiselle
Danglars. It is that indefinable charm
which is to a woman what perfume is to
the flower and flavor to the fruit, for
the beauty of either is not the only
quality we seek."

"It is your love which makes you look
upon everything in that light."

"No, Valentine, I assure you such is not
the case. I was observing you both when
you were walking in the garden, and, on
my honor, without at all wishing to
depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle
Danglars, I cannot understand how any
man can really love her."

"The fact is, Maximilian, that I was
there, and my presence had the effect of
rendering you unjust in your
comparison."

"No; but tell me -- it is a question of
simple curiosity, and which was
suggested by certain ideas passing in my
mind relative to Mademoiselle
Danglars" --

"I dare say it is something disparaging
which you are going to say. It only
proves how little indulgence we may
expect from your sex," interrupted
Valentine.

"You cannot, at least, deny that you are
very harsh judges of each other."

"If we are so, it is because we
generally judge under the influence of
excitement. But return to your
question."

"Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to
this marriage with M. de Morcerf on
account of loving another?"

"I told you I was not on terms of strict
intimacy with Eugenie."

"Yes, but girls tell each other secrets
without being particularly intimate;
own, now, that you did question her on
the subject. Ah, I see you are smiling."

"If you are already aware of the
conversation that passed, the wooden
partition which interposed between us
and you has proved but a slight
security."

"Come, what did she say?"

"She told me that she loved no one,"
said Valentine; "that she disliked the
idea of being married; that she would
infinitely prefer leading an independent
and unfettered life; and that she almost
wished her father might lose his
fortune, that she might become an
artist, like her friend, Mademoiselle
Louise d'Armilly."

"Ah, you see" --

"Well, what does that prove?" asked
Valentine.

"Nothing," replied Maximilian.

"Then why did you smile?"

"Why, you know very well that you are
reflecting on yourself, Valentine."

"Do you want me to go away?"

"Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose
time; you are the subject on which I
wish to speak."

"True, we must be quick, for we have
scarcely ten minutes more to pass
together."

"Ma foi," said Maximilian, in
consternation.

"Yes, you are right; I am but a poor
friend to you. What a life I cause you
to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are
formed for happiness! I bitterly
reproach myself, I assure you."

"Well, what does it signify, Valentine,
so long as I am satisfied, and feel that
even this long and painful suspense is
amply repaid by five minutes of your
society, or two words from your lips?
And I have also a deep conviction that
heaven would not have created two
hearts, harmonizing as ours do, and
almost miraculously brought us together,
to separate us at last."

"Those are kind and cheering words. You
must hope for us both, Maximilian; that
will make me at least partly happy."

"But why must you leave me so soon?"

"I do not know particulars. I can only
tell you that Madame de Villefort sent
to request my presence, as she had a
communication to make on which a part of
my fortune depended. Let them take my
fortune, I am already too rich; and,
perhaps, when they have taken it, they
will leave me in peace and quietness.
You would love me as much if I were
poor, would you not, Maximilian?"

"Oh, I shall always love you. What
should I care for either riches or
poverty, if my Valentine was near me,
and I felt certain that no one could
deprive me of her? But do you not fear
that this communication may relate to
your marriage?"

"I do not think that is the case."

"However it may be, Valentine, you must
not be alarmed. I assure you that, as
long as I live, I shall never love any
one else!"

"You think to reassure me when you say
that, Maximilian."

"Pardon me, you are right. I am a brute.
But I was going to tell you that I met
M. de Morcerf the other day."

"Well?"

"Monsieur Franz is his friend, you
know."

"What then?"

"Monsieur de Morcerf has received a
letter from Franz, announcing his
immediate return." Valentine turned
pale, and leaned her hand against the
gate. "Ah heavens, if it were that! But
no, the communication would not come
through Madame de Villefort."

"Why not?"

"Because -- I scarcely know why -- but
it has appeared as if Madame de
Villefort secretly objected to the
marriage, although she did not choose
openly to oppose it."

"Is it so? Then I feel as if I could
adore Madame de Villefort."

"Do not be in such a hurry to do that,"
said Valentine, with a sad smile.

"If she objects to your marrying M.
d'Epinay, she would be all the more
likely to listen to any other
proposition."

"No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to
which Madame de Villefort objects, it is
marriage itself."

"Marriage? If she dislikes that so much,
why did she ever marry herself?"

"You do not understand me, Maximilian.
About a year ago, I talked of retiring
to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in
spite of all the remarks which she
considered it her duty to make, secretly
approved of the proposition, my father
consented to it at her instigation, and
it was only on account of my poor
grandfather that I finally abandoned the
project. You can form no idea of the
expression of that old man's eye when he
looks at me, the only person in the
world whom he loves, and, I had almost
said, by whom he is beloved in return.
When he learned my resolution, I shall
never forget the reproachful look which
he cast on me, and the tears of utter
despair which chased each other down his
lifeless cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I
experienced, at that moment, such
remorse for my intention, that, throwing
myself at his feet, I exclaimed, --
`Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear
grandfather; they may do what they will
with me, I will never leave you.' When I
had ceased speaking, he thankfully
raised his eyes to heaven, but without
uttering a word. Ah, Maximilian, I may
have much to suffer, but I feel as if my
grandfather's look at that moment would
more than compensate for all."

"Dear Valentine, you are a perfect
angel, and I am sure I do not know what
I -- sabring right and left among the
Bedouins -- can have done to merit your
being revealed to me, unless, indeed,
heaven took into consideration the fact
that the victims of my sword were
infidels. But tell me what interest
Madame de Villefort can have in your
remaining unmarried?"

"Did I not tell you just now that I was
rich, Maximilian -- too rich? I possess
nearly 50,000 livres in right of my
mother; my grandfather and my
grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise de
Saint-Meran, will leave me as much, and
M. Noirtier evidently intends making me
his heir. My brother Edward, who
inherits nothing from his mother, will,
therefore, be poor in comparison with
me. Now, if I had taken the veil, all
this fortune would have descended to my
father, and, in reversion, to his son."

"Ah, how strange it seems that such a
young and beautiful woman should be so
avaricious."

"It is not for herself that she is so,
but for her son, and what you regard as
a vice becomes almost a virtue when
looked at in the light of maternal
love."

"But could you not compromise matters,
and give up a portion of your fortune to
her son?"

"How could I make such a proposition,
especially to a woman who always
professes to be so entirely
disinterested?"

"Valentine, I have always regarded our
love in the light of something sacred;
consequently, I have covered it with the
veil of respect, and hid it in the
innermost recesses of my soul. No human
being, not even my sister, is aware of
its existence. Valentine, will you
permit me to make a confidant of a
friend and reveal to him the love I bear
you?"

Valentine started. "A friend,
Maximilian; and who is this friend? I
tremble to give my permission."

"Listen, Valentine. Have you never
experienced for any one that sudden and
irresistible sympathy which made you
feel as if the object of it had been
your old and familiar friend, though, in
reality, it was the first time you had
ever met? Nay, further, have you never
endeavored to recall the time, place,
and circumstances of your former
intercourse, and failing in this
attempt, have almost believed that your
spirits must have held converse with
each other in some state of being
anterior to the present, and that you
are only now occupied in a reminiscence
of the past?"

"Yes."

"Well, that is precisely the feeling
which I experienced when I first saw
that extraordinary man."

"Extraordinary, did you say?"

"Yes."

"You have known him for some time,
then?"

"Scarcely longer than eight or ten
days."

"And do you call a man your friend whom
you have only known for eight or ten
days? Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you
set a higher value on the title of
friend."

"Your logic is most powerful, Valentine,
but say what you will, I can never
renounce the sentiment which has
instinctively taken possession of my
mind. I feel as if it were ordained that
this man should be associated with all
the good which the future may have in
store for me, and sometimes it really
seems as if his eye was able to see what
was to come, and his hand endowed with
the power of directing events according
to his own will."

"He must be a prophet, then," said
Valentine, smiling.

"Indeed," said Maximilian, "I have often
been almost tempted to attribute to him
the gift of prophecy; at all events, he
has a wonderful power of foretelling any
future good."

"Ah," said Valentine in a mournful tone,
"do let me see this man, Maximilian; he
may tell me whether I shall ever be
loved sufficiently to make amends for
all I have suffered."

"My poor girl, you know him already."

"I know him?"

"Yes; it was he who saved the life of
your step-mother and her son."

"The Count of Monte Cristo?"

"The same."

"Ah," cried Valentine, "he is too much
the friend of Madame de Villefort ever
to be mine."

"The friend of Madame de Villefort! It
cannot be; surely, Valentine, you are
mistaken?"

"No, indeed, I am not; for I assure you,
his power over our household is almost
unlimited. Courted by my step-mother,
who regards him as the epitome of human
wisdom; admired by my father, who says
he has never before heard such sublime
ideas so eloquently expressed; idolized
by Edward, who, notwithstanding his fear
of the count's large black eyes, runs to
meet him the moment he arrives, and
opens his hand, in which he is sure to
find some delightful present, -- M. de
Monte Cristo appears to exert a
mysterious and almost uncontrollable
influence over all the members of our
family."

"If such be the case, my dear Valentine,
you must yourself have felt, or at all
events will soon feel, the effects of
his presence. He meets Albert de Morcerf
in Italy -- it is to rescue him from the
hands of the banditti; he introduces
himself to Madame Danglars -- it is that
he may give her a royal present; your
step-mother and her son pass before his
door -- it is that his Nubian may save
them from destruction. This man
evidently possesses the power of
influencing events, both as regards men
and things. I never saw more simple
tastes united to greater magnificence.
His smile is so sweet when he addresses
me, that I forget it ever can be bitter
to others. Ah, Valentine, tell me, if he
ever looked on you with one of those
sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you
will be happy."

"Me?" said the young girl, "he never
even glances at me; on the contrary, if
I accidentally cross his path, he
appears rather to avoid me. Ah, he is
not generous, neither does he possess
that supernatural penetration which you
attribute to him, for if he did, he
would have perceived that I was unhappy;
and if he had been generous, seeing me
sad and solitary, he would have used his
influence to my advantage, and since, as
you say, he resembles the sun, he would
have warmed my heart with one of his
life-giving rays. You say he loves you,
Maximilian; how do you know that he
does? All would pay deference to an
officer like you, with a fierce mustache
and a long sabre, but they think they
may crush a poor weeping girl with
impunity."

"Ah, Valentine, I assure you you are
mistaken."

"If it were otherwise -- if he treated
me diplomatically -- that is to say,
like a man who wishes, by some means or
other, to obtain a footing in the house,
so that he may ultimately gain the power
of dictating to its occupants -- he
would, if it had been but once, have
honored me with the smile which you
extol so loudly; but no, he saw that I
was unhappy, he understood that I could
be of no use to him, and therefore paid
no attention to me whatever. Who knows
but that, in order to please Madame de
Villefort and my father, he may not
persecute me by every means in his
power? It is not just that he should
despise me so, without any reason. Ah,
forgive me," said Valentine, perceiving
the effect which her words were
producing on Maximilian: "I have done
wrong, for I have given utterance to
thoughts concerning that man which I did
not even know existed in my heart. I do
not deny the influence of which you
speak, or that I have not myself
experienced it, but with me it has been
productive of evil rather than good."

"Well, Valentine," said Morrel with a
sigh, "we will not discuss the matter
further. I will not make a confidant of
him."

"Alas," said Valentine, "I see that I
have given you pain. I can only say how
sincerely I ask pardon for having
griefed you. But, indeed, I am not
prejudiced beyond the power of
conviction. Tell me what this Count of
Monte Cristo has done for you."

"I own that your question embarrasses
me, Valentine, for I cannot say that the
count has rendered me any ostensible
service. Still, as I have already told
you I have an instinctive affection for
him, the source of which I cannot
explain to you. Has the sun done
anything for me? No; he warms me with
his rays, and it is by his light that I
see you -- nothing more. Has such and
such a perfume done anything for me? No;
its odor charms one of my senses -- that
is all I can say when I am asked why I
praise it. My friendship for him is as
strange and unaccountable as his for me.
A secret voice seems to whisper to me
that there must be something more than
chance in this unexpected reciprocity of
friendship. In his most simple actions,
as well as in his most secret thoughts,
I find a relation to my own. You will
perhaps smile at me when I tell you
that, ever since I have known this man,
I have involuntarily entertained the
idea that all the good fortune which his
befallen me originated from him.
However, I have managed to live thirty
years without this protection, you will
say; but I will endeavor a little to
illustrate my meaning. He invited me to
dine with him on Saturday, which was a
very natural thing for him to do. Well,
what have I learned since? That your
mother and M. de Villefort are both
coming to this dinner. I shall meet them
there, and who knows what future
advantages may result from the
interview? This may appear to you to be
no unusual combination of circumstances;
nevertheless, I perceive some hidden
plot in the arrangement -- something, in
fact, more than is apparent on a casual
view of the subject. I believe that this
singular man, who appears to fathom the
motives of every one, has purposely
arranged for me to meet M. and Madame de
Villefort, and sometimes, I confess, I
have gone so far as to try to read in
his eyes whether he was in possession of
the secret of our love."

"My good friend," said Valentine, "I
should take you for a visionary, and
should tremble for your reason, if I
were always to hear you talk in a strain
similar to this. Is it possible that you
can see anything more than the merest
chance in this meeting? Pray reflect a
little. My father, who never goes out,
has several times been on the point of
refusing this invitation; Madame de
Villefort, on the contrary, is burning
with the desire of seeing this
extraordinary nabob in his own house,
therefore, she has with great difficulty
prevailed on my father to accompany her.
No, no; it is as I have said,
Maximilian, -- there is no one in the
world of whom I can ask help but
yourself and my grandfather, who is
little better than a corpse."

"I see that you are right, logically
speaking," said Maximilian; "but the
gentle voice which usually has such
power over me fails to convince me
to-day."

"I feel the same as regards yourself."
said Valentine; "and I own that, if you
have no stronger proof to give me" --

"I have another," replied Maximilian;
"but I fear you will deem it even more
absurd than the first."

"So much the worse," said Valentine,
smiling.

"It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my
mind. My ten years of service have also
confirmed my ideas on the subject of
sudden inspirations, for I have several
times owed my life to a mysterious
impulse which directed me to move at
once either to the right or to the left,
in order to escape the ball which killed
the comrade fighting by my side, while
it left me unharmed."

"Dear Maximilian, why not attribute your
escape to my constant prayers for your
safety? When you are away, I no longer
pray for myself, but for you."

"Yes, since you have known me," said
Morrel, smiling; "but that cannot apply
to the time previous to our
acquaintance, Valentine."

"You are very provoking, and will not
give me credit for anything; but let me
hear this second proof, which you
yourself own to be absurd."

"Well, look through this opening, and
you will see the beautiful new horse
which I rode here."

"Ah, what a beautiful creature!" cried
Valentine; "why did you not bring him
close to the gate, so that I could talk
to him and pat him?"

"He is, as you see, a very valuable
animal," said Maximilian. "You know that
my means are limited, and that I am what
would be designated a man of moderate
pretensions. Well, I went to a horse
dealer's, where I saw this magnificent
horse, which I have named Medeah. I
asked the price; they told me it was
4,500 francs. I was, therefore, obliged
to give it up, as you may imagine, but I
own I went away with rather a heavy
heart, for the horse had looked at me
affectionately, had rubbed his head
against me and, when I mounted him, had
pranced in the most delightful way
imaginable, so that I was altogether
fascinated with him. The same evening
some friends of mine visited me, -- M.
de Chateau-Renaud, M. Debray, and five
or six other choice spirits, whom you do
not know, even by name. They proposed a
game of bouillotte. I never play, for I
am not rich enough to afford to lose, or
sufficiently poor to desire to gain. But
I was at my own house, you understand,
so there was nothing to be done but to
send for the cards, which I did.

"Just as they were sitting down to
table, M. de Monte Cristo arrived. He
took his seat amongst them; they played,
and I won. I am almost ashamed to say
that my gains amounted to 5,000 francs.
We separated at midnight. I could not
defer my pleasure, so I took a cabriolet
and drove to the horse dealer's.
Feverish and excited, I rang at the
door. The person who opened it must have
taken me for a madman, for I rushed at
once to the stable. Medeah was standing
at the rack, eating his hay. I
immediately put on the saddle and
bridle, to which operation he lent
himself with the best grace possible;
then, putting the 4,500 francs into the
hands of the astonished dealer, I
proceeded to fulfil my intention of
passing the night in riding in the
Champs Elysees. As I rode by the count's
house I perceived a light in one of the
windows, and fancied I saw the shadow of
his figure moving behind the curtain.
Now, Valentine, I firmly believe that he
knew of my wish to possess this horse,
and that he lost expressly to give me
the means of procuring him."

"My dear Maximilian, you are really too
fanciful; you will not love even me
long. A man who accustoms himself to
live in such a world of poetry and
imagination must find far too little
excitement in a common, every-day sort
of attachment such as ours. But they are
calling me. Do you hear?"

"Ah, Valentine," said Maximilian, "give
me but one finger through this opening
in the grating, one finger, the littlest
finger of all, that I may have the
happiness of kissing it."

"Maximilian, we said we would be to each
other as two voices, two shadows."

"As you will, Valentine."

"Shall you be happy if I do what you
wish?"

"Oh, yes!" Valentine mounted on a bench,
and passed not only her finger but her
whole hand through the opening.
Maximilian uttered a cry of delight,
and, springing forwards, seized the hand
extended towards him, and imprinted on
it a fervent and impassioned kiss. The
little hand was then immediately
withdrawn, and the young man saw
Valentine hurrying towards the house, as
though she were almost terrified at her
own sensations.



Chapter 58 M. Noirtier de Villefort.

We will now relate what was passing in
the house of the king's attorney after
the departure of Madame Danglars and her
daughter, and during the time of the
conversation between Maximilian and
Valentine, which we have just detailed.
M. de Villefort entered his father's
room, followed by Madame de Villefort.
Both of the visitors, after saluting the
old man and speaking to Barrois, a
faithful servant, who had been
twenty-five years in his service, took
their places on either side of the
paralytic.

M. Noirtier was sitting in an arm-chair,
which moved upon casters, in which he
was wheeled into the room in the
morning, and in the same way drawn out
again at night. He was placed before a
large glass, which reflected the whole
apartment, and so, without any attempt
to move, which would have been
impossible, he could see all who entered
the room and everything which was going
on around him. M. Noirtier, although
almost as immovable as a corpse, looked
at the newcomers with a quick and
intelligent expression, perceiving at
once, by their ceremonious courtesy,
that they were come on business of an
unexpected and official character. Sight
and hearing were the only senses
remaining, and they, like two solitary
sparks, remained to animate the
miserable body which seemed fit for
nothing but the grave; it was only,
however, by means of one of these senses
that he could reveal the thoughts and
feelings that still occupied his mind,
and the look by which he gave expression
to his inner life was like the distant
gleam of a candle which a traveller sees
by night across some desert place, and
knows that a living being dwells beyond
the silence and obscurity. Noirtier's
hair was long and white, and flowed over
his shoulders; while in his eyes, shaded
by thick black lashes, was concentrated,
as it often happens with an organ which
is used to the exclusion of the others,
all the activity, address, force, and
intelligence which were formerly
diffused over his whole body; and so
although the movement of the arm, the
sound of the voice, and the agility of
the body, were wanting, the speaking eye
sufficed for all. He commanded with it;
it was the medium through which his
thanks were conveyed. In short, his
whole appearance produced on the mind
the impression of a corpse with living
eyes, and nothing could be more
startling than to observe the expression
of anger or joy suddenly lighting up
these organs, while the rest of the
rigid and marble-like features were
utterly deprived of the power of
participation. Three persons only could
understand this language of the poor
paralytic; these were Villefort,
Valentine, and the old servant of whom
we have already spoken. But as Villefort
saw his father but seldom, and then only
when absolutely obliged, and as he never
took any pains to please or gratify him
when he was there, all the old man's
happiness was centred in his
granddaughter. Valentine, by means of
her love, her patience, and her
devotion, had learned to read in
Noirtier's look all the varied feelings
which were passing in his mind. To this
dumb language, which was so
unintelligible to others, she answered
by throwing her whole soul into the
expression of her countenance, and in
this manner were the conversations
sustained between the blooming girl and
the helpless invalid, whose body could
scarcely be called a living one, but
who, nevertheless, possessed a fund of
knowledge and penetration, united with a
will as powerful as ever although
clogged by a body rendered utterly
incapable of obeying its impulses.
Valentine had solved the problem, and
was able easily to understand his
thoughts, and to convey her own in
return, and, through her untiring and
devoted assiduity, it was seldom that,
in the ordinary transactions of
every-day life, she failed to anticipate
the wishes of the living, thinking mind,
or the wants of the almost inanimate
body. As to the servant, he had, as we
have said, been with his master for five
and twenty years, therefore he knew all
his habits, and it was seldom that
Noirtier found it necessary to ask for
anything, so prompt was he in
administering to all the necessities of
the invalid. Villefort did not need the
help of either Valentine or the domestic
in order to carry on with his father the
strange conversation which he was about
to begin. As we have said, he perfectly
understood the old man's vocabulary, and
if he did not use it more often, it was
only indifference and ennui which
prevented him from so doing. He
therefore allowed Valentine to go into
the garden, sent away Barrois, and after
having seated himself at his father's
right hand, while Madame de Villefort
placed herself on the left, he addressed
him thus: --

"I trust you will not be displeased,
sir, that Valentine has not come with
us, or that I dismissed Barrois, for our
conference will be one which could not
with propriety be carried on in the
presence of either. Madame de Villefort
and I have a communication to make to
you."

Noirtier's face remained perfectly
passive during this long preamble,
while, on the contrary, Villefort's eye
was endeavoring to penetrate into the
inmost recesses of the old man's heart.

"This communication," continued the
procureur, in that cold and decisive
tone which seemed at once to preclude
all discussion, "will, we are sure, meet
with your approbation." The eye of the
invalid still retained that vacancy of
expression which prevented his son from
obtaining any knowledge of the feelings
which were passing in his mind; he
listened, nothing more. "Sir," resumed
Villefort, "we are thinking of marrying
Valentine." Had the old man's face been
moulded in wax it could not have shown
less emotion at this news than was now
to be traced there. "The marriage will
take place in less than three months,"
said Villefort. Noirtier's eye still
retained its inanimate expression.

Madame de Villefort now took her part in
the conversation and added, -- "We
thought this news would possess an
interest for you, sir, who have always
entertained a great affection for
Valentine; it therefore only now remains
for us to tell you the name of the young
man for whom she is destined. It is one
of the most desirable connections which
could possibly be formed; he possesses
fortune, a high rank in society, and
every personal qualification likely to
render Valentine supremely happy, -- his
name, moreover, cannot be wholly unknown
to you. It is M. Franz de Quesnel, Baron
d'Epinay."

While his wife was speaking, Villefort
had narrowly watched the old man's
countenance. When Madame de Villefort
pronounced the name of Franz, the pupil
of M. Noirtier's eye began to dilate,
and his eyelids trembled with the same
movement that may be perceived on the
lips of an individual about to speak,
and he darted a lightning glance at
Madame de Villefort and his son. The
procureur, who knew the political hatred
which had formerly existed between M.
Noirtier and the elder d'Epinay, well
understood the agitation and anger which
the announcement had produced; but,
feigning not to perceive either, he
immediately resumed the narrative begun
by his wife. "Sir," said he, "you are
aware that Valentine is about to enter
her nineteenth year, which renders it
important that she should lose no time
in forming a suitable alliance.
Nevertheless, you have not been
forgotten in our plans, and we have
fully ascertained beforehand that
Valentine's future husband will consent,
not to live in this house, for that
might not be pleasant for the young
people, but that you should live with
them; so that you and Valentine, who are
so attached to each other, would not be
separated, and you would be able to
pursue exactly the same course of life
which you have hitherto done, and thus,
instead of losing, you will be a gainer
by the change, as it will secure to you
two children instead of one, to watch
over and comfort you."

Noirtier's look was furious; it was very
evident that something desperate was
passing in the old man's mind, for a cry
of anger and grief rose in his throat,
and not being able to find vent in
utterance, appeared almost to choke him,
for his face and lips turned quite
purple with the struggle. Villefort
quietly opened a window, saying, "It is
very warm, and the heat affects M.
Noirtier." He then returned to his
place, but did not sit down. "This
marriage," added Madame de Villefort,
"is quite agreeable to the wishes of M.
d'Epinay and his family; besides, he had
no relations nearer than an uncle and
aunt, his mother having died at his
birth, and his father having been
assassinated in 1815, that is to say,
when he was but two years old; it
naturally followed that the child was
permitted to choose his own pursuits,
and he has, therefore, seldom
acknowledged any other authority but
that of his own will."

"That assassination was a mysterious
affair," said Villefort, "and the
perpetrators have hitherto escaped
detection, although suspicion has fallen
on the head of more than one person."
Noirtier made such an effort that his
lips expanded into a smile.

"Now," continued Villefort, "those to
whom the guilt really belongs, by whom
the crime was committed, on whose heads
the justice of man may probably descend
here, and the certain judgment of God
hereafter, would rejoice in the
opportunity thus afforded of bestowing
such a peace-offering as Valentine on
the son of him whose life they so
ruthlessly destroyed." Noirtier had
succeeded in mastering his emotion more
than could have been deemed possible
with such an enfeebled and shattered
frame. "Yes, I understand," was the
reply contained in his look; and this
look expressed a feeling of strong
indignation, mixed with profound
contempt. Villefort fully understood his
father's meaning, and answered by a
slight shrug of his shoulders. He then
motioned to his wife to take leave. "Now
sir," said Madame de Villefort, "I must
bid you farewell. Would you like me to
send Edward to you for a short time?"

It had been agreed that the old man
should express his approbation by
closing his eyes, his refusal by winking
them several times, and if he had some
desire or feeling to express, he raised
them to heaven. If he wanted Valentine,
he closed his right eye only, and if
Barrois, the left. At Madame de
Villefort's proposition he instantly
winked his eyes. Provoked by a complete
refusal, she bit her lip and said, "Then
shall I send Valentine to you?" The old
man closed his eyes eagerly, thereby
intimating that such was his wish. M.
and Madame de Villefort bowed and left
the room, giving orders that Valentine
should be summoned to her grandfather's
presence, and feeling sure that she
would have much to do to restore
calmness to the perturbed spirit of the
invalid. Valentine, with a color still
heightened by emotion, entered the room
just after her parents had quitted it.
One look was sufficient to tell her that
her grandfather was suffering, and that
there was much on his mind which he was
wishing to communicate to her. "Dear
grandpapa," cried she, "what has
happened? They have vexed you, and you
are angry?" The paralytic closed his
eyes in token of assent. "Who has
displeased you? Is it my father?"

"No."

"Madame de Villefort?"

"No."

"Me?" The former sign was repeated. "Are
you displeased with me?" cried Valentine
in astonishment. M. Noirtier again
closed his eyes. "And what have I done,
dear grandpapa, that you should be angry
with me?" cried Valentine.

There was no answer, and she continued.
"I have not seen you all day. Has any
one been speaking to you against me?"

"Yes," said the old man's look, with
eagerness.

"Let me think a moment. I do assure you,
grandpapa -- Ah -- M. and Madame de
Villefort have just left this room, have
they not?"

"Yes."

"And it was they who told you something
which made you angry? What was it then?
May I go and ask them, that I may have
the opportunity of making my peace with
you?"

"No, no," said Noirtier's look.

"Ah, you frighten me. What can they have
said?" and she again tried to think what
it could be.

"Ah, I know," said she, lowering her
voice and going close to the old man.
"They have been speaking of my
marriage, -- have they not?"

"Yes," replied the angry look.

"I understand; you are displeased at the
silence I have preserved on the subject.
The reason of it was, that they had
insisted on my keeping the matter a
secret, and begged me not to tell you
anything of it. They did not even
acquaint me with their intentions, and I
only discovered them by chance, that is
why I have been so reserved with you,
dear grandpapa. Pray forgive me." But
there was no look calculated to reassure
her; all it seemed to say was, "It is
not only your reserve which afflicts
me."

"What is it, then?" asked the young
girl. "Perhaps you think I shall abandon
you, dear grandpapa, and that I shall
forget you when I am married?"

"No."

"They told you, then, that M. d'Epinay
consented to our all living together?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you still vexed and
grieved?" The old man's eyes beamed with
an expression of gentle affection. "Yes,
I understand," said Valentine; "it is
because you love me." The old man
assented. "And you are afraid I shall be
unhappy?"

"Yes."

"You do not like M. Franz?" The eyes
repeated several times, "No, no, no."

"Then you are vexed with the
engagement?"

"Yes."

"Well, listen," said Valentine, throwing
herself on her knees, and putting her
arm round her grandfather's neck, "I am
vexed, too, for I do not love M. Franz
d'Epinay." An expression of intense joy
illumined the old man's eyes. "When I
wished to retire into a convent, you
remember how angry you were with me?" A
tear trembled in the eye of the invalid.
"Well," continued Valentine, "the reason
of my proposing it was that I might
escape this hateful marriage, which
drives me to despair." Noirtier's
breathing came thick and short. "Then
the idea of this marriage really grieves
you too? Ah, if you could but help me --
if we could both together defeat their
plan! But you are unable to oppose
them, -- you, whose mind is so quick,
and whose will is so firm are
nevertheless, as weak and unequal to the
contest as I am myself. Alas, you, who
would have been such a powerful
protector to me in the days of your
health and strength, can now only
sympathize in my joys and sorrows,
without being able to take any active
part in them. However, this is much, and
calls for gratitude and heaven has not
taken away all my blessings when it
leaves me your sympathy and kindness."

At these words there appeared in
Noirtier's eye an expression of such
deep meaning that the young girl thought
she could read these words there: "You
are mistaken; I can still do much for
you."

"Do you think you can help me, dear
grandpapa?" said Valentine.

"Yes." Noirtier raised his eyes, it was
the sign agreed on between him and
Valentine when he wanted anything.

"What is it you want, dear grandpapa?"
said Valentine, and she endeavored to
recall to mind all the things which he
would be likely to need; and as the
ideas presented themselves to her mind,
she repeated them aloud, then, --
finding that all her efforts elicited
nothing but a constant "No," -- she
said, "Come, since this plan does not
answer, I will have recourse to
another." She then recited all the
letters of the alphabet from A down to
N. When she arrived at that letter the
paralytic made her understand that she
had spoken the initial letter of the
thing he wanted. "Ah," said Valentine,
"the thing you desire begins with the
letter N; it is with N that we have to
do, then. Well, let me see, what can you
want that begins with N? Na -- Ne --
Ni -- No" --

"Yes, yes, yes," said the old man's eye.

"Ah, it is No, then?"

"Yes." Valentine fetched a dictionary,
which she placed on a desk before
Noirtier; she opened it, and, seeing
that the odd man's eye was thoroughly
fixed on its pages, she ran her finger
quickly up and down the columns. During
the six years which had passed since
Noirtier first fell into this sad state,
Valentine's powers of invention had been
too often put to the test not to render
her expert in devising expedients for
gaining a knowledge of his wishes, and
the constant practice had so perfected
her in the art that she guessed the old
man's meaning as quickly as if he
himself had been able to seek for what
he wanted. At the word "Notary,"
Noirtier made a sign to her to stop.
"Notary," said she, "do you want a
notary, dear grandpapa?" The old man
again signified that it was a notary he
desired.

"You would wish a notary to be sent for
then?" said Valentine.

"Yes."

"Shall my father be informed of your
wish?"

"Yes."

"Do you wish the notary to be sent for
immediately?"

"Yes."

"Then they shall go for him directly,
dear grandpapa. Is that all you want?"

"Yes." Valentine rang the bell, and
ordered the servant to tell Monsieur or
Madame de Villefort that they were
requested to come to M. Noirtier's room.
"Are you satisfied now?" inquired
Valentine.

"Yes."

"I am sure you are; it is not very
difficult to discover that," -- and the
young girl smiled on her grandfather, as
if he had been a child. M. de Villefort
entered, followed by Barrois. "What do
you want me for, sir?" demanded he of
the paralytic.

"Sir," said Valentine, "my grandfather
wishes for a notary." At this strange
and unexpected demand M. de Villefort
and his father exchanged looks. "Yes,"
motioned the latter, with a firmness
which seemed to declare that with the
help of Valentine and his old servant,
who both knew what his wishes were, he
was quite prepared to maintain the
contest. "Do you wish for a notary?"
asked Villefort.

"Yes."

"What to do?"

Noirtier made no answer. "What do you
want with a notary?" again repeated
Villefort. The invalid's eye remained
fixed, by which expression he intended
to intimate that his resolution was
unalterable. "Is it to do us some ill
turn? Do you think it is worth while?"
said Villefort.

"Still," said Barrois, with the freedom
and fidelity of an old servant, "if M.
Noirtier asks for a notary, I suppose he
really wishes for a notary; therefore I
shall go at once and fetch one." Barrois
acknowledged no master but Noirtier, and
never allowed his desires in any way to
be contradicted.

"Yes, I do want a notary," motioned the
old man, shutting his eyes with a look
of defiance, which seemed to say, "and I
should like to see the person who dares
to refuse my request."

"You shall have a notary, as you
absolutely wish for one, sir," said
Villefort; "but I shall explain to him
your state of health, and make excuses
for you, for the scene cannot fail of
being a most ridiculous one."

"Never mind that," said Barrois; "I
shall go and fetch a notary,
nevertheless," -- and the old servant
departed triumphantly on his mission.



Chapter 59 The Will.

As soon as Barrois had left the room,
Noirtier looked at Valentine with a
malicious expression that said many
things. The young girl perfectly
understood the look, and so did
Villefort, for his countenance became
clouded, and he knitted his eyebrows
angrily. He took a seat, and quietly
awaited the arrival of the notary.
Noirtier saw him seat himself with an
appearance of perfect indifference, at
the same time giving a side look at
Valentine, which made her understand
that she also was to remain in the room.
Three-quarters of an hour after, Barrois
returned, bringing the notary with him.
"Sir," said Villefort, after the first
salutations were over, "you were sent
for by M. Noirtier, whom you see here.
All his limbs have become completely
paralysed, he has lost his voice also,
and we ourselves find much trouble in
endeavoring to catch some fragments of
his meaning." Noirtier cast an appealing
look on Valentine, which look was at
once so earnest and imperative, that she
answered immediately. "Sir," said she,
"I perfectly understand my grandfather's
meaning at all times."

"That is quite true," said Barrois; "and
that is what I told the gentleman as we
walked along."

"Permit me," said the notary, turning
first to Villefort and then to
Valentine -- "permit me to state that
the case in question is just one of
those in which a public officer like
myself cannot proceed to act without
thereby incurring a dangerous
responsibility. The first thing
necessary to render an act valid is,
that the notary should be thoroughly
convinced that he has faithfully
interpreted the will and wishes of the
person dictating the act. Now I cannot
be sure of the approbation or
disapprobation of a client who cannot
speak, and as the object of his desire
or his repugnance cannot be clearly
proved to me, on account of his want of
speech, my services here would be quite
useless, and cannot be legally
exercised." The notary then prepared to
retire. An imperceptible smile of
triumph was expressed on the lips of the
procureur. Noirtier looked at Valentine
with an expression so full of grief,
that she arrested the departure of the
notary. "Sir," said she, "the language
which I speak with my grandfather may be
easily learnt, and I can teach you in a
few minutes, to understand it almost as
well as I can myself. Will you tell me
what you require, in order to set your
conscience quite at ease on the
subject?"

"In order to render an act valid, I must
be certain of the approbation or
disapprobation of my client. Illness of
body would not affect the validity of
the deed, but sanity of mind is
absolutely requisite."

"Well, sir, by the help of two signs,
with which I will acquaint you
presently, you may ascertain with
perfect certainty that my grandfather is
still in the full possession of all his
mental faculties. M. Noirtier, being
deprived of voice and motion, is
accustomed to convey his meaning by
closing his eyes when he wishes to
signify `yes,' and to wink when he means
`no.' You now know quite enough to
enable you to converse with M.
Noirtier; -- try." Noirtier gave
Valentine such a look of tenderness and
gratitude that it was comprehended even
by the notary himself. "You have heard
and understood what your granddaughter
has been saying, sir, have you?" asked
the notary. Noirtier closed his eyes.
"And you approve of what she said --
that is to say, you declare that the
signs which she mentioned are really
those by means of which you are
accustomed to convey your thoughts?"

"Yes."

"It was you who sent for me?"

"Yes."

"To make your will?"

"Yes."

"And you do not wish me to go away
without fulfilling your original
intentions?" The old man winked
violently. "Well, sir," said the young
girl, "do you understand now, and is
your conscience perfectly at rest on the
subject?" But before the notary could
answer, Villefort had drawn him aside.
"Sir," said he, "do you suppose for a
moment that a man can sustain a physical
shock, such as M. Noirtier has received,
without any detriment to his mental
faculties?"

"It is not exactly that, sir," said the
notary, "which makes me uneasy, but the
difficulty will be in wording his
thoughts and intentions, so as to be
able to get his answers."

"You must see that to be an utter
impossibility," said Villefort.
Valentine and the old man heard this
conversation, and Noirtier fixed his eye
so earnestly on Valentine that she felt
bound to answer to the look.

"Sir," said she, "that need not make you
uneasy, however difficult it may at
first sight appear to be. I can discover
and explain to you my grandfather's
thoughts, so as to put an end to all
your doubts and fears on the subject. I
have now been six years with M.
Noirtier, and let him tell you if ever
once, during that time, he has
entertained a thought which he was
unable to make me understand."

"No," signed the old man.

"Let us try what we can do, then," said
the notary. "You accept this young lady
as your interpreter, M. Noirtier?"

"Yes."

"Well, sir, what do you require of me,
and what document is it that you wish to
be drawn up?" Valentine named all the
letters of the alphabet until she came
to W. At this letter the eloquent eye of
Noirtier gave her notice that she was to
stop. "It is very evident that it is the
letter W which M. Noirtier wants," said
the notary. "Wait," said Valentine; and,
turning to her grandfather, she
repeated, "Wa -- We -- Wi" -- The old
man stopped her at the last syllable.
Valentine then took the dictionary, and
the notary watched her while she turned
over the pages. She passed her finger
slowly down the columns, and when she
came to the word "Will," M. Noirtier's
eye bade her stop. "Will," said the
notary; "it is very evident that M.
Noirtier is desirous of making his
will."

"Yes, yes, yes," motioned the invalid.

"Really, sir, you must allow that this
is most extraordinary," said the
astonished notary, turning to M. de
Villefort. "Yes," said the procureur,
"and I think the will promises to be yet
more extraordinary, for I cannot see how
it is to be drawn up without the
intervention of Valentine, and she may,
perhaps, be considered as too much
interested in its contents to allow of
her being a suitable interpreter of the
obscure and ill-defined wishes of her
grandfather."

"No, no, no," replied the eye of the
paralytic.

"What?" said Villefort, "do you mean to
say that Valentine is not interested in
your will?"

"No."

"Sir," said the notary, whose interest
had been greatly excited, and who had
resolved on publishing far and wide the
account of this extraordinary and
picturesque scene, "what appeared so
impossible to me an hour ago, has now
become quite easy and practicable, and
this may be a perfectly valid will,
provided it be read in the presence of
seven witnesses, approved by the
testator, and sealed by the notary in
the presence of the witnesses. As to the
time, it will not require very much more
than the generality of wills. There are
certain forms necessary to be gone
through, and which are always the same.
As to the details, the greater part will
be furnished afterwards by the state in
which we find the affairs of the
testator, and by yourself, who, having
had the management of them, can
doubtless give full information on the
subject. But besides all this, in order
that the instrument may not be
contested, I am anxious to give it the
greatest possible authenticity,
therefore, one of my colleagues will
help me, and, contrary to custom, will
assist in the dictation of the
testament. Are you satisfied, sir?"
continued the notary, addressing the old
man.

"Yes," looked the invalid, his eye
beaming with delight at the ready
interpretation of his meaning.

"What is he going to do?" thought
Villefort, whose position demanded much
reserve, but who was longing to know
what his father's intentions were. He
left the room to give orders for another
notary to be sent, but Barrois, who had
heard all that passed, had guessed his
master's wishes, and had already gone to
fetch one. The procureur then told his
wife to come up. In the course of a
quarter of an hour every one had
assembled in the chamber of the
paralytic; the second notary had also
arrived. A few words sufficed for a
mutual understanding between the two
officers of the law. They read to
Noirtier the formal copy of a will, in
order to give him an idea of the terms
in which such documents are generally
couched; then, in order to test the
capacity of the testator, the first
notary said, turning towards him, --
"When an individual makes his will, it
is generally in favor or in prejudice of
some person."

"Yes."

"Have you an exact idea of the amount of
your fortune?"

"Yes."

"I will name to you several sums which
will increase by gradation; you will
stop me when I reach the one
representing the amount of your own
possessions?"

"Yes." There was a kind of solemnity in
this interrogation. Never had the
struggle between mind and matter been
more apparent than now, and if it was
not a sublime, it was, at least, a
curious spectacle. They had formed a
circle round the invalid; the second
notary was sitting at a table, prepared
for writing, and his colleague was
standing before the testator in the act
of interrogating him on the subject to
which we have alluded. "Your fortune
exceeds 300,000 francs, does it not?"
asked he. Noirtier made a sign that it
did. "Do you possess 400,000 francs?"
inquired the notary. Noirtier's eye
remained immovable. "Five hundred
thousand?" The same expression
continued. "Six hundred thousand --
700,000 -- 800,000 -- 900,000?" Noirtier
stopped him at the last-named sum. "You
are then in possession of 900,000
francs?" asked the notary. "Yes."

"In landed property?"

"No."

"In stock?"

"Yes."

"The stock is in your own hands?" The
look which M. Noirtier cast on Barrois
showed that there was something wanting
which he knew where to find. The old
servant left the room, and presently
returned, bringing with him a small
casket. "Do you permit us to open this
casket?" asked the notary. Noirtier gave
his assent. They opened it, and found
900,000 francs in bank scrip. The first
notary handed over each note, as he
examined it, to his colleague.

The total amount was found to be as M.
Noirtier had stated. "It is all as he
has said; it is very evident that the
mind still retains its full force and
vigor." Then, turning towards the
paralytic, he said, "You possess, then,
900,000 francs of capital, which,
according to the manner in which you
have invested it, ought to bring in an
income of about 40,000 livres?"

"Yes."

"To whom do you desire to leave this
fortune?"

"Oh," said Madame de Villefort, "there
is not much doubt on that subject. M.
Noirtier tenderly loves his
granddaughter, Mademoiselle de
Villefort; it is she who has nursed and
tended him for six years, and has, by
her devoted attention, fully secured the
affection, I had almost said the
gratitude, of her grandfather, and it is
but just that she should reap the fruit
of her devotion." The eye of Noirtier
clearly showed by its expression that he
was not deceived by the false assent
given by Madame de Villefort's words and
manner to the motives which she supposed
him to entertain. "Is it, then, to
Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort that
you leave these 900,000 francs?"
demanded the notary, thinking he had
only to insert this clause, but waiting
first for the assent of Noirtier, which
it was necessary should be given before
all the witnesses of this singular
scene. Valentine, when her name was made
the subject of discussion, had stepped
back, to escape unpleasant observation;
her eyes were cast down, and she was
crying. The old man looked at her for an
instant with an expression of the
deepest tenderness, then, turning
towards the notary, he significantly
winked his eye in token of dissent.

"What," said the notary, "do you not
intend making Mademoiselle Valentine de
Villefort your residuary legatee?"

"No."

"You are not making any mistake, are
you?" said the notary; "you really mean
to declare that such is not your
intention?"

"No," repeated Noirtier; "No." Valentine
raised her head, struck dumb with
astonishment. It was not so much the
conviction that she was disinherited
that caused her grief, but her total
inability to account for the feelings
which had provoked her grandfather to
such an act. But Noirtier looked at her
with so much affectionate tenderness
that she exclaimed, "Oh, grandpapa, I
see now that it is only your fortune of
which you deprive me; you still leave me
the love which I have always enjoyed."

"Ah, yes, most assuredly," said the eyes
of the paralytic, for he closed them
with an expression which Valentine could
not mistake. "Thank you, thank you,"
murmured she. The old man's declaration
that Valentine was not the destined
inheritor of his fortune had excited the
hopes of Madame de Villefort; she
gradually approached the invalid, and
said: "Then, doubtless, dear M.
Noirtier, you intend leaving your
fortune to your grandson, Edward de
Villefort?" The winking of the eyes
which answered this speech was most
decided and terrible, and expressed a
feeling almost amounting to hatred.

"No?" said the notary; "then, perhaps,
it is to your son, M. de Villefort?"

"No." The two notaries looked at each
other in mute astonishment and inquiry
as to what were the real intentions of
the testator. Villefort and his wife
both grew red, one from shame, the other
from anger.

"What have we all done, then, dear
grandpapa?" said Valentine; "you no
longer seem to love any of us?" The old
man's eyes passed rapidly from Villefort
and his wife, and rested on Valentine
with a look of unutterable fondness.
"Well," said she; "if you love me,
grandpapa, try and bring that love to
bear upon your actions at this present
moment. You know me well enough to be
quite sure that I have never thought of
your fortune; besides, they say I am
already rich in right of my mother --
too rich, even. Explain yourself, then."
Noirtier fixed his intelligent eyes on
Valentine's hand. "My hand?" said she.

"Yes."

"Her hand!" exclaimed every one.

"Oh, gentlemen, you see it is all
useless, and that my father's mind is
really impaired," said Villefort.

"Ah," cried Valentine suddenly, "I
understand. It is my marriage you mean,
is it not, dear grandpapa?"

"Yes, yes, yes," signed the paralytic,
casting on Valentine a look of joyful
gratitude for having guessed his
meaning.

"You are angry with us all on account of
this marriage, are you not?"

"Yes?"

"Really, this is too absurd," said
Villefort.

"Excuse me, sir," replied the notary;
"on the contrary, the meaning of M.
Noirtier is quite evident to me, and I
can quite easily connect the train of
ideas passing in his mind."

"You do not wish me to marry M. Franz
d'Epinay?" observed Valentine.

"I do not wish it," said the eye of her
grandfather. "And you disinherit your
granddaughter," continued the notary,
"because she has contracted an
engagement contrary to your wishes?"

"Yes."

"So that, but for this marriage, she
would have been your heir?"

"Yes." There was a profound silence. The
two notaries were holding a consultation
as to the best means of proceeding with
the affair. Valentine was looking at her
grandfather with a smile of intense
gratitude, and Villefort was biting his
lips with vexation, while Madame de
Villefort could not succeed in
repressing an inward feeling of joy,
which, in spite of herself, appeared in
her whole countenance. "But," said
Villefort, who was the first to break
the silence, "I consider that I am the
best judge of the propriety of the
marriage in question. I am the only
person possessing the right to dispose
of my daughter's hand. It is my wish
that she should marry M. Franz
d'Epinay -- and she shall marry him."
Valentine sank weeping into a chair.

"Sir," said the notary, "how do you
intend disposing of your fortune in case
Mademoiselle de Villefort still
determines on marrying M. Franz?" The
old man gave no answer. "You will, of
course, dispose of it in some way or
other?"

"Yes."

"In favor of some member of your
family?"

"No."

"Do you intend devoting it to charitable
purposes, then?" pursued the notary.

"Yes."

"But," said the notary, "you are aware
that the law does not allow a son to be
entirely deprived of his patrimony?"

"Yes."

"You only intend, then, to dispose of
that part of your fortune which the law
allows you to subtract from the
inheritance of your son?" Noirtier made
no answer. "Do you still wish to dispose
of all?"

"Yes."

"But they will contest the will after
your death?"

"No."

"My father knows me," replied Villefort;
"he is quite sure that his wishes will
be held sacred by me; besides, he
understands that in my position I cannot
plead against the poor." The eye of
Noirtier beamed with triumph. "What do
you decide on, sir?" asked the notary of
Villefort.

"Nothing, sir; it is a resolution which
my father has taken and I know he never
alters his mind. I am quite resigned.
These 900,000 francs will go out of the
family in order to enrich some hospital;
but it is ridiculous thus to yield to
the caprices of an old man, and I shall,
therefore, act according to my
conscience." Having said this, Villefort
quitted the room with his wife, leaving
his father at liberty to do as he
pleased. The same day the will was made,
the witnesses were brought, it was
approved by the old man, sealed in the
presence of all and given in charge to
M. Deschamps, the family notary.



Chapter 60 The Telegraph.

M. and Madame de Villefort found on
their return that the Count of Monte
Cristo, who had come to visit them in
their absence, had been ushered into the
drawing-room, and was still awaiting
them there. Madame de Villefort, who had
not yet sufficiently recovered from her
late emotion to allow of her
entertaining visitors so immediately,
retired to her bedroom, while the
procureur, who could better depend upon
himself, proceeded at once to the salon.
Although M. de Villefort flattered
himself that, to all outward view, he
had completely masked the feelings which
were passing in his mind, he did not
know that the cloud was still lowering
on his brow, so much so that the count,
whose smile was radiant, immediately
noticed his sombre and thoughtful air.
"Ma foi," said Monte Cristo, after the
first compliments were over, "what is
the matter with you, M. de Villefort?
Have I arrived at the moment when you
were drawing up an indictment for a
capital crime?" Villefort tried to
smile. "No, count," he replied, "I am
the only victim in this case. It is I
who lose my cause, and it is ill-luck,
obstinacy, and folly which have caused
it to be decided against me."

"To what do you refer?" said Monte
Cristo with well-feigned interest. "Have
you really met with some great
misfortune?"

"Oh, no, monsieur," said Villefort with
a bitter smile; "it is only a loss of
money which I have sustained -- nothing
worth mentioning, I assure you."

"True," said Monte Cristo, "the loss of
a sum of money becomes almost immaterial
with a fortune such as you possess, and
to one of your philosophic spirit."

"It is not so much the loss of the money
that vexes me," said Villefort, "though,
after all, 900,000 francs are worth
regretting; but I am the more annoyed
with this fate, chance, or whatever you
please to call the power which has
destroyed my hopes and my fortune, and
may blast the prospects of my child
also, as it is all occasioned by an old
man relapsed into second childhood."

"What do you say?" said the count;
"900,000 francs? It is indeed a sum
which might be regretted even by a
philosopher. And who is the cause of all
this annoyance?"

"My father, as I told you."

"M. Noirtier? But I thought you told me
he had become entirely paralyzed, and
that all his faculties were completely
destroyed?"

"Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can
neither move nor speak, nevertheless he
thinks, acts, and wills in the manner I
have described. I left him about five
minutes ago, and he is now occupied in
dictating his will to two notaries."

"But to do this he must have spoken?"

"He has done better than that -- he has
made himself understood."

"How was such a thing possible?"

"By the help of his eyes, which are
still full of life, and, as you
perceive, possess the power of
inflicting mortal injury."

"My dear," said Madame de Villefort, who
had just entered the room, "perhaps you
exaggerate the evil."

"Good-morning, madame," said the count,
bowing. Madame de Villefort acknowledged
the salutation with one of her most
gracious smiles. "What is this that M.
de Villefort has been telling me?"
demanded Monte Cristo "and what
incomprehensible misfortune" --

"Incomprehensible is not the word,"
interrupted the procureur, shrugging his
shoulders. "It is an old man's caprice."

"And is there no means of making him
revoke his decision?"

"Yes," said Madame de Villefort; "and it
is still entirely in the power of my
husband to cause the will, which is now
in prejudice of Valentine, to be altered
in her favor." The count, who perceived
that M. and Madame de Villefort were
beginning to speak in parables, appeared
to pay no attention to the conversation,
and feigned to be busily engaged in
watching Edward, who was mischievously
pouring some ink into the bird's
water-glass. "My dear," said Villefort,
in answer to his wife, "you know I have
never been accustomed to play the
patriarch in my family, nor have I ever
considered that the fate of a universe
was to be decided by my nod.
Nevertheless, it is necessary that my
will should be respected in my family,
and that the folly of an old man and the
caprice of a child should not be allowed
to overturn a project which I have
entertained for so many years. The Baron
d'Epinay was my friend, as you know, and
an alliance with his son is the most
suitable thing that could possibly be
arranged."

"Do you think," said Madame de
Villefort, "that Valentine is in league
with him? She has always been opposed to
this marriage, and I should not be at
all surprised if what we have just seen
and heard is nothing but the execution
of a plan concerted between them."

"Madame," said Villefort, "believe me, a
fortune of 900,000 francs is not so
easily renounced."

"She could, nevertheless, make up her
mind to renounce the world, sir, since
it is only about a year ago that she
herself proposed entering a convent."

"Never mind," replied Villefort; "I say
that this marriage shall be
consummated."

"Notwithstanding your father's wishes to
the contrary?" said Madame de Villefort,
selecting a new point of attack. "That
is a serious thing." Monte Cristo, who
pretended not to be listening, heard
however, every word that was said.
"Madame," replied Villefort "I can truly
say that I have always entertained a
high respect for my father, because, to
the natural feeling of relationship was
added the consciousness of his moral
superiority. The name of father is
sacred in two senses; he should be
reverenced as the author of our being
and as a master whom we ought to obey.
But, under the present circumstances, I
am justified in doubting the wisdom of
an old man who, because he hated the
father, vents his anger on the son. It
would be ridiculous in me to regulate my
conduct by such caprices. I shall still
continue to preserve the same respect
toward M. Noirtier; I will suffer,
without complaint, the pecuniary
deprivation to which he has subjected
me; but I shall remain firm in my
determination, and the world shall see
which party his reason on his side.
Consequently I shall marry my daughter
to the Baron Franz d'Epinay, because I
consider it would be a proper and
eligible match for her to make, and, in
short, because I choose to bestow my
daughter's hand on whomever I please."

"What?" said the count, the approbation
of whose eye Villefort had frequently
solicited during this speech. "What? Do
you say that M. Noirtier disinherits
Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is
going to marry M. le Baron Franz
d'Epinay?"

"Yes, sir, that is the reason," said
Villefort, shrugging his shoulders.

"The apparent reason, at least," said
Madame de Villefort.

"The real reason, madame, I can assure
you; I know my father."

"But I want to know in what way M.
d'Epinay can have displeased your father
more than any other person?"

"I believe I know M. Franz d'Epinay,"
said the count; "is he not the son of
General de Quesnel, who was created
Baron d'Epinay by Charles X.?"

"The same," said Villefort.

"Well, but he is a charming young man,
according to my ideas."

"He is, which makes me believe that it
is only an excuse of M. Noirtier to
prevent his granddaughter marrying; old
men are always so selfish in their
affection," said Madame de Villefort.

"But," said Monte Cristo "do you not
know any cause for this hatred?"

"Ah, ma foi, who is to know?"

"Perhaps it is some political
difference?"

"My father and the Baron d'Epinay lived
in the stormy times of which I only saw
the ending," said Villefort.

"Was not your father a Bonapartist?"
asked Monte Cristo; "I think I remember
that you told me something of that
kind."

"My father has been a Jacobin more than
anything else," said Villefort, carried
by his emotion beyond the bounds of
prudence; "and the senator's robe, which
Napoleon cast on his shoulders, only
served to disguise the old man without
in any degree changing him. When my
father conspired, it was not for the
emperor, it was against the Bourbons;
for M. Noirtier possessed this
peculiarity, he never projected any
Utopian schemes which could never be
realized, but strove for possibilities,
and he applied to the realization of
these possibilities the terrible
theories of The Mountain, -- theories
that never shrank from any means that
were deemed necessary to bring about the
desired result."

"Well," said Monte Cristo, "it is just
as I thought; it was politics which
brought Noirtier and M. d'Epinay into
personal contact. Although General
d'Epinay served under Napoleon, did he
not still retain royalist sentiments?
And was he not the person who was
assassinated one evening on leaving a
Bonapartist meeting to which he had been
invited on the supposition that he
favored the cause of the emperor?"
Villefort looked at the count almost
with terror. "Am I mistaken, then?" said
Monte Cristo.

"No, sir, the facts were precisely what
you have stated," said Madame de
Villefort; "and it was to prevent the
renewal of old feuds that M. de
Villefort formed the idea of uniting in
the bonds of affection the two children
of these inveterate enemies."

"It was a sublime and charitable
thought," said Monte Cristo, "and the
whole world should applaud it. It would
be noble to see Mademoiselle Noirtier de
Villefort assuming the title of Madame
Franz d'Epinay." Villefort shuddered and
looked at Monte Cristo as if he wished
to read in his countenance the real
feelings which had dictated the words he
had just uttered. But the count
completely baffled the procureur, and
prevented him from discovering anything
beneath the never-varying smile he was
so constantly in the habit of assuming.
"Although," said Villefort, "it will be
a serious thing for Valentine to lose
her grandfather's fortune, I do not
think that M. d'Epinay will be
frightened at this pecuniary loss. He
will, perhaps, hold me in greater esteem
than the money itself, seeing that I
sacrifice everything in order to keep my
word with him. Besides, he knows that
Valentine is rich in right of her
mother, and that she will, in all
probability, inherit the fortune of M.
and Madame de Saint-Meran, her mother's
parents, who both love her tenderly."

"And who are fully as well worth loving
and tending as M. Noirtier," said Madame
de Villefort; "besides, they are to come
to Paris in about a month, and
Valentine, after the affront she has
received, need not consider it necessary
to continue to bury herself alive by
being shut up with M. Noirtier." The
count listened with satisfaction to this
tale of wounded self-love and defeated
ambition. "But it seems to me," said
Monte Cristo, "and I must begin by
asking your pardon for what I am about
to say, that if M. Noirtier disinherits
Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is
going to marry a man whose father he
detested, he cannot have the same cause
of complaint against this dear Edward."

"True," said Madame de Villefort, with
an intonation of voice which it is
impossible to describe; "is it not
unjust -- shamefully unjust? Poor Edward
is as much M. Noirtier's grandchild as
Valentine, and yet, if she had not been
going to marry M. Franz, M. Noirtier
would have left her all his money; and
supposing Valentine to be disinherited
by her grandfather, she will still be
three times richer than he." The count
listened and said no more. "Count," said
Villefort, "we will not entertain you
any longer with our family misfortunes.
It is true that my patrimony will go to
endow charitable institutions, and my
father will have deprived me of my
lawful inheritance without any reason
for doing so, but I shall have the
satisfaction of knowing that I have
acted like a man of sense and feeling.
M. d'Epinay, to whom I had promised the
interest of this sum, shall receive it,
even if I endure the most cruel
privations."

"However," said Madame de Villefort,
returning to the one idea which
incessantly occupied her mind, "perhaps
it would be better to explain this
unlucky affair to M. d'Epinay, in order
to give him the opportunity of himself
renouncing his claim to the hand of
Mademoiselle de Villefort."

"Ah, that would be a great pity," said
Villefort.

"A great pity," said Monte Cristo.

"Undoubtedly," said Villefort,
moderating the tones of his voice, "a
marriage once concerted and then broken
off, throws a sort of discredit on a
young lady; then again, the old reports,
which I was so anxious to put an end to,
will instantly gain ground. No, it will
all go well; M. d'Epinay, if he is an
honorable man, will consider himself
more than ever pledged to Mademoiselle
de Villefort, unless he were actuated by
a decided feeling of avarice, but that
is impossible."

"I agree with M. de Villefort," said
Monte Cristo, fixing his eyes on Madame
de Villefort; "and if I were
sufficiently intimate with him to allow
of giving my advice, I would persuade
him, since I have been told M. d'Epinay
is coming back, to settle this affair at
once beyond all possibility of
revocation. I will answer for the
success of a project which will reflect
so much honor on M. de Villefort." The
procureur arose, delighted with the
proposition, but his wife slightly
changed color. "Well, that is all that I
wanted, and I will be guided by a
counsellor such as you are," said he,
extending his hand to Monte Cristo.
"Therefore let every one here look upon
what has passed to-day as if it had not
happened, and as though we had never
thought of such a thing as a change in
our original plans."

"Sir," said the count, "the world,
unjust as it is, will be pleased with
your resolution; your friends will be
proud of you, and M. d'Epinay, even if
he took Mademoiselle de Villefort
without any dowry, which he will not do,
would be delighted with the idea of
entering a family which could make such
sacrifices in order to keep a promise
and fulfil a duty." At the conclusion of
these words, the count rose to depart.
"Are you going to leave us, count?" said
Madame de Villefort.

"I am sorry to say I must do so, madame,
I only came to remind you of your
promise for Saturday."

"Did you fear that we should forget it?"

"You are very good, madame, but M. de
Villefort has so many important and
urgent occupations."

"My husband has given me his word, sir,"
said Madame de Villefort; "you have just
seen him resolve to keep it when he has
everything to lose, and surely there is
more reason for his doing so where he
has everything to gain."

"And," said Villefort, "is it at your
house in the Champs-Elysees that you
receive your visitors?"

"No," said Monte Cristo, "which is
precisely the reason which renders your
kindness more meritorious, -- it is in
the country."

"In the country?"

"Yes."

"Where is it, then? Near Paris, is it
not?"

"Very near, only half a league from the
Barriers, -- it is at Auteuil."

"At Auteuil?" said Villefort; "true,
Madame de Villefort told me you lived at
Auteuil, since it was to your house that
she was taken. And in what part of
Auteuil do you reside?"

"Rue de la Fontaine."

"Rue de la Fontaine!" exclaimed
Villefort in an agitated tone; "at what
number?"

"No. 28."

"Then," cried Villefort, "was it you who
bought M. de Saint-Meran's house!"

"Did it belong to M. de Saint-Meran?"
demanded Monte Cristo.

"Yes," replied Madame de Villefort;
"and, would you believe it, count" --

"Believe what?"

"You think this house pretty, do you
not?"

"I think it charming."

"Well, my husband would never live in
it."

"Indeed?" returned Monte Cristo, "that
is a prejudice on your part, M. de
Villefort, for which I am quite at a
loss to account."

"I do not like Auteuil, sir," said the
procureur, making an evident effort to
appear calm.

"But I hope you will not carry your
antipathy so far as to deprive me of the
pleasure of your company, sir," said
Monte Cristo.

"No, count, -- I hope -- I assure you I
shall do my best," stammered Villefort.

"Oh," said Monte Cristo, "I allow of no
excuse. On Saturday, at six o'clock. I
shall be expecting you, and if you fail
to come, I shall think -- for how do I
know to the contrary? -- that this
house, which his remained uninhabited
for twenty years, must have some gloomy
tradition or dreadful legend connected
with it."

"I will come, count, -- I will be sure
to come," said Villefort eagerly.

"Thank you," said Monte Cristo; "now you
must permit me to take my leave of you."

"You said before that you were obliged
to leave us, monsieur," said Madame de
Villefort, "and you were about to tell
us why when your attention was called to
some other subject."

"Indeed madame," said Monte Cristo: "I
scarcely know if I dare tell you where I
am going."

"Nonsense; say on."

"Well, then, it is to see a thing on
which I have sometimes mused for hours
together."

"What is it?"

"A telegraph. So now I have told my
secret."

"A telegraph?" repeated Madame de
Villefort.

"Yes, a telegraph. I had often seen one
placed at the end of a road on a
hillock, and in the light of the sun its
black arms, bending in every direction,
always reminded me of the claws of an
immense beetle, and I assure you it was
never without emotion that I gazed on
it, for I could not help thinking how
wonderful it was that these various
signs should be made to cleave the air
with such precision as to convey to the
distance of three hundred leagues the
ideas and wishes of a man sitting at a
table at one end of the line to another
man similarly placed at the opposite
extremity, and all this effected by a
simple act of volition on the part of
the sender of the message. I began to
think of genii, sylphs, gnomes, in
short, of all the ministers of the
occult sciences, until I laughed aloud
at the freaks of my own imagination.
Now, it never occurred to me to wish for
a nearer inspection of these large
insects, with their long black claws,
for I always feared to find under their
stone wings some little human genius
fagged to death with cabals, factions,
and government intrigues. But one fine
day I learned that the mover of this
telegraph was only a poor wretch, hired
for twelve hundred francs a year, and
employed all day, not in studying the
heavens like an astronomer, or in gazing
on the water like an angler, or even in
enjoying the privilege of observing the
country around him, but all his
monotonous life was passed in watching
his white-bellied, black-clawed fellow
insect, four or five leagues distant
from him. At length I felt a desire to
study this living chrysalis more
closely, and to endeavor to understand
the secret part played by these
insect-actors when they occupy
themselves simply with pulling different
pieces of string."

"And are you going there?"

"I am."

"What telegraph do you intend visiting?
that of the home department, or of the
observatory?"

"Oh, no; I should find there people who
would force me to understand things of
which I would prefer to remain ignorant,
and who would try to explain to me, in
spite of myself, a mystery which even
they do not understand. Ma foi, I should
wish to keep my illusions concerning
insects unimpaired; it is quite enough
to have those dissipated which I had
formed of my fellow-creatures. I shall,
therefore, not visit either of these
telegraphs, but one in the open country
where I shall find a good-natured
simpleton, who knows no more than the
machine he is employed to work."

"You are a singular man," said
Villefort.

"What line would you advise me to
study?"

"The one that is most in use just at
this time."

"The Spanish one, you mean, I suppose?"

"Yes; should you like a letter to the
minister that they might explain to
you" --

"No," said Monte Cristo; "since, as I
told you before, I do not wish to
comprehend it. The moment I understand
it there will no longer exist a
telegraph for me; it will he nothing
more than a sign from M. Duchatel, or
from M. Montalivet, transmitted to the
prefect of Bayonne, mystified by two
Greek words, tele, graphein. It is the
insect with black claws, and the awful
word which I wish to retain in my
imagination in all its purity and all
its importance."

"Go then; for in the course of two hours
it will be dark, and you will not be
able to see anything."

"Ma foi, you frighten me. Which is the
nearest way? Bayonne?"

"Yes; the road to Bayonne."

"And afterwards the road to Chatillon?"

"Yes."

"By the tower of Montlhery, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. Good-by. On Saturday I will
tell you my impressions concerning the
telegraph." At the door the count was
met by the two notaries, who had just
completed the act which was to
disinherit Valentine, and who were
leaving under the conviction of having
done a thing which could not fail of
redounding considerably to their credit.



Chapter 61 How a Gardener may get rid of
the Dormice that eat His Peaches.

Not on the same night, as he had
intended, but the next morning, the
Count of Monte Cristo went out by the
Barrier d'Enfer, taking the road to
Orleans. Leaving the village of Linas,
without stopping at the telegraph, which
flourished its great bony arms as he
passed, the count reached the tower of
Montlhery, situated, as every one knows,
upon the highest point of the plain of
that name. At the foot of the hill the
count dismounted and began to ascend by
a little winding path, about eighteen
inches wide; when he reached the summit
he found himself stopped by a hedge,
upon which green fruit had succeeded to
red and white flowers.

Monte Cristo looked for the entrance to
the enclosure, and was not long in
finding a little wooden gate, working on
willow hinges, and fastened with a nail
and string. The count soon mastered the
mechanism, the gate opened, and he then
found himself in a little garden, about
twenty feet long by twelve wide, bounded
on one side by part of the hedge, which
contained the ingenious contrivance we
have called a gate, and on the other by
the old tower, covered with ivy and
studded with wall-flowers. No one would
have thought in looking at this old,
weather-beaten, floral-decked tower
(which might be likened to an elderly
dame dressed up to receive her
grandchildren at a birthday feast) that
it would have been capable of telling
strange things, if, -- in addition to
the menacing ears which the proverb says
all walls are provided with, -- it had
also a voice. The garden was crossed by
a path of red gravel, edged by a border
of thick box, of many years' growth, and
of a tone and color that would have
delighted the heart of Delacroix, our
modern Rubens. This path was formed in
the shape of the figure of 8, thus, in
its windings, making a walk of sixty
feet in a garden of only twenty.

Never had Flora, the fresh and smiling
goddess of gardeners, been honored with
a purer or more scrupulous worship than
that which was paid to her in this
little enclosure. In fact, of the twenty
rose-trees which formed the parterre,
not one bore the mark of the slug, nor
were there evidences anywhere of the
clustering aphis which is so destructive
to plants growing in a damp soil. And
yet it was not because the damp had been
excluded from the garden; the earth,
black as soot, the thick foliage of the
trees betrayed its presence; besides,
had natural humidity been wanting, it
could have been immediately supplied by
artificial means, thanks to a tank of
water, sunk in one of the corners of the
garden, and upon which were stationed a
frog and a toad, who, from antipathy, no
doubt, always remained on the two
opposite sides of the basin. There was
not a blade of grass to be seen in the
paths, or a weed in the flower-beds; no
fine lady ever trained and watered her
geraniums, her cacti, and her
rhododendrons, with more pains than this
hitherto unseen gardener bestowed upon
his little enclosure. Monte Cristo
stopped after having closed the gate and
fastened the string to the nail, and
cast a look around.

"The man at the telegraph," said he,
"must either engage a gardener or devote
himself passionately to agriculture."
Suddenly he struck against something
crouching behind a wheelbarrow filled
with leaves; the something rose,
uttering an exclamation of astonishment,
and Monte Cristo found himself facing a
man about fifty years old, who was
plucking strawberries, which he was
placing upon grape leaves. He had twelve
leaves and about as many strawberries,
which, on rising suddenly, he let fall
from his hand. "You are gathering your
crop, sir?" said Monte Cristo, smiling.

"Excuse me, sir," replied the man,
raising his hand to his cap; "I am not
up there, I know, but I have only just
come down."

"Do not let me interfere with you in
anything, my friend," said the count;
"gather your strawberries, if, indeed,
there are any left."

"I have ten left," said the man, "for
here are eleven, and I had twenty-one,
five more than last year. But I am not
surprised; the spring has been warm this
year, and strawberries require heat,
sir. This is the reason that, instead of
the sixteen I had last year, I have this
year, you see, eleven, already
plucked -- twelve, thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
Ah, I miss three, they were here last
night, sir -- I am sure they were
here -- I counted them. It must be the
Mere Simon's son who has stolen them; I
saw him strolling about here this
morning. Ah, the young rascal --
stealing in a garden -- he does not know
where that may lead him to."

"Certainly, it is wrong," said Monte
Cristo, "but you should take into
consideration the youth and greediness
of the delinquent."

"Of course," said the gardener, "but
that does not make it the less
unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg
pardon; perhaps you are an officer that
I am detaining here." And he glanced
timidly at the count's blue coat.

"Calm yourself, my friend," said the
count, with the smile which he made at
will either terrible or benevolent, and
which now expressed only the kindliest
feeling; "I am not an inspector, but a
traveller, brought here by a curiosity
he half repents of, since he causes you
to lose your time."

"Ah, my time is not valuable," replied
the man with a melancholy smile. "Still
it belongs to government, and I ought
not to waste it; but, having received
the signal that I might rest for an
hour" (here he glanced at the sun-dial,
for there was everything in the
enclosure of Montlhery, even a
sun-dial), "and having ten minutes
before me, and my strawberries being
ripe, when a day longer -- by-the-by,
sir, do you think dormice eat them?"

"Indeed, I should think not," replied
Monte Cristo; "dormice are bad neighbors
for us who do not eat them preserved, as
the Romans did."

"What? Did the Romans eat them?" said
the gardener -- "ate dormice?"

"I have read so in Petronius," said the
count.

"Really? They can't be nice, though they
do say `as fat as a dormouse.' It is not
a wonder they are fat, sleeping all day,
and only waking to eat all night.
Listen. Last year I had four apricots --
they stole one, I had one nectarine,
only one -- well, sir, they ate half of
it on the wall; a splendid nectarine --
I never ate a better."

"You ate it?"

"That is to say, the half that was
left -- you understand; it was
exquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen
never choose the worst morsels; like
Mere Simon's son, who has not chosen the
worst strawberries. But this year,"
continued the horticulturist, "I'll take
care it shall not happen, even if I
should be forced to sit by the whole
night to watch when the strawberries are
ripe." Monte Cristo had seen enough.
Every man has a devouring passion in his
heart, as every fruit has its worm; that
of the telegraph man was horticulture.
He began gathering the grape-leaves
which screened the sun from the grapes,
and won the heart of the gardener. "Did
you come here, sir, to see the
telegraph?" he said.

"Yes, if it isn't contrary to the
rules."

"Oh, no," said the gardener; "not in the
least, since there is no danger that
anyone can possibly understand what we
are saying."

"I have been told," said the count,
"that you do not always yourselves
understand the signals you repeat."

"That is true, sir, and that is what I
like best," said the man, smiling.

"Why do you like that best?"

"Because then I have no responsibility.
I am a machine then, and nothing else,
and so long as I work, nothing more is
required of me."

"Is it possible," said Monte Cristo to
himself, "that I can have met with a man
that has no ambition? That would spoil
my plans."

"Sir," said the gardener, glancing at
the sun-dial, "the ten minutes are
almost up; I must return to my post.
Will you go up with me?"

"I follow you." Monte Cristo entered the
tower, which was divided into three
stories. The tower contained implements,
such as spades, rakes, watering-pots,
hung against the wall; this was all the
furniture. The second was the man's
conventional abode, or rather
sleeping-place; it contained a few poor
articles of household furniture -- a
bed, a table, two chairs, a stone
pitcher -- and some dry herbs, hung up
to the ceiling, which the count
recognized as sweet pease, and of which
the good man was preserving the seeds;
he had labelled them with as much care
as if he had been master botanist in the
Jardin des Plantes.

"Does it require much study to learn the
art of telegraphing?" asked Monte
Cristo.

"The study does not take long; it was
acting as a supernumerary that was so
tedious."

"And what is the pay?"

"A thousand francs, sir."

"It is nothing."

"No; but then we are lodged, as you
perceive."

Monte Cristo looked at the room. They
passed to the third story; it was the
telegraph room. Monte Cristo looked in
turn at the two iron handles by which
the machine was worked. "It is very
interesting," he said, "but it must be
very tedious for a lifetime."

"Yes. At first my neck was cramped with
looking at it, but at the end of a year
I became used to it; and then we have
our hours of recreation, and our
holidays."

"Holidays?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When we have a fog."

"Ah, to be sure."

"Those are indeed holidays to me; I go
into the garden, I plant, I prune, I
trim, I kill the insects all day long."

"How long have you been here?"

"Ten years, and five as a supernumerary
make fifteen."

"You are -- "

"Fifty-five years old."

"How long must you have served to claim
the pension?"

"Oh, sir, twenty-five years."

"And how much is the pension?"

"A hundred crowns."

"Poor humanity!" murmured Monte Cristo.

"What did you say, sir?" asked the man.

"I was saying it was very interesting."

"What was?"

"All you were showing me. And you really
understand none of these signals?"

"None at all."

"And have you never tried to understand
them?"

"Never. Why should I?"

"But still there are some signals only
addressed to you."

"Certainly."

"And do you understand them?"

"They are always the same."

"And they mean -- "

"Nothing new; You have an hour; or
To-morrow."

"This is simple enough," said the count;
"but look, is not your correspondent
putting itself in motion?"

"Ah, yes; thank you, sir."

"And what is it saying -- anything you
understand?"

"Yes; it asks if I am ready."

"And you reply?"

"By the same sign, which, at the same
time, tells my right-hand correspondent
that I am ready, while it gives notice
to my left-hand correspondent to prepare
in his turn."

"It is very ingenious," said the count.

"You will see," said the man proudly;
"in five minutes he will speak."

"I have, then, five minutes," said Monte
Cristo to himself; "it is more time than
I require. My dear sir, will you allow
me to ask you a question?"

"What is it, sir?"

"You are fond of gardening?"

"Passionately."

"And you would be pleased to have,
instead of this terrace of twenty feet,
an enclosure of two acres?"

"Sir, I should make a terrestrial
paradise of it."

"You live badly on your thousand
francs?"

"Badly enough; but yet I do live."

"Yes; but you have a wretchedly small
garden."

"True, the garden is not large."

"And, then, such as it is, it is filled
with dormice, who eat everything."

"Ah, they are my scourges."

"Tell me, should you have the misfortune
to turn your head while your right-hand
correspondent was telegraphing" --

"I should not see him."

"Then what would happen?"

"I could not repeat the signals."

"And then?"

"Not having repeated them, through
negligence, I should be fined."

"How much?"

"A hundred francs."

"The tenth of your income -- that would
be fine work."

"Ah," said the man.

"Has it ever happened to you?" said
Monte Cristo.

"Once, sir, when I was grafting a
rose-tree."

"Well, suppose you were to alter a
signal, and substitute another?"

"Ah, that is another case; I should be
turned off, and lose my pension."

"Three hundred francs?"

"A hundred crowns, yes, sir; so you see
that I am not likely to do any of these
things."

"Not even for fifteen years' wages?
Come, it is worth thinking about?"

"For fifteen thousand francs?"

"Yes."

"Sir, you alarm me."

"Nonsense."

"Sir, you are tempting me?"

"Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do
you understand?"

"Sir, let me see my right-hand
correspondent."

"On the contrary, do not look at him,
but at this."

"What is it?"

"What? Do you not know these bits of
paper?"

"Bank-notes!"

"Exactly; there are fifteen of them."

"And whose are they?"

"Yours, if you like."

"Mine?" exclaimed the man,
half-suffocated.

"Yes; yours -- your own property."

"Sir, my right-hand correspondent is
signalling."

"Let him signal."

"Sir, you have distracted me; I shall be
fined."

"That will cost you a hundred francs;
you see it is your interest to take my
bank-notes."

"Sir, my right-hand correspondent
redoubles his signals; he is impatient."

"Never mind -- take these;" and the
count placed the packet in the man's
hands. "Now this is not all," he said;
"you cannot live upon your fifteen
thousand francs."

"I shall still have my place."

"No, you will lose it, for you are going
to alter your correspondent's message."

"Oh, sir, what are you proposing?"

"A jest."

"Sir, unless you force me" --

"I think I can effectually force you;"
and Monte Cristo drew another packet
from his pocket. "Here are ten thousand
more francs," he said, "with the fifteen
thousand already in your pocket, they
will make twenty-five thousand. With
five thousand you can buy a pretty
little house with two acres of land; the
remaining twenty thousand will bring you
in a thousand francs a year."

"A garden with two acres of land!"

"And a thousand francs a year."

"Oh, heavens!"

"Come, take them," and Monte Cristo
forced the bank-notes into his hand.

"What am I to do?"

"Nothing very difficult."

"But what is it?"

"To repeat these signs." Monte Cristo
took a paper from his pocket, upon which
were drawn three signs, with numbers to
indicate the order in which they were to
be worked.

"There, you see it will not take long."

"Yes; but" --

"Do this, and you will have nectarines
and all the rest." The shot told; red
with fever, while the large drops fell
from his brow, the man executed, one
after the other, the three signs given
by the count, in spite of the frightful
contortions of the right-hand
correspondent, who, not understanding
the change, began to think the gardener
had gone mad. As to the left-hand one,
he conscientiously repeated the same
signals, which were finally transmitted
to the Minister of the Interior. "Now
you are rich," said Monte Cristo.

"Yes," replied the man, "but at what a
price!"

"Listen, friend," said Monte Cristo. "I
do not wish to cause you any remorse;
believe me, then, when I swear to you
that you have wronged no man, but on the
contrary have benefited mankind." The
man looked at the bank-notes, felt them,
counted them, turned pale, then red,
then rushed into his room to drink a
glass of water, but he had no time to
reach the water-jug, and fainted in the
midst of his dried herbs. Five minutes
after the new telegram reached the
minister, Debray had the horses put to
his carriage, and drove to Danglars'
house.

"Has your husband any Spanish bonds?" he
asked of the baroness.

"I think so, indeed! He has six
millions' worth."

"He must sell them at whatever price."

"Why?"

"Because Don Carlos has fled from
Bourges, and has returned to Spain."

"How do you know?" Debray shrugged his
shoulders. "The idea of asking how I
hear the news," he said. The baroness
did not wait for a repetition; she ran
to her husband, who immediately hastened
to his agent, and ordered him to sell at
any price. When it was seen that
Danglars sold, the Spanish funds fell
directly. Danglars lost five hundred
thousand francs; but he rid himself of
all his Spanish shares. The same evening
the following was read in Le Messager:

"[By telegraph.] The king, Don Carlos,
has escaped the vigilance of his
guardians at Bourges, and has returned
to Spain by the Catalonian frontier.
Barcelona has risen in his favor."

All that evening nothing was spoken of
but the foresight of Danglars, who had
sold his shares, and of the luck of the
stock-jobber, who only lost five hundred
thousand francs by such a blow. Those
who had kept their shares, or bought
those of Danglars, looked upon
themselves as ruined, and passed a very
bad night. Next morning Le Moniteur
contained the following:

"It was without any foundation that Le
Messager yesterday announced the flight
of Don Carlos and the revolt of
Barcelona. The king (Don Carlos) has not
left Bourges, and the peninsula is in
the enjoyment of profound peace. A
telegraphic signal, improperly
interpreted, owing to the fog, was the
cause of this error."

The funds rose one per cent higher than
before they had fallen. This, reckoning
his loss, and what he had missed
gaining, made the difference of a
million to Danglars. "Good," said Monte
Cristo to Morrel, who was at his house
when the news arrived of the strange
reverse of fortune of which Danglars's
had been the victim, "I have just made a
discovery for twenty-five thousand
francs, for which I would have paid a
hundred thousand."

"What have you discovered?" asked
Morrel.

"I have just discovered how a gardener
may get rid of the dormice that eat his
peaches."



Chapter 62 Ghosts.

At first sight the exterior of the house
at Auteuil gave no indications of
splendor, nothing one would expect from
the destined residence of the
magnificent Count of Monte Cristo; but
this simplicity was according to the
will of its master, who positively
ordered nothing to be altered outside.
The splendor was within. Indeed, almost
before the door opened, the scene
changed. M. Bertuccio had outdone
himself in the taste displayed in
furnishing, and in the rapidity with
which it was executed. It is told that
the Duc d'Antin removed in a single
night a whole avenue of trees that
annoyed Louis XIV.; in three days M.
Bertuccio planted an entirely bare court
with poplars, large spreading sycamores
to shade the different parts of the
house, and in the foreground, instead of
the usual paving-stones, half hidden by
the grass, there extended a lawn but
that morning laid down, and upon which
the water was yet glistening. For the
rest, the orders had been issued by the
count; he himself had given a plan to
Bertuccio, marking the spot where each
tree was to be planted, and the shape
and extent of the lawn which was to take
the place of the paving-stones. Thus the
house had become unrecognizable, and
Bertuccio himself declared that he
scarcely knew it, encircled as it was by
a framework of trees. The overseer would
not have objected, while he was about
it, to have made some improvements in
the garden, but the count had positively
forbidden it to be touched. Bertuccio
made amends, however, by loading the
ante-chambers, staircases, and
mantle-pieces with flowers.

What, above all, manifested the
shrewdness of the steward, and the
profound science of the master, the one
in carrying out the ideas of the other,
was that this house which appeared only
the night before so sad and gloomy,
impregnated with that sickly smell one
can almost fancy to be the smell of
time, had in a single day acquired the
aspect of life, was scented with its
master's favorite perfumes, and had the
very light regulated according to his
wish. When the count arrived, he had
under his touch his books and arms, his
eyes rested upon his favorite pictures;
his dogs, whose caresses he loved,
welcomed him in the ante-chamber; the
birds, whose songs delighted him,
cheered him with their music; and the
house, awakened from it's long sleep,
like the sleeping beauty in the wood,
lived, sang, and bloomed like the houses
we have long cherished, and in which,
when we are forced to leave them, we
leave a part of our souls. The servants
passed gayly along the fine court-yard;
some, belonging to the kitchens, gliding
down the stairs, restored but the
previous day, as if they had always
inhabited the house; others filling the
coach-houses, where the equipages,
encased and numbered, appeared to have
been installed for the last fifty years;
and in the stables the horses replied
with neighs to the grooms, who spoke to
them with much more respect than many
servants pay their masters.

The library was divided into two parts
on either side of the wall, and
contained upwards of two thousand
volumes; one division was entirely
devoted to novels, and even the volume
which had been published but the day
before was to be seen in its place in
all the dignity of its red and gold
binding. On the other side of the house,
to match with the library, was the
conservatory, ornamented with rare
flowers, that bloomed in china jars; and
in the midst of the greenhouse,
marvellous alike to sight and smell, was
a billiard-table which looked as if it
had been abandoned during the past hour
by players who had left the balls on the
cloth. One chamber alone had been
respected by the magnificent Bertuccio.
Before this room, to which you could
ascend by the grand, and go out by the
back staircase, the servants passed with
curiosity, and Bertuccio with terror. At
five o'clock precisely, the count
arrived before the house at Auteuil,
followed by Ali. Bertuccio was awaiting
this arrival with impatience, mingled
with uneasiness; he hoped for some
compliments, while, at the same time, he
feared to have frowns. Monte Cristo
descended into the courtyard, walked all
over the house, without giving any sign
of approbation or pleasure, until he
entered his bedroom, situated on the
opposite side to the closed room; then
he approached a little piece of
furniture, made of rosewood, which he
had noticed at a previous visit. "That
can only be to hold gloves," he said.

"Will your excellency deign to open it?"
said the delighted Bertuccio, "and you
will find gloves in it." Elsewhere the
count found everything he required --
smelling-bottles, cigars, knick-knacks.

"Good," he said; and M. Bertuccio left
enraptured, so great, so powerful, and
real was the influence exercised by this
man over all who surrounded him. At
precisely six o'clock the clatter of
horses' hoofs was heard at the entrance
door; it was our captain of Spahis, who
had arrived on Medeah. "I am sure I am
the first," cried Morrel; "I did it on
purpose to have you a minute to myself,
before every one came. Julie and
Emmanuel have a thousand things to tell
you. Ah, really this is magnificent! But
tell me, count, will your people take
care of my horse?"

"Do not alarm yourself, my dear
Maximilian -- they understand."

"I mean, because he wants petting. If
you had seen at what a pace he came --
like the wind!"

"I should think so, -- a horse that cost
5,000 francs!" said Monte Cristo, in the
tone which a father would use towards a
son.

"Do you regret them?" asked Morrel, with
his open laugh.

"I? Certainly not," replied the count.
"No; I should only regret if the horse
had not proved good."

"It is so good, that I have distanced M.
de Chateau-Renaud, one of the best
riders in France, and M. Debray, who
both mount the minister's Arabians; and
close on their heels are the horses of
Madame Danglars, who always go at six
leagues an hour."

"Then they follow you?" asked Monte
Cristo.

"See, they are here." And at the same
minute a carriage with smoking horses,
accompanied by two mounted gentlemen,
arrived at the gate, which opened before
them. The carriage drove round, and
stopped at the steps, followed by the
horsemen. The instant Debray had touched
the ground, he was at the carriage-door.
He offered his hand to the baroness,
who, descending, took it with a
peculiarity of manner imperceptible to
every one but Monte Cristo. But nothing
escaped the count's notice, and he
observed a little note, passed with the
facility that indicates frequent
practice, from the hand of Madame
Danglars to that of the minister's
secretary. After his wife the banker
descended, as pale as though he had
issued from his tomb instead of his
carriage. Madame Danglars threw a rapid
and inquiring glance which could only be
interpreted by Monte Cristo, around the
court-yard, over the peristyle, and
across the front of the house, then,
repressing a slight emotion, which must
have been seen on her countenance if she
had not kept her color, she ascended the
steps, saying to Morrel, "Sir, if you
were a friend of mine, I should ask you
if you would sell your horse."

Morrel smiled with an expression very
like a grimace, and then turned round to
Monte Cristo, as if to ask him to
extricate him from his embarrassment.
The count understood him. "Ah, madame,"
he said, "why did you not make that
request of me?"

"With you, sir," replied the baroness,
"one can wish for nothing, one is so
sure to obtain it. If it were so with M.
Morrel" --

"Unfortunately," replied the count, "I
am witness that M. Morrel cannot give up
his horse, his honor being engaged in
keeping it."

"How so?"

"He laid a wager he would tame Medeah in
the space of six months. You understand
now that if he were to get rid of the
animal before the time named, he would
not only lose his bet, but people would
say he was afraid; and a brave captain
of Spahis cannot risk this, even to
gratify a pretty woman, which is, in my
opinion, one of the most sacred
obligations in the world."

"You see my position, madame," said
Morrel, bestowing a grateful smile on
Monte Cristo.

"It seems to me," said Danglars, in his
coarse tone, ill-concealed by a forced
smile, "that you have already got horses
enough." Madame Danglars seldom allowed
remarks of this kind to pass unnoticed,
but, to the surprise of the young
people, she pretended not to hear it,
and said nothing. Monte Cristo smiled at
her unusual humility, and showed her two
immense porcelain jars, over which wound
marine plants, of a size and delicacy
that nature alone could produce. The
baroness was astonished. "Why," said
she, "you could plant one of the
chestnut-trees in the Tuileries inside!
How can such enormous jars have been
manufactured?"

"Ah, madame," replied Monte Cristo, "you
must not ask of us, the manufacturers of
fine porcelain, such a question. It is
the work of another age, constructed by
the genii of earth and water."

"How so? -- at what period can that have
been?"

"I do not know; I have only heard that
an emperor of China had an oven built
expressly, and that in this oven twelve
jars like this were successively baked.
Two broke, from the heat of the fire;
the other ten were sunk three hundred
fathoms deep into the sea. The sea,
knowing what was required of her, threw
over them her weeds, encircled them with
coral, and encrusted them with shells;
the whole was cemented by two hundred
years beneath these almost impervious
depths, for a revolution carried away
the emperor who wished to make the
trial, and only left the documents
proving the manufacture of the jars and
their descent into the sea. At the end
of two hundred years the documents were
found, and they thought of bringing up
the jars. Divers descended in machines,
made expressly on the discovery, into
the bay where they were thrown; but of
ten three only remained, the rest having
been broken by the waves. I am fond of
these jars, upon which, perhaps,
misshapen, frightful monsters have fixed
their cold, dull eyes, and in which
myriads of small fish have slept,
seeking a refuge from the pursuit of
their enemies." Meanwhile, Danglars, who
had cared little for curiosities, was
mechanically tearing off the blossoms of
a splendid orange-tree, one after
another. When he had finished with the
orange-tree, he began at the cactus; but
this, not being so easily plucked as the
orange-tree, pricked him dreadfully. He
shuddered, and rubbed his eyes as though
awaking from a dream.

"Sir," said Monte Cristo to him, "I do
not recommend my pictures to you, who
possess such splendid paintings; but,
nevertheless, here are two by Hobbema, a
Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard
Douw, a Raphael, a Vandyke, a Zurbaran,
and two or three by Murillo, worth
looking at."

"Stay," said Debray; "I recognize this
Hobbema."

"Ah, indeed!"

"Yes; it was proposed for the Museum."

"Which, I believe, does not contain
one?" said Monte Cristo.

"No; and yet they refused to buy it."

"Why?" said Chateau-Renaud.

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

"Ah, pardon me," said Chateau-Renaud; "I
have heard of these things every day
during the last eight years, and I
cannot understand them yet."

"You will, by and by," said Debray.

"I think not," replied Chateau-Renaud.

"Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count
Andrea Cavalcanti," announced Baptistin.
A black satin stock, fresh from the
maker's hands, gray moustaches, a bold
eye, a major's uniform, ornamented with
three medals and five crosses -- in
fact, the thorough bearing of an old
soldier -- such was the appearance of
Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender
father with whom we are already
acquainted. Close to him, dressed in
entirely new clothes, advanced smilingly
Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful
son, whom we also know. The three young
people were talking together. On the
entrance of the new comers, their eyes
glanced from father to son, and then,
naturally enough, rested on the latter,
whom they began criticising.
"Cavalcanti!" said Debray. "A fine
name," said Morrel.

"Yes," said Chateau-Renaud, "these
Italians are well named and badly
dressed."

"You are fastidious, Chateau-Renaud,"
replied Debray; "those clothes are well
cut and quite new."

"That is just what I find fault with.
That gentleman appears to be well
dressed for the first time in his life."

"Who are those gentlemen?" asked
Danglars of Monte Cristo.

"You heard -- Cavalcanti."

"That tells me their name, and nothing
else."

"Ah, true. You do not know the Italian
nobility; the Cavalcanti are all
descended from princes."

"Have they any fortune?"

"An enormous one."

"What do they do?"

"Try to spend it all. They have some
business with you, I think, from what
they told me the day before yesterday.
I, indeed, invited them here to-day on
your account. I will introduce you to
them."

"But they appear to speak French with a
very pure accent," said Danglars.

"The son has been educated in a college
in the south; I believe near Marseilles.
You will find him quite enthusiastic."

"Upon what subject?" asked Madame
Danglars.

"The French ladies, madame. He has made
up his mind to take a wife from Paris."

"A fine idea that of his," said
Danglars, shrugging his shoulders.
Madame Danglars looked at her husband
with an expression which, at any other
time, would have indicated a storm, but
for the second time she controlled
herself. "The baron appears thoughtful
to-day," said Monte Cristo to her; "are
they going to put him in the ministry?"

"Not yet, I think. More likely he has
been speculating on the Bourse, and has
lost money."

"M. and Madame de Villefort," cried
Baptistin. They entered. M. de
Villefort, notwithstanding his
self-control, was visibly affected, and
when Monte Cristo touched his hand, he
felt it tremble. "Certainly, women alone
know how to dissimulate," said Monte
Cristo to himself, glancing at Madame
Danglars, who was smiling on the
procureur, and embracing his wife. After
a short time, the count saw Bertuccio,
who, until then, had been occupied on
the other side of the house, glide into
an adjoining room. He went to him. "What
do you want, M. Bertuccio?" said he.

"Your excellency his not stated the
number of guests."

"Ah, true."

"How many covers?"

"Count for yourself."

"Is every one here, your excellency?"

"Yes."

Bertuccio glanced through the door,
which was ajar. The count watched him.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed.

"What is the matter?" said the count.

"That woman -- that woman!"

"Which?"

"The one with a white dress and so many
diamonds -- the fair one."

"Madame Danglars?"

"I do not know her name; but it is she,
sir, it is she!"

"Whom do you mean?"

"The woman of the garden! -- she that
was enciente -- she who was walking
while she waited for" -- Bertuccio stood
at the open door, with his eyes starting
and his hair on end.

"Waiting for whom?" Bertuccio, without
answering, pointed to Villefort with
something of the gesture Macbeth uses to
point out Banquo. "Oh, oh," he at length
muttered, "do you see?"

"What? Who?"

"Him!"

"Him! -- M. de Villefort, the king's
attorney? Certainly I see him."

"Then I did not kill him?"

"Really, I think you are going mad, good
Bertuccio," said the count.

"Then he is not dead?"

"No; you see plainly he is not dead.
Instead of striking between the sixth
and seventh left ribs, as your
countrymen do, you must have struck
higher or lower, and life is very
tenacious in these lawyers, or rather
there is no truth in anything you have
told me -- it was a fright of the
imagination, a dream of your fancy. You
went to sleep full of thoughts of
vengeance; they weighed heavily upon
your stomach; you had the nightmare --
that's all. Come, calm yourself, and
reckon them up -- M. and Madame de
Villefort, two; M. and Madame Danglars,
four; M. de Chateau-Renaud, M. Debray,
M. Morrel, seven; Major Bartolomeo
Cavalcanti, eight."

"Eight!" repeated Bertuccio.

"Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to be
off -- you forget one of my guests. Lean
a little to the left. Stay! look at M.
Andrea Cavalcanti, the young man in a
black coat, looking at Murillo's
Madonna; now he is turning." This time
Bertuccio would have uttered an
exclamation, had not a look from Monte
Cristo silenced him. "Benedetto?" he
muttered; "fatality!"

"Half-past six o'clock has just struck,
M. Bertuccio," said the count severely;
"I ordered dinner at that hour, and I do
not like to wait;" and he returned to
his guests, while Bertuccio, leaning
against the wall, succeeded in reaching
the dining-room. Five minutes afterwards
the doors of the. drawing-room were
thrown open, and Bertuccio appearing
said, with a violent effort, "The dinner
waits."

The Count of Monte Cristo offered his
arm to Madame de Villefort. "M. de
Villefort," he said, "will you conduct
the Baroness Danglars?"

Villefort complied, and they passed on
to the dining-room.



Chapter 63 The Dinner.

It was evident that one sentiment
affected all the guests on entering the
dining-room. Each one asked what strange
influence had brought them to this
house, and yet astonished, even uneasy
though they were, they still felt that
they would not like to be absent. The
recent events, the solitary and
eccentric position of the count, his
enormous, nay, almost incredible
fortune, should have made men cautious,
and have altogether prevented ladies
visiting a house where there was no one
of their own sex to receive them; and
yet curiosity had been enough to lead
them to overleap the bounds of prudence
and decorum. And all present, even
including Cavalcanti and his son,
notwithstanding the stiffness of the one
and the carelessness of the other, were
thoughtful, on finding themselves
assembled at the house of this
incomprehensible man. Madame Danglars
had started when Villefort, on the
count's invitation, offered his arm; and
Villefort felt that his glance was
uneasy beneath his gold spectacles, when
he felt the arm of the baroness press
upon his own. None of this had escaped
the count, and even by this mere contact
of individuals the scene had already
acquired considerable interest for an
observer. M. de Villefort had on the
right hand Madame Danglars, on his left
Morrel. The count was seated between
Madame de Villefort and Danglars; the
other seats were filled by Debray, who
was placed between the two Cavalcanti,
and by Chateau-Renaud, seated between
Madame de Villefort and Morrel.

The repast was magnificent; Monte Cristo
had endeavored completely to overturn
the Parisian ideas, and to feed the
curiosity as much as the appetite of his
guests. It was an Oriental feast that he
offered to them, but of such a kind as
the Arabian fairies might be supposed to
prepare. Every delicious fruit that the
four quarters of the globe could provide
was heaped in vases from China and jars
from Japan. Rare birds, retaining their
most brilliant plumage, enormous fish,
spread upon massive silver dishes,
together with every wine produced in the
Archipelago, Asia Minor, or the Cape,
sparkling in bottles, whose grotesque
shape seemed to give an additional
flavor to the draught, -- all these,
like one of the displays with which
Apicius of old gratified his guests,
passed in review before the eyes of the
astonished Parisians, who understood
that it was possible to expend a
thousand louis upon a dinner for ten
persons, but only on the condition of
eating pearls, like Cleopatra, or
drinking refined gold, like Lorenzo de'
Medici.

Monte Cristo noticed the general
astonishment, and began laughing and
joking about it. "Gentlemen," he said,
"you will admit that, when arrived at a
certain degree of fortune, the
superfluities of life are all that can
be desired; and the ladies will allow
that, after having risen to a certain
eminence of position, the ideal alone
can be more exalted. Now, to follow out
this reasoning, what is the
marvellous? -- that which we do not
understand. What is it that we really
desire? -- that which we cannot obtain.
Now, to see things which I cannot
understand, to procure impossibilities,
these are the study of my life. I
gratify my wishes by two means -- my
will and my money. I take as much
interest in the pursuit of some whim as
you do, M. Danglars, in promoting a new
railway line; you, M. de Villefort, in
condemning a culprit to death; you, M.
Debray, in pacifying a kingdom; you, M.
de Chateau-Renaud, in pleasing a woman;
and you, Morrel, in breaking a horse
that no one can ride. For example, you
see these two fish; one brought fifty
leagues beyond St. Petersburg, the other
five leagues from Naples. Is it not
amusing to see them both on the same
table?"

"What are the two fish?" asked Danglars.

"M. Chateau-Renaud, who has lived in
Russia, will tell you the name of one,
and Major Cavalcanti, who is an Italian,
will tell you the name of the other."

"This one is, I think, a sterlet," said
Chateau-Renaud.

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

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

"Starlets," said Chateau-Renaud, "are
only found in the Volga."

"And," said Cavalcanti, "I know that
Lake Fusaro alone supplies lampreys of
that size."

"Exactly; one comes from the Volga, and
the other from Lake Fusaro."

"Impossible!" cried all the guests
simultaneously.

"Well, this is just what amuses me,"
said Monte Cristo. "I am like Nero --
cupitor impossibilium; and that is what
is amusing you at this moment. This
fish, which seems so exquisite to you,
is very likely no better than perch or
salmon; but it seemed impossible to
procure it, and here it is."

"But how could you have these fish
brought to France?"

"Oh, nothing more easy. Each fish was
brought over in a cask -- one filled
with river herbs and weeds, the other
with rushes and lake plants; they were
placed in a wagon built on purpose, and
thus the sterlet lived twelve days, the
lamprey eight, and both were alive when
my cook seized them, killing one with
milk and the other with wine. You do not
believe me, M. Danglars!"

"I cannot help doubting," answered
Danglars with his stupid smile.

"Baptistin," said the count, "have the
other fish brought in -- the sterlet and
the lamprey which came in the other
casks, and which are yet alive."
Danglars opened his bewildered eyes; the
company clapped their hands. Four
servants carried in two casks covered
with aquatic plants, and in each of
which was breathing a fish similar to
those on the table.

"But why have two of each sort?" asked
Danglars.

"Merely because one might have died,"
carelessly answered Monte Cristo.

"You are certainly an extraordinary
man," said Danglars; "and philosophers
may well say it is a fine thing to be
rich."

"And to have ideas," added Madame
Danglars.

"Oh, do not give me credit for this,
madame; it was done by the Romans, who
much esteemed them, and Pliny relates
that they sent slaves from Ostia to
Rome, who carried on their heads fish
which he calls the mulus, and which,
from the description, must probably be
the goldfish. It was also considered a
luxury to have them alive, it being an
amusing sight to see them die, for, when
dying, they change color three or four
times, and like the rainbow when it
disappears, pass through all the
prismatic shades, after which they were
sent to the kitchen. Their agony formed
part of their merit -- if they were not
seen alive, they were despised when
dead."

"Yes," said Debray, "but then Ostia is
only a few leagues from Rome."

"True," said Monte Cristo; "but what
would be the use of living eighteen
hundred years after Lucullus. if we can
do no better than he could?" The two
Cavalcanti opened their enormous eyes,
but had the good sense not to say
anything. "All this is very
extraordinary," said Chateau-Renaud;
"still, what I admire the most, I
confess, is the marvellous promptitude
with which your orders are executed. Is
it not true that you only bought this
house five or six days ago?"

"Certainly not longer."

"Well, I am sure it is quite transformed
since last week. If I remember rightly,
it had another entrance, and the
court-yard was paved and empty; while
to-day we have a splendid lawn, bordered
by trees which appear to be a hundred
years old."

"Why not? I am fond of grass and shade,"
said Monte Cristo.

"Yes," said Madame de Villefort, "the
door was towards the road before, and on
the day of my miraculous escape you
brought me into the house from the road,
I remember."

"Yes, madame," said Monte Cristo; "but I
preferred having an entrance which would
allow me to see the Bois de Boulogne
over my gate."

"In four days," said Morrel; "it is
extraordinary!"

"Indeed," said Chateau-Renaud, "it seems
quite miraculous to make a new house out
of an old one; for it was very old, and
dull too. I recollect coming for my
mother to look at it when M. de
Saint-Meran advertised it for sale two
or three years ago."

"M. de Saint-Meran?" said Madame de
Villefort; "then this house belonged to
M. de Saint-Meran before you bought it?"

"It appears so," replied Monte Cristo.

"Is it possible that you do not know of
whom you purchased it?"

"Quite so; my steward transacts all this
business for me."

"It is certainly ten years since the
house had been occupied," said
Chateau-Renaud, "and it was quite
melancholy to look at it, with the
blinds closed, the doors locked, and the
weeds in the court. Really, if the house
had not belonged to the father-in-law of
the procureur, one might have thought it
some accursed place where a horrible
crime had been committed." Villefort,
who had hitherto not tasted the three or
four glasses of rare wine which were
placed before him, here took one, and
drank it off. Monte Cristo allowed a
short time to elapse, and then said, "It
is singular, baron, but the same idea
came across me the first time I came
here; it looked so gloomy I should never
have bought it if my steward had not
taken the matter into his own hands.
Perhaps the fellow had been bribed by
the notary."

"It is probable," stammered out
Villefort, trying to smile; "but I can
assure you that I had nothing to do with
any such proceeding. This house is part
of Valentine's marriage-portion, and M.
de Saint-Meran wished to sell it; for if
it had remained another year or two
uninhabited it would have fallen to
ruin." It was Morrel's turn to become
pale.

"There was, above all, one room,"
continued Monte Cristo, "very plain in
appearance, hung with red damask, which,
I know not why, appeared to me quite
dramatic."

"Why so?" said Danglars; "why dramatic?"

"Can we account for instinct?" said
Monte Cristo. "Are there not some places
where we seem to breathe sadness? --
why, we cannot tell. It is a chain of
recollections -- an idea which carries
you back to other times, to other
places -- which, very likely, have no
connection with the present time and
place. And there is something in this
room which reminds me forcibly of the
chamber of the Marquise de Ganges* or
Desdemona. Stay, since we have finished
dinner, I will show it to you, and then
we will take coffee in the garden. After
dinner, the play." Monte Cristo looked
inquiringly at his guests. Madame de
Villefort rose, Monte Cristo did the
same, and the rest followed their
example. Villefort and Madame Danglars
remained for a moment, as if rooted to
their seats; they questioned each other
with vague and stupid glances. "Did you
hear?" said Madame Danglars.

* Elisabeth de Rossan, Marquise de
Ganges, was one of the famous women of
the court of Louis XIV. where she was
known as "La Belle Provencale." She was
the widow of the Marquise de Castellane
when she married de Ganges, and having
the misfortune to excite the enmity of
her new brothers-in-law, was forced by
them to take poison; and they finished
her off with pistol and dagger. -- Ed.

"We must go," replied Villefort,
offering his arm. The others, attracted
by curiosity, were already scattered in
different parts of the house; for they
thought the visit would not be limited
to the one room, and that, at the same
time, they would obtain a view of the
rest of the building, of which Monte
Cristo had created a palace. Each one
went out by the open doors. Monte Cristo
waited for the two who remained; then,
when they had passed, he brought up the
rear, and on his face was a smile,
which, if they could have understood it,
would have alarmed them much more than a
visit to the room they were about to
enter. They began by walking through the
apartments, many of which were fitted up
in the Eastern style, with cushions and
divans instead of beds, and pipes
instead of furniture. The drawing-rooms
were decorated with the rarest pictures
by the old masters, the boudoirs hung
with draperies from China, of fanciful
colors, fantastic design, and wonderful
texture. At length they arrived at the
famous room. There was nothing
particular about it, excepting that,
although daylight had disappeared, it
was not lighted, and everything in it
was old-fashioned, while the rest of the
rooms had been redecorated. These two
causes were enough to give it a gloomy
aspect. "Oh." cried Madame de Villefort,
"it is really frightful." Madame
Danglars tried to utter a few words, but
was not heard. Many observations were
made, the import of which was a
unanimous opinion that there was
something sinister about the room. "Is
it not so?" asked Monte Cristo. "Look at
that large clumsy bed, hung with such
gloomy, blood-colored drapery! And those
two crayon portraits, that have faded
from the dampness; do they not seem to
say, with their pale lips and staring
eyes, `We have seen'?" Villefort became
livid; Madame Danglars fell into a long
seat placed near the chimney. "Oh," said
Madame de Villefort, smiling, "are you
courageous enough to sit down upon the
very seat perhaps upon which the crime
was committed?" Madame Danglars rose
suddenly.

"And then," said Monte Cristo, "this is
not all."

"What is there more?" said Debray, who
had not failed to notice the agitation
of Madame Danglars.

"Ah, what else is there?" said Danglars;
"for, at present, I cannot say that I
have seen anything extraordinary. What
do you say, M. Cavalcanti?"

"Ah," said he, "we have at Pisa,
Ugolino's tower; at Ferrara, Tasso's
prison; at Rimini, the room of Francesca
and Paolo."

"Yes, but you have not this little
staircase," said Monte Cristo, opening a
door concealed by the drapery. "Look at
it, and tell me what you think of it."

"What a wicked-looking, crooked
staircase," said Chateau-Renaud with a
smile.

"I do not know whether the wine of Chios
produces melancholy, but certainly
everything appears to me black in this
house," said Debray.

Ever since Valentine's dowry had been
mentioned, Morrel had been silent and
sad. "Can you imagine," said Monte
Cristo, "some Othello or Abbe de Ganges,
one stormy, dark night, descending these
stairs step by step, carrying a load,
which he wishes to hide from the sight
of man, if not from God?" Madame
Danglars half fainted on the arm of
Villefort, who was obliged to support
himself against the wall. "Ah, madame,"
cried Debray, "what is the matter with
you? how pale you look!"

"It is very evident what is the matter
with her," said Madame de Villefort; "M.
de Monte Cristo is relating horrible
stories to us, doubtless intending to
frighten us to death."

"Yes," said Villefort, "really, count,
you frighten the ladies."

"What is the matter?" asked Debray, in a
whisper, of Madame Danglars.

"Nothing," she replied with a violent
effort. "I want air, that is all."

"Will you come into the garden?" said
Debray, advancing towards the back
staircase.

"No, no," she answered, "I would rather
remain here."

"Are you really frightened, madame?"
said Monte Cristo.

"Oh, no, sir," said Madame Danglars;
"but you suppose scenes in a manner
which gives them the appearance of
reality "

"Ah, yes," said Monte Cristo smiling;
"it is all a matter of imagination. Why
should we not imagine this the apartment
of an honest mother? And this bed with
red hangings, a bed visited by the
goddess Lucina? And that mysterious
staircase, the passage through which,
not to disturb their sleep, the doctor
and nurse pass, or even the father
carrying the sleeping child?" Here
Madame Danglars, instead of being calmed
by the soft picture, uttered a groan and
fainted. "Madame Danglars is ill," said
Villefort; "it would be better to take
her to her carriage."

"Oh, mon Dieu," said Monte Cristo, "and
I have forgotten my smelling-bottle!"

"I have mine," said Madame de Villefort;
and she passed over to Monte Cristo a
bottle full of the same kind of red
liquid whose good properties the count
had tested on Edward.

"Ah," said Monte Cristo, taking it from
her hand.

"Yes," she said, "at your advice I have
made the trial."

"And have you succeeded?"

"I think so."

Madame Danglars was carried into the
adjoining room; Monte Cristo dropped a
very small portion of the red liquid
upon her lips; she returned to
consciousness. "Ah," she cried, "what a
frightful dream!"

Villefort pressed her hand to let her
know it was not a dream. They looked for
M. Danglars, but, as he was not
especially interested in poetical ideas,
he had gone into the garden, and was
talking with Major Cavalcanti on the
projected railway from Leghorn to
Florence. Monte Cristo seemed in
despair. He took the arm of Madame
Danglars, and conducted her into the
garden, where they found Danglars taking
coffee between the Cavalcanti. "Really,
madame," he said, "did I alarm you
much?"

"Oh, no, sir," she answered; "but you
know, things impress us differently,
according to the mood of our minds."
Villefort forced a laugh. "And then, you
know," he said, "an idea, a supposition,
is sufficient."

"Well," said Monte Cristo, "you may
believe me if you like, but it is my
opinion that a crime has been committed
in this house."

"Take care," said Madame de Villefort,
"the king's attorney is here."

"Ah," replied Monte Cristo, "since that
is the case, I will take advantage of
his presence to make my declaration."

"Your declaration?" said Villefort.

"Yes, before witnesses."

"Oh, this is very interesting," said
Debray; "if there really has been a
crime, we will investigate it."

"There has been a crime," said Monte
Cristo. "Come this way, gentlemen; come,
M. Villefort, for a declaration to be
available, should be made before the
competent authorities." He then took
Villefort's arm, and, at the same time,
holding that of Madame Danglars under
his own, he dragged the procureur to the
plantain-tree, where the shade was
thickest. All the other guests followed.
"Stay," said Monte Cristo, "here, in
this very spot" (and he stamped upon the
ground), "I had the earth dug up and
fresh mould put in, to refresh these old
trees; well, my man, digging, found a
box, or rather, the iron-work of a box,
in the midst of which was the skeleton
of a newly born infant." Monte Cristo
felt the arm of Madame Danglars stiffen,
while that of Villefort trembled. "A
newly born infant," repeated Debray;
"this affair becomes serious!"

"Well," said Chateau-Renaud, "I was not
wrong just now then, when I said that
houses had souls and faces like men, and
that their exteriors carried the impress
of their characters. This house was
gloomy because it was remorseful: it was
remorseful because it concealed a
crime."

"Who said it was a crime?" asked
Villefort, with a last effort.

"How? is it not a crime to bury a living
child in a garden?" cried Monte Cristo.
"And pray what do you call such an
action?"

"But who said it was buried alive?"

"Why bury it there if it were dead? This
garden has never been a cemetery."

"What is done to infanticides in this
country?" asked Major Cavalcanti
innocently.

"Oh, their heads are soon cut off," said
Danglars.

"Ah, indeed?" said Cavalcanti.

"I think so; am I not right, M. de
Villefort?" asked Monte Cristo.

"Yes, count," replied Villefort, in a
voice now scarcely human.

Monte Cristo, seeing that the two
persons for whom he had prepared this
scene could scarcely endure it, and not
wishing to carry it too far, said,
"Come, gentlemen, -- some coffee, we
seem to have forgotten it," and he
conducted the guests back to the table
on the lawn.

"Indeed, count," said Madame Danglars,
"I am ashamed to own it, but all your
frightful stories have so upset me, that
I must beg you to let me sit down;" and
she fell into a chair. Monte Cristo
bowed, and went to Madame de Villefort.
"I think Madame Danglars again requires
your bottle," he said. But before Madame
de Villefort could reach her friend the
procureur had found time to whisper to
Madame Danglars, "I must speak to you."

"When?"

"To-morrow."

"Where?"

"In my office, or in the court, if you
like, -- that is the surest place."

"I will be there." -- At this moment
Madame de Villefort approached. "Thanks,
my dear friend," said Madame Danglars,
trying to smile; "it is over now, and I
am much better."



Chapter 64 The Beggar.

The evening passed on; Madame de
Villefort expressed a desire to return
to Paris, which Madame Danglars had not
dared to do, notwithstanding the
uneasiness she experienced. On his
wife's request, M. de Villefort was the
first to give the signal of departure.
He offered a seat in his landau to
Madame Danglars, that she might be under
the care of his wife. As for M.
Danglars, absorbed in an interesting
conversation with M. Cavalcanti, he paid
no attention to anything that was
passing. While Monte Cristo had begged
the smelling-bottle of Madame de
Villefort, he had noticed the approach
of Villefort to Madame Danglars, and he
soon guessed all that had passed between
them, though the words had been uttered
in so low a voice as hardly to be heard
by Madame Danglars. Without opposing
their arrangements, he allowed Morrel,
Chateau-Renaud, and Debray to leave on
horseback, and the ladies in M. de
Villefort's carriage. Danglars, more and
more delighted with Major Cavalcanti,
had offered him a seat in his carriage.
Andrea Cavalcanti found his tilbury
waiting at the door; the groom, in every
respect a caricature of the English
fashion, was standing on tiptoe to hold
a large iron-gray horse.

Andrea had spoken very little during
dinner; he was an intelligent lad, and
he feared to utter some absurdity before
so many grand people, amongst whom, with
dilating eyes, he saw the king's
attorney. Then he had been seized upon
by Danglars, who, with a rapid glance at
the stiff-necked old major and his
modest son, and taking into
consideration the hospitality of the
count, made up his mind that he was in
the society of some nabob come to Paris
to finish the worldly education of his
heir. He contemplated with unspeakable
delight the large diamond which shone on
the major's little finger; for the
major, like a prudent man, in case of
any accident happening to his
bank-notes, had immediately converted
them into an available asset. Then,
after dinner, on the pretext of
business, he questioned the father and
son upon their mode of living; and the
father and son, previously informed that
it was through Danglars the one was to
receive his 48,000 francs and the other
50,000 livres annually, were so full of
affability that they would have shaken
hands even with the banker's servants,
so much did their gratitude need an
object to expend itself upon. One thing
above all the rest heightened the
respect, nay almost the veneration, of
Danglars for Cavalcanti. The latter,
faithful to the principle of Horace, nil
admirari, had contented himself with
showing his knowledge by declaring in
what lake the best lampreys were caught.
Then he had eaten some without saying a
word more; Danglars, therefore,
concluded that such luxuries were common
at the table of the illustrious
descendant of the Cavalcanti, who most
likely in Lucca fed upon trout brought
from Switzerland, and lobsters sent from
England, by the same means used by the
count to bring the lampreys from Lake
Fusaro, and the sterlet from the Volga.
Thus it was with much politeness of
manner that he heard Cavalcanti
pronounce these words, "To-morrow, sir,
I shall have the honor of waiting upon
you on business."

"And I, sir," said Danglars, "shall be
most happy to receive you." Upon which
he offered to take Cavalcanti in his
carriage to the Hotel des Princes, if it
would not be depriving him of the
company of his son. To this Cavalcanti
replied by saying that for some time
past his son had lived independently of
him, that he had his own horses and
carriages, and that not having come
together, it would not be difficult for
them to leave separately. The major
seated himself, therefore, by the side
of Danglars, who was more and more
charmed with the ideas of order and
economy which ruled this man, and yet
who, being able to allow his son 60,000
francs a year, might be supposed to
possess a fortune of 500,000 or 600,000
livres.

As for Andrea, he began, by way of
showing off, to scold his groom, who,
instead of bringing the tilbury to the
steps of the house, had taken it to the
outer door, thus giving him the trouble
of walking thirty steps to reach it. The
groom heard him with humility, took the
bit of the impatient animal with his
left hand, and with the right held out
the reins to Andrea, who, taking them
from him, rested his polished boot
lightly on the step. At that moment a
hand touched his shoulder. The young man
turned round, thinking that Danglars or
Monte Cristo had forgotten something
they wished to tell him, and had
returned just as they were starting. But
instead of either of these, he saw
nothing but a strange face, sunburnt,
and encircled by a beard, with eyes
brilliant as carbuncles, and a smile
upon the mouth which displayed a perfect
set of white teeth, pointed and sharp as
the wolf's or jackal's. A red
handkerchief encircled his gray head;
torn and filthy garments covered his
large bony limbs, which seemed as
though, like those of a skeleton, they
would rattle as he walked; and the hand
with which he leaned upon the young
man's shoulder, and which was the first
thing Andrea saw, seemed of gigantic
size. Did the young man recognize that
face by the light of the lantern in his
tilbury, or was he merely struck with
the horrible appearance of his
interrogator? We cannot say; but only
relate the fact that he shuddered and
stepped back suddenly. "What do you want
of me?" he asked.

"Pardon me, my friend, if I disturb
you," said the man with the red
handkerchief, "but I want to speak to
you."

"You have no right to beg at night,"
said the groom, endeavoring to rid his
master of the troublesome intruder.

"I am not begging, my fine fellow," said
the unknown to the servant, with so
ironical an expression of the eye, and
so frightful a smile, that he withdrew;
"I only wish to say two or three words
to your master, who gave me a commission
to execute about a fortnight ago."

"Come," said Andrea, with sufficient
nerve for his servant not to perceive
his agitation, "what do you want? Speak
quickly, friend."

The man said, in a low voice: "I wish --
I wish you to spare me the walk back to
Paris. I am very tired, and as I have
not eaten so good a dinner as you, I can
scarcely stand." The young man shuddered
at this strange familiarity. "Tell me,"
he said -- "tell me what you want?"

"Well, then, I want you to take me up in
your fine carriage, and carry me back."
Andrea turned pale, but said nothing.

"Yes," said the man, thrusting his hands
into his pockets, and looking impudently
at the youth; "I have taken the whim
into my head; do you understand, Master
Benedetto?"

At this name, no doubt, the young man
reflected a little, for he went towards
his groom, saying, "This man is right; I
did indeed charge him with a commission,
the result of which he must tell me;
walk to the barrier, there take a cab,
that you may not be too late." The
surprised groom retired. "Let me at
least reach a shady spot," said Andrea.

"Oh, as for that, I'll take you to a
splendid place," said the man with the
handkerchief; and taking the horse's bit
he led the tilbury where it was
certainly impossible for any one to
witness the honor that Andrea conferred
upon him.

"Don't think I want the glory of riding
in your fine carriage," said he; "oh,
no, it's only because I am tired, and
also because I have a little business to
talk over with you."

"Come, step in," said the young man. It
was a pity this scene had not occurred
in daylight, for it was curious to see
this rascal throwing himself heavily
down on the cushion beside the young and
elegant driver of the tilbury. Andrea
drove past the last house in the village
without saying a word to his companion,
who smiled complacently, as though
well-pleased to find himself travelling
in so comfortable a vehicle. Once out of
Auteuil, Andrea looked around, in order
to assure himself that he could neither
be seen nor heard, and then, stopping
the horse and crossing his arms before
the man, he asked, -- "Now, tell me why
you come to disturb my tranquillity?"

"Let me ask you why you deceived me?"

"How have I deceived you?"

"`How,' do you ask? When we parted at
the Pont du Var, you told me you were
going to travel through Piedmont and
Tuscany; but instead of that, you come
to Paris."

"How does that annoy you?"

"It does not; on the contrary, I think
it will answer my purpose."

"So," said Andrea, "you are speculating
upon me?"

"What fine words he uses!"

"I warn you, Master Caderousse, that you
are mistaken."

"Well, well, don't be angry, my boy; you
know well enough what it is to be
unfortunate; and misfortunes make us
jealous. I thought you were earning a
living in Tuscany or Piedmont by acting
as facchino or cicerone, and I pitied
you sincerely, as I would a child of my
own. You know I always did call you my
child."

"Come, come, what then?"

"Patience -- patience!"

"I am patient, but go on."

"All at once I see you pass through the
barrier with a groom, a tilbury, and
fine new clothes. You must have
discovered a mine, or else become a
stockbroker."

"So that, as you confess, you are
jealous?"

"No, I am pleased -- so pleased that I
wished to congratulate you; but as I am
not quite properly dressed, I chose my
opportunity, that I might not compromise
you."

"Yes, and a fine opportunity you have
chosen!" exclaimed Andrea; "you speak to
me before my servant."

"How can I help that, my boy? I speak to
you when I can catch you. You have a
quick horse, a light tilbury, you are
naturally as slippery as an eel; if I
had missed you to-night, I might not
have had another chance."

"You see, I do not conceal myself."

"You are lucky; I wish I could say as
much, for I do conceal myself; and then
I was afraid you would not recognize me,
but you did," added Caderousse with his
unpleasant smile. "It was very polite of
you."

"Come," said Andrea, "what do want?"

"You do not speak affectionately to me,
Benedetto, my old friend, that is not
right -- take care, or I may become
troublesome." This menace smothered the
young man's passion. He urged the horse
again into a trot. "You should not speak
so to an old friend like me, Caderousse,
as you said just now; you are a native
of Marseilles, I am" --

"Do you know then now what you are?"

"No, but I was brought up in Corsica;
you are old and obstinate, I am young
and wilful. Between people like us
threats are out of place, everything
should be amicably arranged. Is it my
fault if fortune, which has frowned on
you, has been kind to me?"

"Fortune has been kind to you, then?
Your tilbury, your groom, your clothes,
are not then hired? Good, so much the
better," said Caderousse, his eyes
sparkling with avarice.

"Oh, you knew that well enough before
speaking to me," said Andrea, becoming
more and more excited. "If I had been
wearing a handkerchief like yours on my
head, rags on my back, and worn-out
shoes on my feet, you would not have
known me."

"You wrong me, my boy; now I have found
you, nothing prevents my being as
well-dressed as any one, knowing, as I
do, the goodness of your heart. If you
have two coats you will give me one of
them. I used to divide my soup and beans
with you when you were hungry."

"True," said Andrea.

"What an appetite you used to have! Is
it as good now?"

"Oh, yes," replied Andrea, laughing.

"How did you come to be dining with that
prince whose house you have just left?"

"He is not a prince; simply a count."

"A count, and a rich one too, eh?"

"Yes; but you had better not have
anything to say to him, for he is not a
very good-tempered gentleman."

"Oh, be easy! I have no design upon your
count, and you shall have him all to
yourself. But," said Caderousse, again
smiling with the disagreeable expression
he had before assumed, "you must pay for
it -- you understand?"

"Well, what do you want?"

"I think that with a hundred francs a
month" --

"Well?"

"I could live" --

"Upon a hundred francs!"

"Come -- you understand me; but that
with" --

"With?"

"With a hundred and fifty francs I
should be quite happy."

"Here are two hundred," said Andrea; and
he placed ten gold louis in the hand of
Caderousse.

"Good!" said Caderousse.

"Apply to the steward on the first day
of every mouth, and you will receive the
same sum."

"There now, again you degrade me."

"How so?"

"By making me apply to the servants,
when I want to transact business with
you alone."

"Well, be it so, then. Take it from me
then, and so long at least as I receive
my income, you shall be paid yours."

"Come, come; I always said you were a
line fellow, and it is a blessing when
good fortune happens to such as you. But
tell me all about it?"

"Why do you wish to know?" asked
Cavalcanti.

"What? do you again defy me?"

"No; the fact is, I have found my
father."

"What? a real father?"

"Yes, so long as he pays me" --

"You'll honor and believe him -- that's
right. What is his name?"

"Major Cavalcanti."

"Is he pleased with you?"

"So far I have appeared to answer his
purpose."

"And who found this father for you?"

"The Count of Monte Cristo."

"The man whose house you have just
left?"

"Yes."

"I wish you would try and find me a
situation with him as grandfather, since
he holds the money-chest!"

"Well, I will mention you to him.
Meanwhile, what are you going to do?"

"I?"

"Yes, you."

"It is very kind of you to trouble
yourself about me."

"Since you interest yourself in my
affairs, I think it is now my turn to
ask you some questions."

"Ah, true. Well; I shall rent a room in
some respectable house, wear a decent
coat, shave every day, and go and read
the papers in a cafe. Then, in the
evening, I shall go to the theatre; I
shall look like some retired baker. That
is what I want."

"Come, if you will only put this scheme
into execution, and be steady, nothing
could be better."

"Do you think so, M. Bossuet? And you --
what will you become? A peer of France?"

"Ah," said Andrea, "who knows?"

"Major Cavalcanti is already one,
perhaps; but then, hereditary rank is
abolished."

"No politics, Caderousse. And now that
you have all you want, and that we
understand each other, jump down from
the tilbury and disappear."

"Not at all, my good friend."

"How? Not at all?"

"Why, just think for a moment; with this
red handkerchief on my head, with
scarcely any shoes, no papers, and ten
gold napoleons in my pocket, without
reckoning what was there before --
making in all about two hundred
francs, -- why, I should certainly be
arrested at the barriers. Then, to
justify myself, I should say that you
gave me the money; this would cause
inquiries, it would be found that I left
Toulon without giving due notice, and I
should then be escorted back to the
shores of the Mediterranean. Then I
should become simply No. 106, and
good-by to my dream of resembling the
retired baker! No, no, my boy; I prefer
remaining honorably in the capital."
Andrea scowled. Certainly, as he had
himself owned, the reputed son of Major
Cavalcanti was a wilful fellow. He drew
up for a minute, threw a rapid glance
around him, and then his hand fell
instantly into his pocket, where it
began playing with a pistol. But,
meanwhile, Caderousse, who had never
taken his eyes off his companion, passed
his hand behind his back, and opened a
long Spanish knife, which he always
carried with him, to be ready in case of
need. The two friends, as we see, were
worthy of and understood one another.
Andrea's hand left his pocket
inoffensively, and was carried up to the
red mustache, which it played with for
some time. "Good Caderousse," he said,
"how happy you will be."

"I will do my best," said the inn-keeper
of the Pont du Gard, shutting up his
knife.

"Well, then, we will go into Paris. But
how will you pass through the barrier
without exciting suspicion? It seems to
me that you are in more danger riding
than on foot."

"Wait," said Caderousse, "we shall see."
He then took the great-coat with the
large collar, which the groom had left
behind in the tilbury, and put it on his
back; then he took off Cavalcanti's hat,
which he placed upon his own head, and
finally he assumed the careless attitude
of a servant whose master drives
himself.

"But, tell me," said Andrea, "am I to
remain bareheaded?"

"Pooh," said Caderousse; "it is so windy
that your hat can easily appear to have
blown off."

"Come, come; enough of this," said
Cavalcanti.

"What are you waiting for?" said
Caderousse. "I hope I am not the cause."

"Hush," said Andrea. They passed the
barrier without accident. At the first
cross street Andrea stopped his horse,
and Caderousse leaped out.

"Well!" said Andrea, -- "my servant's
coat and my hat?"

"Ah," said Caderousse, "you would not
like me to risk taking cold?"

"But what am I to do?"

"You? Oh, you are young while I am
beginning to get old. Au revoir,
Benedetto;" and running into a court, he
disappeared. "Alas," said Andrea,
sighing, "one cannot be completely happy
in this world!"



Chapter 65 A Conjugal Scene.

At the Place Louis XV. the three young
people separated -- that is to say,
Morrel went to the Boulevards,
Chateau-Renaud to the Pont de la
Revolution, and Debray to the Quai. Most
probably Morrel and Chateau-Renaud
returned to their "domestic hearths," as
they say in the gallery of the Chamber
in well-turned speeches, and in the
theatre of the Rue Richelieu in
well-written pieces; but it was not the
case with Debray. When he reached the
wicket of the Louvre, he turned to the
left, galloped across the Carrousel,
passed through the Rue Saint-Roch, and,
issuing from the Rue de la Michodiere,
he arrived at M. Danglars' door just at
the same time that Villefort's landau,
after having deposited him and his wife
at the Faubourg St. Honore, stopped to
leave the baroness at her own house.
Debray, with the air of a man familiar
with the house, entered first into the
court, threw his bridle into the hands
of a footman, and returned to the door
to receive Madame Danglars, to whom he
offered his arm, to conduct her to her
apartments. The gate once closed, and
Debray and the baroness alone in the
court, he asked, -- "What was the matter
with you, Hermine? and why were you so
affected at that story, or rather fable,
which the count related?"

"Because I have been in such shocking
spirits all the evening, my friend,"
said the baroness.

"No, Hermine," replied Debray; "you
cannot make me believe that; on the
contrary, you were in excellent spirits
when you arrived at the count's. M.
Danglars was disagreeable, certainly,
but I know how much you care for his
ill-humor. Some one has vexed you; I
will allow no one to annoy you."

"You are deceived, Lucien, I assure
you," replied Madame Danglars; "and what
I have told you is really the case,
added to the ill-humor you remarked, but
which I did not think it worth while to
allude to." It was evident that Madame
Danglars was suffering from that nervous
irritability which women frequently
cannot account for even to themselves;
or that, as Debray had guessed, she had
experienced some secret agitation that
she would not acknowledge to any one.
Being a man who knew that the former of
these symptoms was one of the inherent
penalties of womanhood, he did not then
press his inquiries, but waited for a
more appropriate opportunity when he
should again interrogate her, or receive
an avowal proprio motu. At the door of
her apartment the baroness met
Mademoiselle Cornelie, her confidential
maid. "What is my daughter doing?" asked
Madame Danglars.

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

"Yet I think I hear her piano."

"It is Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly,
who is playing while Mademoiselle
Danglars is in bed."

"Well," said Madame Danglars, "come and
undress me." They entered the bedroom.
Debray stretched himself upon a large
couch, and Madame Danglars passed into
her dressing-room with Mademoiselle
Cornelie. "My dear M. Lucien," said
Madame Danglars through the door, "you
are always complaining that Eugenie will
not address a word to you."

"Madame," said Lucien, playing with a
little dog, who, recognizing him as a
friend of the house, expected to be
caressed, "I am not the only one who
makes similar complaints, I think I
heard Morcerf say that he could not
extract a word from his betrothed."

"True," said Madame Danglars; "yet I
think this will all pass off, and that
you will one day see her enter your
study."

"My study?"

"At least that of the minister."

"Why so!"

"To ask for an engagement at the Opera.
Really, I never saw such an infatuation
for music; it is quite ridiculous for a
young lady of fashion." Debray smiled.
"Well," said he, "let her come, with
your consent and that of the baron, and
we will try and give her an engagement,
though we are very poor to pay such
talent as hers."

"Go, Cornelie," said Madame Danglars, "I
do not require you any longer."

Cornelie obeyed, and the next minute
Madame Danglars left her room in a
charming loose dress, and came and sat
down close to Debray. Then she began
thoughtfully to caress the little
spaniel. Lucien looked at her for a
moment in silence. "Come, Hermine," he
said, after a short time, "answer
candidly, -- something vexes you -- is
it not so?"

"Nothing," answered the baroness.

And yet, as she could scarcely breathe,
she rose and went towards a
looking-glass. "I am frightful
to-night," she said. Debray rose,
smiling, and was about to contradict the
baroness upon this latter point, when
the door opened suddenly. M. Danglars
appeared; Debray reseated himself. At
the noise of the door Madame Danglars
turned round, and looked upon her
husband with an astonishment she took no
trouble to conceal. "Good-evening,
madame," said the banker; "good-evening,
M. Debray."

Probably the baroness thought this
unexpected visit signified a desire to
make up for the sharp words he had
uttered during the day. Assuming a
dignified air, she turned round to
Debray, without answering her husband.
"Read me something, M. Debray," she
said. Debray, who was slightly disturbed
at this visit, recovered himself when he
saw the calmness of the baroness, and
took up a book marked by a
mother-of-pearl knife inlaid with gold.
"Excuse me," said the banker, "but you
will tire yourself, baroness, by such
late hours, and M. Debray lives some
distance from here."

Debray was petrified, not only to hear
Danglars speak so calmly and politely,
but because it was apparent that beneath
outward politeness there really lurked a
determined spirit of opposition to
anything his wife might wish to do. The
baroness was also surprised, and showed
her astonishment by a look which would
doubtless have had some effect upon her
husband if he had not been intently
occupied with the paper, where he was
looking to see the closing stock
quotations. The result was, that the
proud look entirely failed of its
purpose.

"M. Lucien," said the baroness, "I
assure you I have no desire to sleep,
and that I have a thousand things to
tell you this evening, which you must
listen to, even though you slept while
hearing me."

"I am at your service, madame," replied
Lucien coldly.

"My dear M. Debray," said the banker,
"do not kill yourself to-night listening
to the follies of Madame Danglars, for
you can hear them as well to-morrow; but
I claim to-night and will devote it, if
you will allow me, to talk over some
serious matters with my wife." This time
the blow was so well aimed, and hit so
directly, that Lucien and the baroness
were staggered, and they interrogated
each other with their eyes, as if to
seek help against this aggression, but
the irresistible will of the master of
the house prevailed, and the husband was
victorious.

"Do not think I wish to turn you out, my
dear Debray," continued Danglars; "oh,
no, not at all. An unexpected occurrence
forces me to ask my wife to have a
little conversation with me; it is so
rarely I make such a request, I am sure
you cannot grudge it to me." Debray
muttered something, bowed and went out,
knocking himself against the edge of the
door, like Nathan in "Athalie."

"It is extraordinary," he said, when the
door was closed behind him, "how easily
these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain
an advantage over us."

Lucien having left, Danglars took his
place on the sofa, closed the open book,
and placing himself in a dreadfully
dictatorial attitude, he began playing
with the dog; but the animal, not liking
him as well as Debray, and attempting to
bite him, Danglars seized him by the
skin of his neck and threw him upon a
couch on the other side of the room. The
animal uttered a cry during the transit,
but, arrived at its destination, it
crouched behind the cushions, and
stupefied at such unusual treatment
remained silent and motionless. "Do you
know, sir," asked the baroness, "that
you are improving? Generally you are
only rude, but to-night you are brutal."

"It is because I am in a worse humor
than usual," replied Danglars. Hermine
looked at the banker with supreme
disdain. These glances frequently
exasperated the pride of Danglars, but
this evening he took no notice of them.

"And what have I to do with your
ill-humor?" said the baroness, irritated
at the impassibility of her husband; "do
these things concern me? Keep your
ill-humor at home in your money boxes,
or, since you have clerks whom you pay,
vent it upon them."

"Not so," replied Danglars; "your advice
is wrong, so I shall not follow it. My
money boxes are my Pactolus, as, I
think, M. Demoustier says, and I will
not retard its course, or disturb its
calm. My clerks are honest men, who earn
my fortune, whom I pay much below their
deserts, if I may value them according
to what they bring in; therefore I shall
not get into a passion with them; those
with whom I will be in a passion are
those who eat my dinners, mount my
horses, and exhaust my fortune."

"And pray who are the persons who
exhaust your fortune? Explain yourself
more clearly, I beg, sir."

"Oh, make yourself easy! -- I am not
speaking riddles, and you will soon know
what I mean. The people who exhaust my
fortune are those who draw out 700,000
francs in the course of an hour."

"I do not understand you, sir," said the
baroness, trying to disguise the
agitation of her voice and the flush of
her face. "You understand me perfectly,
on the contrary," said Danglars: "but,
if you will persist, I will tell you
that I have just lost 700,000 francs
upon the Spanish loan."

"And pray," asked the baroness, "am I
responsible for this loss?"

"Why not?"

"Is it my fault you have lost 700,000
francs?"

"Certainly it is not mine."

"Once for all, sir," replied the
baroness sharply, "I tell you I will not
hear cash named; it is a style of
language I never heard in the house of
my parents or in that of my first
husband."

"Oh, I can well believe that, for
neither of them was worth a penny."

"The better reason for my not being
conversant with the slang of the bank,
which is here dinning in my ears from
morning to night; that noise of jingling
crowns, which are constantly being
counted and re-counted, is odious to me.
I only know one thing I dislike more,
which is the sound of your voice."

"Really?" said Danglars. "Well, this
surprises me, for I thought you took the
liveliest interest in all my affairs!"

"I? What could put such an idea into
your head?"

"Yourself."

"Ah? -- what next?"

"Most assuredly."

"I should like to know upon what
occasion?"

"Oh, mon Dieu, that is very easily done.
Last February you were the first who
told me of the Haitian funds. You had
dreamed that a ship had entered the
harbor at Havre, that this ship brought
news that a payment we had looked upon
as lost was going to be made. I know how
clear-sighted your dreams are; I
therefore purchased immediately as many
shares as I could of the Haitian debt,
and I gained 400,000 francs by it, of
which 100,000 have been honestly paid to
you. You spent it as you pleased; that
was your business. In March there was a
question about a grant to a railway.
Three companies presented themselves,
each offering equal securities. You told
me that your instinct, -- and although
you pretend to know nothing about
speculations, I think on the contrary,
that your comprehension is very clear
upon certain affairs, -- well, you told
me that your instinct led you to believe
the grant would be given to the company
called the Southern. I bought two thirds
of the shares of that company; as you
had foreseen, the shares trebled in
value, and I picked up a million, from
which 250,000 francs were paid to you
for pin-money. How have you spent this
250,000 francs? -- it is no business of
mine."

"When are you coming to the point?"
cried the baroness, shivering with anger
and impatience.

"Patience, madame, I am coming to it."

"That's fortunate."

"In April you went to dine at the
minister's. You heard a private
conversation respecting Spanish
affairs -- on the expulsion of Don
Carlos. I bought some Spanish shares.
The expulsion took place and I pocketed
600,000 francs the day Charles V.
repassed the Bidassoa. Of these 600,000
francs you took 50,000 crowns. They were
yours, you disposed of them according to
your fancy, and I asked no questions;
but it is not the less true that you
have this year received 500,000 livres."

"Well, sir, and what then?"

"Ah, yes, it was just after this that
you spoiled everything."

"Really, your manner of speaking" --

"It expresses my meaning, and that is
all I want. Well, three days after that
you talked politics with M. Debray, and
you fancied from his words that Don
Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I
sold my shares, the news got out, and I
no longer sold -- I gave them away, next
day I find the news was false, and by
this false report I have lost 700,000
francs."

"Well?"

"Well, since I gave you a fourth of my
gains, I think you owe me a fourth of my
losses; the fourth of 700,000 francs is
175,000 francs."

"What you say is absurd, and I cannot
see why M. Debray's name is mixed up in
this affair."

"Because if you do not possess the
175,000 francs I reclaim, you must have
lent them to your friends, and M. Debray
is one of your friends."

"For shame!" exclaimed the baroness.

"Oh, let us have no gestures, no
screams, no modern drama, or you will
oblige me to tell you that I see Debray
leave here, pocketing the whole of the
500,000 livres you have handed over to
him this year, while he smiles to
himself, saying that he has found what
the most skilful players have never
discovered -- that is, a roulette where
he wins without playing, and is no loser
when he loses." The baroness became
enraged. "Wretch!" she cried, "will you
dare to tell me you did not know what
you now reproach me with?"

"I do not say that I did know it, and I
do not say that I did not know it. I
merely tell you to look into my conduct
during the last four years that we have
ceased to be husband and wife, and see
whether it has not always been
consistent. Some time after our rupture,
you wished to study music, under the
celebrated baritone who made such a
successful appearance at the Theatre
Italien; at the same time I felt
inclined to learn dancing of the
danseuse who acquired such a reputation
in London. This cost me, on your account
and mine, 100,000 francs. I said
nothing, for we must have peace in the
house; and 100,000 francs for a lady and
gentleman to be properly instructed in
music and dancing are not too much.
Well, you soon become tired of singing,
and you take a fancy to study diplomacy
with the minister's secretary. You
understand, it signifies nothing to me
so long as you pay for your lessons out
of your own cashbox. But to-day I find
you are drawing on mine, and that your
apprenticeship may cost me 700,000
francs per month. Stop there, madame,
for this cannot last. Either the
diplomatist must give his lessons
gratis, and I will tolerate him, or he
must never set his foot again in my
house; -- do you understand, madame?"

"Oh, this is too much," cried Hermine,
choking, "you are worse than
despicable."

"But," continued Danglars, "I find you
did not even pause there" --

"Insults!"

"You are right; let us leave these facts
alone, and reason coolly. I have never
interfered in your affairs excepting for
your good; treat me in the same way. You
say you have nothing to do with my
cash-box. Be it so. Do as you like with
your own, but do not fill or empty mine.
Besides, how do I know that this was not
a political trick, that the minister
enraged at seeing me in the opposition,
and jealous of the popular sympathy I
excite, has not concerted with M. Debray
to ruin me?"

"A probable thing!"

"Why not? Who ever heard of such an
occurrence as this? -- a false
telegraphic despatch -- it is almost
impossible for wrong signals to be made
as they were in the last two telegrams.
It was done on purpose for me -- I am
sure of it."

"Sir," said the baroness humbly, "are
you not aware that the man employed
there was dismissed, that they talked of
going to law with him, that orders were
issued to arrest him and that this order
would have been put into execution if he
had not escaped by flight, which proves
that he was either mad or guilty? It was
a mistake."

"Yes, which made fools laugh, which
caused the minister to have a sleepless
night, which has caused the minister's
secretaries to blacken several sheets of
paper, but which has cost me 700,000
francs."

"But, sir," said Hermine suddenly, "if
all this is, as you say, caused by M.
Debray, why, instead of going direct to
him, do you come and tell me of it? Why,
to accuse the man, do you address the
woman?"

"Do I know M. Debray? -- do I wish to
know him? -- do I wish to know that he
gives advice? -- do I wish to follow
it? -- do I speculate? No; you do all
this, not I."

"Still it seems to me, that as you
profit by it -- "

Danglars shrugged his shoulders.
"Foolish creature," he exclaimed. "Women
fancy they have talent because they have
managed two or three intrigues without
being the talk of Paris! But know that
if you had even hidden your
irregularities from your husband, who
has but the commencement of the art --
for generally husbands will not see --
you would then have been but a faint
imitation of most of your friends among
the women of the world. But it has not
been so with me, -- I see, and always
have seen, during the last sixteen
years. You may, perhaps, have hidden a
thought; but not a step, not an action,
not a fault, has escaped me, while you
flattered yourself upon your address,
and firmly believed you had deceived me.
What has been the result? -- that,
thanks to my pretended ignorance, there
is none of your friends, from M. de
Villefort to M. Debray, who has not
trembled before me. There is not one who
has not treated me as the master of the
house, -- the only title I desire with
respect to you; there is not one, in
fact, who would have dared to speak of
me as I have spoken of them this day. I
will allow you to make me hateful, but I
will prevent your rendering me
ridiculous, and, above all, I forbid you
to ruin me."

The baroness had been tolerably composed
until the name of Villefort had been
pronounced; but then she became pale,
and, rising, as if touched by a spring,
she stretched out her hands as though
conjuring an apparition; she then took
two or three steps towards her husband,
as though to tear the secret from him,
of which he was ignorant, or which he
withheld from some odious
calculation, -- odious, as all his
calculations were. "M. de Villefort! --
What do you mean?"

"I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first
husband, being neither a philosopher nor
a banker, or perhaps being both, and
seeing there was nothing to be got out
of a king's attorney, died of grief or
anger at finding, after an absence of
nine months, that you had been enceinte
six. I am brutal, -- I not only allow
it, but boast of it; it is one of the
reasons of my success in commercial
business. Why did he kill himself
instead of you? Because he had no cash
to save. My life belongs to my cash. M.
Debray has made me lose 700,000 francs;
let him bear his share of the loss, and
we will go on as before; if not, let him
become bankrupt for the 250,000 livres,
and do as all bankrupts do -- disappear.
He is a charming fellow, I allow, when
his news is correct; but when it is not,
there are fifty others in the world who
would do better than he."

Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot;
she made a violent effort to reply to
this last attack, but she fell upon a
chair thinking of Villefort, of the
dinner scene, of the strange series of
misfortunes which had taken place in her
house during the last few days, and
changed the usual calm of her
establishment to a scene of scandalous
debate. Danglars did not even look at
her, though she did her best to faint.
He shut the bedroom door after him,
without adding another word, and
returned to his apartments; and when
Madame Danglars recovered from her
half-fainting condition, she could
almost believe that she had had a
disagreeable dream.



Chapter 66 Matrimonial Projects.

The day following this scene, at the
hour the banker usually chose to pay a
visit to Madame Danglars on his way to
his office, his coupe did not appear. At
this time, that is, about half-past
twelve, Madame Danglars ordered her
carriage, and went out. Danglars, hidden
behind a curtain, watched the departure
he had been waiting for. He gave orders
that he should be informed as soon as
Madame Danglars appeared; but at two
o'clock she had not returned. He then
called for his horses, drove to the
Chamber, and inscribed his name to speak
against the budget. From twelve to two
o'clock Danglars had remained in his
study, unsealing his dispatches, and
becoming more and more sad every minute,
heaping figure upon figure, and
receiving, among other visits, one from
Major Cavalcanti, who, as stiff and
exact as ever, presented himself
precisely at the hour named the night
before, to terminate his business with
the banker. On leaving the Chamber,
Danglars, who had shown violent marks of
agitation during the sitting, and been
more bitter than ever against the
ministry, re-entered his carriage, and
told the coachman to drive to the Avenue
des Champs-Elysees, No. 30.

Monte Cristo was at home; only he was
engaged with some one and begged
Danglars to wait for a moment in the
drawing-room. While the banker was
waiting in the anteroom, the door
opened, and a man dressed as an abbe and
doubtless more familiar with the house
than he was, came in and instead of
waiting, merely bowed, passed on to the
farther apartments, and disappeared. A
minute after the door by which the
priest had entered reopened, and Monte
Cristo appeared. "Pardon me," said he,
"my dear baron, but one of my friends,
the Abbe Busoni, whom you perhaps saw
pass by, has just arrived in Paris; not
having seen him for a long time, I could
not make up my mind to leave him sooner,
so I hope this will be sufficient reason
for my having made you wait."

"Nay," said Danglars, "it is my fault; I
have chosen my visit at a wrong time,
and will retire."

"Not at all; on the contrary, be seated;
but what is the matter with you? You
look careworn; really, you alarm me.
Melancholy in a capitalist, like the
appearance of a comet, presages some
misfortune to the world."

"I have been in ill-luck for several
days," said Danglars, "and I have heard
nothing but bad news."

"Ah, indeed?" said Monte Cristo. "Have
you had another fall at the Bourse?"

"No; I am safe for a few days at least.
I am only annoyed about a bankrupt of
Trieste."

"Really? Does it happen to be Jacopo
Manfredi?"

"Exactly so. Imagine a man who has
transacted business with me for I don't
know how long, to the amount of 800,000
or 900,000 francs during the year. Never
a mistake or delay -- a fellow who paid
like a prince. Well, I was a million in
advance with him, and now my fine Jacopo
Manfredi suspends payment!"

"Really?"

"It is an unheard-of fatality. I draw
upon him for 600,000 francs, my bills
are returned unpaid, and, more than
that, I hold bills of exchange signed by
him to the value of 400,000 francs,
payable at his correspondent's in Paris
at the end of this month. To-day is the
30th. I present them; but my
correspondent has disappeared. This,
with my Spanish affairs, made a pretty
end to the month."

"Then you really lost by that affair in
Spain?"

"Yes; only 700,000 francs out of my
cash-box -- nothing more!"

"Why, how could you make such a
mistake -- such an old stager?"

"Oh, it is all my wife's fault. She
dreamed Don Carlos had returned to
Spain; she believes in dreams. It is
magnetism, she says, and when she dreams
a thing it is sure to happen, she
assures me. On this conviction I allow
her to speculate, she having her bank
and her stockbroker; she speculated and
lost. It is true she speculates with her
own money, not mine; nevertheless, you
can understand that when 700,000 francs
leave the wife's pocket, the husband
always finds it out. But do you mean to
say you have not heard of this? Why, the
thing has made a tremendous noise."

"Yes, I heard it spoken of, but I did
not know the details, and then no one
can be more ignorant than I am of the
affairs in the Bourse."

"Then you do not speculate?"

"I? -- How could I speculate when I
already have so much trouble in
regulating my income? I should be
obliged, besides my steward, to keep a
clerk and a boy. But touching these
Spanish affairs, I think that the
baroness did not dream the whole of the
Don Carlos matter. The papers said
something about it, did they not?"

"Then you believe the papers?"

"I? -- not the least in the world; only
I fancied that the honest Messager was
an exception to the rule, and that it
only announced telegraphic despatches."

"Well, that's what puzzles me," replied
Danglars; "the news of the return of Don
Carlos was brought by telegraph."

"So that," said Monte Cristo, "you have
lost nearly 1,700,000 francs this
month."

"Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my
loss."

"Diable," said Monte Cristo
compassionately, "it is a hard blow for
a third-rate fortune."

"Third-rate," said Danglars, rather
humble, "what do you mean by that?"

"Certainly," continued Monte Cristo, "I
make three assortments in fortune --
first-rate, second-rate, and third-rate
fortunes. I call those first-rate which
are composed of treasures one possesses
under one's hand, such as mines, lands,
and funded property, in such states as
France, Austria, and England, provided
these treasures and property form a
total of about a hundred millions; I
call those second-rate fortunes, that
are gained by manufacturing enterprises,
joint-stock companies, viceroyalties,
and principalities, not drawing more
than 1,500,000 francs, the whole forming
a capital of about fifty millions;
finally, I call those third-rate
fortunes, which are composed of a
fluctuating capital, dependent upon the
will of others, or upon chances which a
bankruptcy involves or a false telegram
shakes, such as banks, speculations of
the day -- in fact, all operations under
the influence of greater or less
mischances, the whole bringing in a real
or fictitious capital of about fifteen
millions. I think this is about your
position, is it not?"

"Confound it, yes!" replied Danglars.

"The result, then, of six more such
months as this would be to reduce the
third-rate house to despair."

"Oh," said Danglars, becoming very pale,
how you are running on!"

"Let us imagine seven such months,"
continued Monte Cristo, in the same
tone. "Tell me, have you ever thought
that seven times 1,700,000 francs make
nearly twelve millions? No, you have
not; -- well, you are right, for if you
indulged in such reflections, you would
never risk your principal, which is to
the speculator what the skin is to
civilized man. We have our clothes, some
more splendid than others, -- this is
our credit; but when a man dies he has
only his skin; in the same way, on
retiring from business, you have nothing
but your real principal of about five or
six millions, at the most; for
third-rate fortunes are never more than
a fourth of what they appear to be, like
the locomotive on a railway, the size of
which is magnified by the smoke and
steam surrounding it. Well, out of the
five or six millions which form your
real capital, you have just lost nearly
two millions, which must, of course, in
the same degree diminish your credit and
fictitious fortune; to follow out my
simile, your skin has been opened by
bleeding, and this if repeated three or
four times will cause death -- so pay
attention to it, my dear Monsieur
Danglars. Do you want money? Do you wish
me to lend you some?"

"What a bad calculator you are!"
exclaimed Danglars, calling to his
assistance all his philosophy and
dissimulation. "I have made money at the
same time by speculations which have
succeeded. I have made up the loss of
blood by nutrition. I lost a battle in
Spain, I have been defeated in Trieste,
but my naval army in India will have
taken some galleons, and my Mexican
pioneers will have discovered some
mine."

"Very good, very good! But the wound
remains and will reopen at the first
loss."

"No, for I am only embarked in
certainties," replied Danglars, with the
air of a mountebank sounding his own
praises; "to involve me, three
governments must crumble to dust."

"Well, such things have been."

"That there should be a famine!"

"Recollect the seven fat and the seven
lean kine."

"Or, that the sea should become dry, as
in the days of Pharaoh, and even then my
vessels would become caravans."

"So much the better. I congratulate you,
my dear M. Danglars," said Monte Cristo;
"I see I was deceived, and that you
belong to the class of second-rate
fortunes."

"I think I may aspire to that honor,"
said Danglars with a smile, which
reminded Monte Cristo of the sickly
moons which bad artists are so fond of
daubing into their pictures of ruins.
"But, while we are speaking of
business," Danglars added, pleased to
find an opportunity of changing the
subject, "tell me what I am to do for M.
Cavalcanti."

"Give him money, if he is recommended to
you, and the recommendation seems good."

"Excellent; he presented himself this
morning with a bond of 40,000 francs,
payable at sight, on you, signed by
Busoni, and returned by you to me, with
your indorsement -- of course, I
immediately counted him over the forty
bank-notes."

Monte Cristo nodded his head in token of
assent. "But that is not all," continued
Danglars; "he has opened an account with
my house for his son."

"May I ask how much he allows the young
man?"

"Five thousand francs per month."

"Sixty thousand francs per year. I
thought I was right in believing that
Cavalcanti to be a stingy fellow. How
can a young man live upon 5,000 francs a
month?"

"But you understand that if the young
man should want a few thousands more" --

"Do not advance it; the father will
never repay it. You do not know these
ultramontane millionaires; they are
regular misers. And by whom were they
recommended to you?"

"Oh, by the house of Fenzi, one of the
best in Florence."

"I do not mean to say you will lose,
but, nevertheless, mind you hold to the
terms of the agreement."

"Would you not trust the Cavalcanti?"

"I? oh, I would advance six millions on
his signature. I was only speaking in
reference to the second-rate fortunes we
were mentioning just now."

"And with all this, how unassuming he
is! I should never have taken him for
anything more than a mere major."

"And you would have flattered him, for
certainly, as you say, he has no manner.
The first time I saw him he appeared to
me like an old lieutenant who had grown
mouldy under his epaulets. But all the
Italians are the same; they are like old
Jews when they are not glittering in
Oriental splendor."

"The young man is better," said
Danglars.

"Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but,
upon the whole, he appeared tolerable. I
was uneasy about him."

"Why?"

"Because you met him at my house, just
after his introduction into the world,
as they told me. He has been travelling
with a very severe tutor, and had never
been to Paris before."

"Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst
themselves, do they not?" asked Danglars
carelessly; they like to unite their
fortunes."

"It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti
is an original who does nothing like
other people. I cannot help thinking
that he has brought his son to France to
choose a wife."

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"And you have heard his fortune
mentioned?"

"Nothing else was talked of; only some
said he was worth millions, and others
that he did not possess a farthing."

"And what is your opinion?"

"I ought not to influence you, because
it is only my own personal impression."

"Well, and it is that" --

"My opinion is, that all these old
podestas, these ancient condottieri, --
for the Cavalcanti have commanded armies
and governed provinces, -- my opinion, I
say, is, that they have buried their
millions in corners, the secret of which
they have transmitted only to their
eldest sons, who have done the same from
generation to generation; and the proof
of this is seen in their yellow and dry
appearance, like the florins of the
republic, which, from being constantly
gazed upon, have become reflected in
them."

"Certainly," said Danglars, "and this is
further supported by the fact of their
not possessing an inch of land."

"Very little, at least; I know of none
which Cavalcanti possesses, excepting
his palace in Lucca."

"Ah, he has a palace?" said Danglars,
laughing; "come, that is something."

"Yes; and more than that, he lets it to
the Minister of Finance while he lives
in a simple house. Oh, as I told you
before, I think the old fellow is very
close."

"Come, you do not flatter him."

"I scarcely know him; I think I have
seen him three times in my life; all I
know relating to him is through Busoni
and himself. He was telling me this
morning that, tired of letting his
property lie dormant in Italy, which is
a dead nation, he wished to find a
method, either in France or England, of
multiplying his millions, but remember,
that though I place great confidence in
Busoni, I am not responsible for this."

"Never mind; accept my thanks for the
client you have sent me. It is a fine
name to inscribe on my ledgers, and my
cashier was quite proud of it when I
explained to him who the Cavalcanti
were. By the way, this is merely a
simple question, when this sort of
people marry their sons, do they give
them any fortune?"

"Oh, that depends upon circumstances. I
know an Italian prince, rich as a gold
mine, one of the noblest families in
Tuscany, who, when his sons married
according to his wish, gave them
millions; and when they married against
his consent, merely allowed them thirty
crowns a month. Should Andrea marry
according to his father's views, he
will, perhaps, give him one, two, or
three millions. For example, supposing
it were the daughter of a banker, he
might take an interest in the house of
the father-in-law of his son; then
again, if he disliked his choice, the
major takes the key, double-locks his
coffer, and Master Andrea would be
obliged to live like the sons of a
Parisian family, by shuffling cards or
rattling the dice."

"Ah, that boy will find out some
Bavarian or Peruvian princess; he will
want a crown and an immense fortune."

"No; these grand lords on the other side
of the Alps frequently marry into plain
families; like Jupiter, they like to
cross the race. But do you wish to marry
Andrea, my dear M. Danglars, that you
are asking so many questions?"

"Ma foi," said Danglars, "it would not
be a bad speculation, I fancy, and you
know I am a speculator."

"You are not thinking of Mademoiselle
Danglars, I hope; you would not like
poor Andrea to have his throat cut by
Albert?"

"Albert," repeated Danglars, shrugging
his shoulders; "ah, well; he would care
very little about it, I think."

"But he is betrothed to your daughter, I
believe?"

"Well, M. de Morcerf and I have talked
about this marriage, but Madame de
Morcerf and Albert" --

"You do not mean to say that it would
not be a good match?"

"Indeed, I imagine that Mademoiselle
Danglars is as good as M. de Morcerf."

"Mademoiselle Danglars' fortune will be
great, no doubt, especially it the
telegraph should not make any more
mistakes."

"Oh, I do not mean her fortune only; but
tell me" --

"What?"

"Why did you not invite M. and Madame de
Morcerf to your dinner?"

"I did so, but he excused himself on
account of Madame de Morcerf being
obliged to go to Dieppe for the benefit
of sea air."

"Yes, yes," said Danglars, laughing, "it
would do her a great deal of good."

"Why so?"

"Because it is the air she always
breathed in her youth." Monte Cristo
took no notice of this ill-natured
remark.

"But still, if Albert be not so rich as
Mademoiselle Danglars," said the count,
"you must allow that he has a fine
name?"

"So he has; but I like mine as well."

"Certainly; your name is popular, and
does honor to the title they have
adorned it with; but you are too
intelligent not to know that according
to a prejudice, too firmly rooted to be
exterminated, a nobility which dates
back five centuries is worth more than
one that can only reckon twenty years."

"And for this very reason," said
Danglars with a smile, which he tried to
make sardonic, "I prefer M. Andrea
Cavalcanti to M. Albert de Morcerf."

"Still, I should not think the Morcerfs
would yield to the Cavalcanti?"

"The Morcerfs! -- Stay, my dear count,"
said Danglars; "you are a man of the
world, are you not?"

"I think so."

"And you understand heraldry?"

"A little."

"Well, look at my coat-of-arms, it is
worth more than Morcerf's."

"Why so?"

"Because, though I am not a baron by
birth, my real name is, at least,
Danglars."

"Well, what then?"

"While his name is not Morcerf."

"How? -- not Morcerf?"

"Not the least in the world."

"Go on."

"I have been made a baron, so that I
actually am one; he made himself a
count, so that he is not one at all."

"Impossible!"

"Listen my dear count; M. de Morcerf has
been my friend, or rather my
acquaintance, during the last thirty
years. You know I have made the most of
my arms, though I never forgot my
origin."

"A proof of great humility or great
pride," said Monte Cristo.

"Well, when I was a clerk, Morcerf was a
mere fisherman."

"And then he was called" --

"Fernand."

"Only Fernand?"

"Fernand Mondego."

"You are sure?"

"Pardieu, I have bought enough fish of
him to know his name."

"Then, why did you think of giving your
daughter to him?"

"Because Fernand and Danglars, being
both parvenus, both having become noble,
both rich, are about equal in worth,
excepting that there have been certain
things mentioned of him that were never
said of me."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing!"

"Ah, yes; what you tell me recalls to
mind something about the name of Fernand
Mondego. I have heard that name in
Greece."

"In conjunction with the affairs of Ali
Pasha?"

"Exactly so."

"This is the mystery," said Danglars. "I
acknowledge I would have given anything
to find it out."

"It would be very easy if you much
wished it?"

"How so?"

"Probably you have some correspondent in
Greece?"

"I should think so."

"At Yanina?"

"Everywhere."

"Well, write to your correspondent in
Yanina, and ask him what part was played
by a Frenchman named Fernand Mondego in
the catastrophe of Ali Tepelini."

"You are right," exclaimed Danglars,
rising quickly, "I will write to-day."

"Do so."

"I will."

"And if you should hear of anything very
scandalous" --

"I will communicate it to you."

"You will oblige me." Danglars rushed
out of the room, and made but one leap
into his coupe.



Chapter 67 At the Office of the King's
Attorney.

Let us leave the banker driving his
horses at their fullest speed, and
follow Madame Danglars in her morning
excursion. We have said that at
half-past twelve o'clock Madame Danglars
had ordered her horses, and had left
home in the carriage. She directed her
course towards the Faubourg Saint
Germain, went down the Rue Mazarine, and
stopped at the Passage du Pont-Neuf. She
descended, and went through the passage.
She was very plainly dressed, as would
be the case with a woman of taste
walking in the morning. At the Rue
Guenegaud she called a cab, and directed
the driver to go to the Rue de Harlay.
As soon as she was seated in the
vehicle, she drew from her pocket a very
thick black veil, which she tied on to
her straw bonnet. She then replaced the
bonnet, and saw with pleasure, in a
little pocket-mirror, that her white
complexion and brilliant eyes were alone
visible. The cab crossed the Pont-Neuf
and entered the Rue de Harlay by the
Place Dauphine; the driver was paid as
the door opened, and stepping lightly up
the stairs Madame Danglars soon reached
the Salle des Pas-Perdus.

There was a great deal going on that
morning, and many business-like persons
at the Palais; business-like persons pay
very little attention to women, and
Madame Danglars crossed the hall without
exciting any more attention than any
other woman calling upon her lawyer.
There was a great press of people in M.
de Villefort's ante-chamber, but Madame
Danglars had no occasion even to
pronounce her name. The instant she
appeared the door-keeper rose, came to
her, and asked her whether she was not
the person with whom the procureur had
made an appointment; and on her
affirmative answer being given, he
conducted her by a private passage to M.
de Villefort's office. The magistrate
was seated in an arm-chair, writing,
with his back towards the door; he did
not move as he heard it open, and the
door-keeper pronounce the words, "Walk
in, madame," and then reclose it; but no
sooner had the man's footsteps ceased,
than he started up, drew the bolts,
closed the curtains, and examined every
corner of the room. Then, when he had
assured himself that he could neither be
seen nor heard, and was consequently
relieved of doubts, he said, -- "Thanks,
madame, -- thanks for your punctuality;
"and he offered a chair to Madame
Danglars, which she accepted, for her
heart beat so violently that she felt
nearly suffocated.

"It is a long time, madame," said the
procureur, describing a half-circle with
his chair, so as to place himself
exactly opposite to Madame Danglars, --
"it is a long time since I had the
pleasure of speaking alone with you, and
I regret that we have only now met to
enter upon a painful conversation."

"Nevertheless, sir, you see I have
answered your first appeal, although
certainly the conversation must be much
more painful for me than for you."
Villefort smiled bitterly.

"It is true, then," he said, rather
uttering his thoughts aloud than
addressing his companion, -- "it is
true, then, that all our actions leave
their traces -- some sad, others
bright -- on our paths; it is true that
every step in our lives is like the
course of an insect on the sands; -- it
leaves its track! Alas, to many the path
is traced by tears."

"Sir," said Madame Danglars, "you can
feel for my emotion, can you not? Spare
me, then, I beseech you. When I look at
this room, -- whence so many guilty
creatures have departed, trembling and
ashamed, when I look at that chair
before which I now sit trembling and
ashamed, -- oh, it requires all my
reason to convince me that I am not a
very guilty woman and you a menacing
judge." Villefort dropped his head and
sighed. "And I," he said, "I feel that
my place is not in the judge's seat, but
on the prisoner's stool."

"You?" said Madame Danglars.

"Yes, I."

"I think, sir, you exaggerate your
situation," said Madame Danglars, whose
beautiful eyes sparkled for a moment.
"The paths of which you were just
speaking have been traced by all young
men of ardent imaginations. Besides the
pleasure, there is always remorse from
the indulgence of our passions, and,
after all, what have you men to fear
from all this? the world excuses, and
notoriety ennobles you."

"Madame," replied Villefort, "you know
that I am no hypocrite, or, at least,
that I never deceive without a reason.
If my brow be severe, it is because many
misfortunes have clouded it; if my heart
be petrified, it is that it might
sustain the blows it has received. I was
not so in my youth, I was not so on the
night of the betrothal, when we were all
seated around a table in the Rue du
Cours at Marseilles. But since then
everything has changed in and about me;
I am accustomed to brave difficulties,
and, in the conflict to crush those who,
by their own free will, or by chance,
voluntarily or involuntarily, interfere
with me in my career. It is generally
the case that what we most ardently
desire is as ardently withheld from us
by those who wish to obtain it, or from
whom we attempt to snatch it. Thus, the
greater number of a man's errors come
before him disguised under the specious
form of necessity; then, after error has
been committed in a moment of
excitement, of delirium, or of fear, we
see that we might have avoided and
escaped it. The means we might have
used, which we in our blindness could
not see, then seem simple and easy, and
we say, `Why did I not do this, instead
of that?' Women, on the contrary, are
rarely tormented with remorse; for the
decision does not come from you, -- your
misfortunes are generally imposed upon
you, and your faults the results of
others' crimes."

"In any case, sir, you will allow,"
replied Madame Danglars, "that, even if
the fault were alone mine, I last night
received a severe punishment for it."

"Poor thing," said Villefort, pressing
her hand, "it was too severe for your
strength, for you were twice
overwhelmed, and yet" --

"Well?"

"Well, I must tell you. Collect all your
courage, for you have not yet heard
all."

"Ah," exclaimed Madame Danglars,
alarmed, "what is there more to hear?"

"You only look back to the past, and it
is, indeed, bad enough. Well, picture to
yourself a future more gloomy still --
certainly frightful, perhaps
sanguinary." The baroness knew how calm
Villefort naturally was, and his present
excitement frightened her so much that
she opened her mouth to scream, but the
sound died in her throat. "How has this
terrible past been recalled?" cried
Villefort; "how is it that it has
escaped from the depths of the tomb and
the recesses of our hearts, where it was
buried, to visit us now, like a phantom,
whitening our cheeks and flushing our
brows with shame?"

"Alas," said Hermine, "doubtless it is
chance."

"Chance?" replied Villefort; "No, no,
madame, there is no such thing as
chance."

"Oh, yes; has not a fatal chance
revealed all this? Was it not by chance
the Count of Monte Cristo bought that
house? Was it not by chance he caused
the earth to be dug up? Is it not by
chance that the unfortunate child was
disinterred under the trees? -- that
poor innocent offspring of mine, which I
never even kissed, but for whom I wept
many, many tears. Ah, my heart clung to
the count when he mentioned the dear
spoil found beneath the flowers."

"Well, no, madame, -- this is the
terrible news I have to tell you," said
Villefort in a hollow voice -- "no,
nothing was found beneath the flowers;
there was no child disinterred -- no.
You must not weep, no, you must not
groan, you must tremble!"

"What can you mean?" asked Madame
Danglars, shuddering.

"I mean that M. de Monte Cristo, digging
underneath these trees, found neither
skeleton nor chest, because neither of
them was there!"

"Neither of them there?" repeated Madame
Danglars, her staring, wide-open eyes
expressing her alarm.

"Neither of them there!" she again said,
as though striving to impress herself
with the meaning of the words which
escaped her.

"No," said Villefort, burying his face
in his hands, "no, a hundred times no!"

"Then you did not bury the poor child
there, sir? Why did you deceive me?
Where did you place it? tell me --
where?"

"There! But listen to me -- listen --
and you will pity me who has for twenty
years alone borne the heavy burden of
grief I am about to reveal, without
casting the least portion upon you."

"Oh, you frighten me! But speak; I will
listen."

"You recollect that sad night, when you
were half-expiring on that bed in the
red damask room, while I, scarcely less
agitated than you, awaited your
delivery. The child was born, was given
to me -- motionless, breathless,
voiceless; we thought it dead." Madame
Danglars moved rapidly, as though she
would spring from her chair, but
Villefort stopped, and clasped his hands
as if to implore her attention. "We
thought it dead," he repeated; "I placed
it in the chest, which was to take the
place of a coffin; I descended to the
garden, I dug a hole, and then flung it
down in haste. Scarcely had I covered it
with earth, when the arm of the Corsican
was stretched towards me; I saw a shadow
rise, and, at the same time, a flash of
light. I felt pain; I wished to cry out,
but an icy shiver ran through my veins
and stifled my voice; I fell lifeless,
and fancied myself killed. Never shall I
forget your sublime courage, when,
having returned to consciousness, I
dragged myself to the foot of the
stairs, and you, almost dying yourself,
came to meet me. We were obliged to keep
silent upon the dreadful catastrophe.
You had the fortitude to regain the
house, assisted by your nurse. A duel
was the pretext for my wound. Though we
scarcely expected it, our secret
remained in our own keeping alone. I was
taken to Versailles; for three months I
struggled with death; at last, as I
seemed to cling to life, I was ordered
to the South. Four men carried me from
Paris to Chalons, walking six leagues a
day; Madame de Villefort followed the
litter in her carriage. At Chalons I was
put upon the Saone, thence I passed on
to he Rhone, whence I descended, merely
with the current, to Arles; at Arles I
was again placed on my litter, and
continued my journey to Marseilles. My
recovery lasted six months. I never
heard you mentioned, and I did not dare
inquire for you. When I returned to
Paris, I learned that you, the widow of
M. de Nargonne, had married M. Danglars.

"What was the subject of my thoughts
from the time consciousness returned to
me? Always the same -- always the
child's corpse, coming every night in my
dreams, rising from the earth, and
hovering over the grave with menacing
look and gesture. I inquired immediately
on my return to Paris; the house had not
been inhabited since we left it, but it
had just been let for nine years. I
found the tenant. I pretended that I
disliked the idea that a house belonging
to my wife's father and mother should
pass into the hands of strangers. I
offered to pay them for cancelling the
lease; they demanded 6,000 francs. I
would have given 10,000 -- I would have
given 20,000. I had the money with me; I
made the tenant sign the deed of
resilition, and when I had obtained what
I so much wanted, I galloped to Auteuil.

"No one had entered the house since I
had left it. It was five o'clock in the
afternoon; I ascended into the red room,
and waited for night. There all the
thoughts which had disturbed me during
my year of constant agony came back with
double force. The Corsican, who had
declared the vendetta against me, who
had followed me from Nimes to Paris, who
had hid himself in the garden, who had
struck me, had seen me dig the grave,
had seen me inter the child, -- he might
become acquainted with your person, --
nay, he might even then have known it.
Would he not one day make you pay for
keeping this terrible secret? Would it
not be a sweet revenge for him when he
found that I had not died from the blow
of his dagger? It was therefore
necessary, before everything else, and
at all risks, that I should cause all
traces of the past to disappear -- that
I should destroy every material vestige;
too much reality would always remain in
my recollection. It was for this I had
annulled the lease -- it was for this I
had come -- it was for this I was
waiting. Night arrived; I allowed it to
become quite dark. I was without a light
in that room; when the wind shook all
the doors, behind which I continually
expected to see some spy concealed, I
trembled. I seemed everywhere to hear
your moans behind me in the bed, and I
dared not turn around. My heart beat so
violently that I feared my wound would
open. At length, one by one, all the
noises in the neighborhood ceased. I
understood that I had nothing to fear,
that I should neither be seen nor heard,
so I decided upon descending to the
garden.

"Listen, Hermine; I consider myself as
brave as most men, but when I drew from
my breast the little key of the
staircase, which I had found in my
coat -- that little key we both used to
cherish so much, which you wished to
have fastened to a golden ring -- when I
opened the door, and saw the pale moon
shedding a long stream of white light on
the spiral staircase like a spectre, I
leaned against the wall, and nearly
shrieked. I seemed to be going mad. At
last I mastered my agitation. I
descended the staircase step by step;
the only thing I could not conquer was a
strange trembling in my knees. I grasped
the railings; if I had relaxed my hold
for a moment, I should have fallen. I
reached the lower door. Outside this
door a spade was placed against the
wall; I took it, and advanced towards
the thicket. I had provided myself with
a dark lantern. In the middle of the
lawn I stopped to light it, then I
continued my path.

"It was the end of November, all the
verdure of the garden had disappeared,
the trees were nothing more than
skeletons with their long bony arms, and
the dead leaves sounded on the gravel
under my feet. My terror overcame me to
such a degree as I approached the
thicket, that I took a pistol from my
pocket and armed myself. I fancied
continually that I saw the figure of the
Corsican between the branches. I
examined the thicket with my dark
lantern; it was empty. I looked
carefully around; I was indeed alone, --
no noise disturbed the silence but the
owl, whose piercing cry seemed to be
calling up the phantoms of the night. I
tied my lantern to a forked branch I had
noticed a year before at the precise
spot where I stopped to dig the hole.

"The grass had grown very thickly there
during the summer, and when autumn
arrived no one had been there to mow it.
Still one place where the grass was thin
attracted my attention; it evidently was
there I had turned up the ground. I went
to work. The hour, then, for which I had
been waiting during the last year had at
length arrived. How I worked, how I
hoped, how I struck every piece of turf,
thinking to find some resistance to my
spade! But no, I found nothing, though I
had made a hole twice as large as the
first. I thought I had been deceived --
had mistaken the spot. I turned around,
I looked at the trees, I tried to recall
the details which had struck me at the
time. A cold, sharp wind whistled
through the leafless branches, and yet
the drops fell from my forehead. I
recollected that I was stabbed just as I
was trampling the ground to fill up the
hole; while doing so I had leaned
against a laburnum; behind me was an
artificial rockery, intended to serve as
a resting-place for persons walking in
the garden; in falling, my hand,
relaxing its hold of the laburnum, felt
the coldness of the stone. On my right I
saw the tree, behind me the rock. I
stood in the same attitude, and threw
myself down. I rose, and again began
digging and enlarging the hole; still I
found nothing, nothing -- the chest was
no longer there!"

"The chest no longer there?" murmured
Madame Danglars, choking with fear.

Think not I contented myself with this
one effort," continued Villefort. "No; I
searched the whole thicket. I thought
the assassin, having discovered the
chest, and supposing it to be a
treasure, had intended carrying it off,
but, perceiving his error, had dug
another hole, and deposited it there;
but I could find nothing. Then the idea
struck me that he had not taken these
precautions, and had simply thrown it in
a corner. In the last case I must wait
for daylight to renew my search. I
remained the room and waited."

"Oh, heavens!"

When daylight dawned I went down again.
My first visit was to the thicket. I
hoped to find some traces which had
escaped me in the darkness. I had turned
up the earth over a surface of more than
twenty feet square, and a depth of two
feet. A laborer would not have done in a
day what occupied me an hour. But I
could find nothing -- absolutely
nothing. Then I renewed the search.
Supposing it had been thrown aside, it
would probably be on the path which led
to the little gate; but this examination
was as useless as the first, and with a
bursting heart I returned to the
thicket, which now contained no hope for
me."

"Oh," cried Madame Danglars, "it was
enough to drive you mad!"

"I hoped for a moment that it might,"
said Villefort; "but that happiness was
denied me. However, recovering my
strength and my ideas, `Why,' said I,
`should that man have carried away the
corpse?'"

"But you said," replied Madame Danglars,
"he would require it as a proof."

"Ah, no, madame, that could not be. Dead
bodies are not kept a year; they are
shown to a magistrate, and the evidence
is taken. Now, nothing of the kind has
happened."

"What then?" asked Hermine, trembling
violently.

"Something more terrible, more fatal,
more alarming for us -- the child was,
perhaps, alive, and the assassin may
have saved it!"

Madame Danglars uttered a piercing cry,
and, seizing Villefort's hands,
exclaimed, "My child was alive?" said
she; "you buried my child alive? You
were not certain my child was dead, and
you buried it? Ah" --

Madame Danglars had risen, and stood
before the procureur, whose hands she
wrung in her feeble grasp. "I know not;
I merely suppose so, as I might suppose
anything else," replied Villefort with a
look so fixed, it indicated that his
powerful mind was on the verge of
despair and madness. "Ah, my child, my
poor child!" cried the baroness, falling
on her chair, and stifling her sobs in
her handkerchief. Villefort, becoming
somewhat reassured, perceived that to
avert the maternal storm gathering over
his head, he must inspire Madame
Danglars with the terror he felt. "You
understand, then, that if it were so,"
said he, rising in his turn, and
approaching the baroness, to speak to
her in a lower tone, "we are lost. This
child lives, and some one knows it
lives -- some one is in possession of
our secret; and since Monte Cristo
speaks before us of a child disinterred,
when that child could not be found, it
is he who is in possession of our
secret."

"Just God, avenging God!" murmured
Madame Danglars.

Villefort's only answer was a stifled
groan.

"But the child -- the child, sir?"
repeated the agitated mother.

"How I have searched for him," replied
Villefort, wringing his hands; "how I
have called him in my long sleepless
nights; how I have longed for royal
wealth to purchase a million of secrets
from a million of men, and to find mine
among them! At last, one day, when for
the hundredth time I took up my spade, I
asked myself again and again what the
Corsican could have done with the child.
A child encumbers a fugitive; perhaps,
on perceiving it was still alive, he had
thrown it into the river."

"Impossible!" cried Madame Danglars: "a
man may murder another out of revenge,
but he would not deliberately drown a
child."

"Perhaps," continued Villefort, "he had
put it in the foundling hospital."

"Oh, yes, yes," cried the baroness; "my
child is there!"

"I ran to the hospital, and learned that
the same night -- the night of the 20th
of September -- a child had been brought
there, wrapped in part of a fine linen
napkin, purposely torn in half. This
portion of the napkin was marked with
half a baron's crown, and the letter H."

"Truly, truly," said Madame Danglars,
"all my linen is marked thus; Monsieur
de Nargonne was a baronet, and my name
is Hermine. Thank God, my child was not
then dead!"

"No, it was not dead."

"And you can tell me so without fearing
to make me die of joy? Where is the
child?" Villefort shrugged his
shoulders. "Do I know?" said he; "and do
you believe that if I knew I would
relate to you all its trials and all its
adventures as would a dramatist or a
novel writer? Alas, no, I know not. A
woman, about six months after, came to
claim it with the other half of the
napkin. This woman gave all the
requisite particulars, and it was
intrusted to her."

"But you should have inquired for the
woman; you should have traced her."

"And what do you think I did? I feigned
a criminal process, and employed all the
most acute bloodhounds and skilful
agents in search of her. They traced her
to Chalons, and there they lost her."

"They lost her?"

"Yes, forever." Madame Danglars had
listened to this recital with a sigh, a
tear, or a shriek for every detail. "And
this is all?" said she; "and you stopped
there?"

"Oh, no," said Villefort; "I never
ceased to search and to inquire.
However, the last two or three years I
had allowed myself some respite. But now
I will begin with more perseverance and
fury than ever, since fear urges me, not
my conscience."

"But," replied Madame Danglars, "the
Count of Monte Cristo can know nothing,
or he would not seek our society as he
does."

"Oh, the wickedness of man is very
great," said Villefort, "since it
surpasses the goodness of God. Did you
observe that man's eyes while he was
speaking to us?"

"No."

"But have you ever watched him
carefully?"

"Doubtless he is capricious, but that is
all; one thing alone struck me, -- of
all the exquisite things he placed
before us, he touched nothing. I might
have suspected he was poisoning us."

"And you see you would have been
deceived."

"Yes, doubtless."

"But believe me, that man has other
projects. For that reason I wished to
see you, to speak to you, to warn you
against every one, but especially
against him. Tell me," cried Villefort,
fixing his eyes more steadfastly on her
than he had ever done before, "did you
ever reveal to any one our connection?"

"Never, to any one."

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

"Yes, yes, I understand very well,"
ejaculated the baroness; "never, I swear
to you."

"Were you ever in the habit of writing
in the evening what had transpired in
the morning? Do you keep a journal?"

"No, my life has been passed in
frivolity; I wish to forget it myself."

"Do you talk in your sleep?"

"I sleep soundly, like a child; do you
not remember?" The color mounted to the
baroness's face, and Villefort turned
awfully pale.

"It is true," said he, in so low a tone
that he could hardly be heard.

"Well?" said the baroness.

"Well, I understand what I now have to
do," replied Villefort. "In less than
one week from this time I will ascertain
who this M. de Monte Cristo is, whence
he comes, where he goes, and why he
speaks in our presence of children that
have been disinterred in a garden."
Villefort pronounced these words with an
accent which would have made the count
shudder had he heard him. Then he
pressed the hand the baroness
reluctantly gave him, and led her
respectfully back to the door. Madame
Danglars returned in another cab to the
passage, on the other side of which she
found her carriage, and her coachman
sleeping peacefully on his box while
waiting for her.



Chapter 68 A Summer Ball.

The same day during the interview
between Madame Danglars and the
procureur, a travelling-carriage entered
the Rue du Helder, passed through the
gateway of No. 27, and stopped in the
yard. In a moment the door was opened,
and Madame de Morcerf alighted, leaning
on her son's arm. Albert soon left her,
ordered his horses, and having arranged
his toilet, drove to the Champs Elysees,
to the house of Monte Cristo. The count
received him with his habitual smile. It
was a strange thing that no one ever
appeared to advance a step in that man's
favor. Those who would, as it were,
force a passage to his heart, found an
impassable barrier. Morcerf, who ran
towards him with open arms, was chilled
as he drew near, in spite of the
friendly smile, and simply held out his
hand. Monte Cristo shook it coldly,
according to his invariable practice.
"Here I am, dear count."

"Welcome home again."

"I arrived an hour since."

"From Dieppe?"

"No, from Treport."

"Indeed?"

"And I have come at once to see you."

"That is extremely kind of you," said
Monte Cristo with a tone of perfect
indifference.

"And what is the news?"

"You should not ask a stranger, a
foreigner, for news."

"I know it, but in asking for news, I
mean, have you done anything for me?"

"Had you commissioned me?" said Monte
Cristo, feigning uneasiness.

"Come, come," said Albert, "do not
assume so much indifference. It is said,
sympathy travels rapidly, and when at
Treport, I felt the electric shock; you
have either been working for me or
thinking of me."

"Possibly," said Monte Cristo, "I have
indeed thought of you, but the magnetic
wire I was guiding acted, indeed,
without my knowledge."

"Indeed? Pray tell me how it happened?"

"Willingly. M. Danglars dined with me."

"I know it; to avoid meeting him, my
mother and I left town."

"But he met here M. Andrea Cavalcanti."

"Your Italian prince?"

"Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls
himself count."

"Calls himself, do you say?"

"Yes, calls himself."

"Is he not a count?"

"What can I know of him? He calls
himself so. I, of course, give him the
same title, and every one else does
likewise."

"What a strange man you are! What next?
You say M. Danglars dined here?"

"Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the marquis
his father, Madame Danglars, M. and
Madame de Villefort, -- charming
people, -- M. Debray, Maximilian Morrel,
and M. de Chateau-Renaud."

"Did they speak of me?"

"Not a word."

"So much the worse."

"Why so? I thought you wished them to
forget you?"

"If they did not speak of me, I am sure
they thought about me, and I am in
despair."

"How will that affect you, since
Mademoiselle Danglars was not among the
number here who thought of you? Truly,
she might have thought of you at home."

"I have no fear of that; or, if she did,
it was only in the same way in which I
think of her."

"Touching sympathy! So you hate each
other?" said the count.

"Listen," said Morcerf -- "if
Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to
take pity on my supposed martyrdom on
her account, and would dispense with all
matrimonial formalities between our two
families, I am ready to agree to the
arrangement. In a word, Mademoiselle
Danglars would make a charming
mistress -- but a wife -- diable!"

"And this," said Monte Cristo, "is your
opinion of your intended spouse?"

"Yes; it is rather unkind, I
acknowledge, but it is true. But as this
dream cannot be realized, since
Mademoiselle Danglars must become my
lawful wife, live perpetually with me,
sing to me, compose verses and music
within ten paces of me, and that for my
whole life, it frightens me. One may
forsake a mistress, but a wife, -- good
heavens! There she must always be; and
to marry Mademoiselle Danglars would be
awful."

"You are difficult to please, viscount."

"Yes, for I often wish for what is
impossible."

"What is that?"

"To find such a wife as my father
found." Monte Cristo turned pale, and
looked at Albert, while playing with
some magnificent pistols.

"Your father was fortunate, then?" said
he.

"You know my opinion of my mother,
count; look at her, -- still beautiful,
witty, more charming than ever. For any
other son to have stayed with his mother
for four days at Treport, it would have
been a condescension or a martyrdom,
while I return, more contented, more
peaceful -- shall I say more poetic! --
than if I had taken Queen Mab or Titania
as my companion."

"That is an overwhelming demonstration,
and you would make every one vow to live
a single life."

"Such are my reasons for not liking to
marry Mademoiselle Danglars. Have you
ever noticed how much a thing is
heightened in value when we obtain
possession of it? The diamond which
glittered in the window at Marle's or
Fossin's shines with more splendor when
it is our own; but if we are compelled
to acknowledge the superiority of
another, and still must retain the one
that is inferior, do you not know what
we have to endure?"

"Worldling," murmured the count.

"Thus I shall rejoice when Mademoiselle
Eugenie perceives I am but a pitiful
atom, with scarcely as many hundred
thousand francs as she has millions."
Monte Cristo smiled. "One plan occurred
to me," continued Albert; "Franz likes
all that is eccentric; I tried to make
him fall in love with Mademoiselle
Danglars; but in spite of four letters,
written in the most alluring style, he
invariably answered: `My eccentricity
may be great, but it will not make me
break my promise.'"

"That is what I call devoted friendship,
to recommend to another one whom you
would not marry yourself." Albert
smiled. -- "Apropos," continued he,
"Franz is coming soon, but it will not
interest you; you dislike him, I think?"

"I?" said Monte Cristo; "my dear
Viscount, how have you discovered that I
did not like M. Franz! I like every
one."

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

"Let us not mistake," said Monte Cristo;
"I love every one as God commands us to
love our neighbor, as Christians; but I
thoroughly hate but a few. Let us return
to M. Franz d'Epinay. Did you say he was
coming?"

"Yes; summoned by M. de Villefort, who
is apparently as anxious to get
Mademoiselle Valentine married as M.
Danglars is to see Mademoiselle Eugenie
settled. It must be a very irksome
office to be the father of a grown-up
daughter; it seems to make one feverish,
and to raise one's pulse to ninety beats
a minute until the deed is done."

"But M. d'Epinay, unlike you, bears his
misfortune patiently."

"Still more, he talks seriously about
the matter, puts on a white tie, and
speaks of his family. He entertains a
very high opinion of M. and Madame de
Villefort."

"Which they deserve, do they not?"

"I believe they do. M. de Villefort has
always passed for a severe but a just
man."

"There is, then, one," said Monte
Cristo, "whom you do not condemn like
poor Danglars?"

"Because I am not compelled to marry his
daughter perhaps," replied Albert,
laughing.

"Indeed, my dear sir," said Monte
Cristo, "you are revoltingly foppish."

"I foppish? how do you mean?"

"Yes; pray take a cigar, and cease to
defend yourself, and to struggle to
escape marrying Mademoiselle Danglars.
Let things take their course; perhaps
you may not have to retract."

"Bah," said Albert, staring.

"Doubtless, my dear viscount, you will
not be taken by force; and seriously, do
you wish to break off your engagement?"

"I would give a hundred thousand francs
to be able to do so."

"Then make yourself quite easy. M.
Danglars would give double that sum to
attain the same end."

"Am I, indeed, so happy?" said Albert,
who still could not prevent an almost
imperceptible cloud passing across his
brow. "But, my dear count, has M.
Danglars any reason?"

"Ah, there is your proud and selfish
nature. You would expose the self-love
of another with a hatchet, but you
shrink if your own is attacked with a
needle."

"But yet M. Danglars appeared" --

"Delighted with you, was he not? Well,
he is a man of bad taste, and is still
more enchanted with another. I know not
whom; look and judge for yourself."

"Thank you, I understand. But my
mother -- no, not my mother; I
mistake -- my father intends giving a
ball."

"A ball at this season?"

"Summer balls are fashionable."

"If they were not, the countess has only
to wish it, and they would become so."

"You are right; You know they are select
affairs; those who remain in Paris in
July must be true Parisians. Will you
take charge of our invitation to
Messieurs Cavalcanti?"

"When will it take place?"

"On Saturday."

"M. Cavalcanti's father will be gone."

"But the son will be here; will you
invite young M. Cavalcanti?"

"I do not know him, viscount."

"You do not know him?"

"No, I never saw him until a few days
since, and am not responsible for him."

"But you receive him at your house?"

"That is another thing: he was
recommended to me by a good abbe, who
may be deceived. Give him a direct
invitation, but do not ask me to present
him. If he were afterwards to marry
Mademoiselle Danglars, you would accuse
me of intrigue, and would be challenging
me, -- besides, I may not be there
myself."

"Where?"

"At your ball."

"Why should you not be there?"

"Because you have not yet invited me."

"But I come expressly for that purpose."

"You are very kind, but I may be
prevented."

"If I tell you one thing, you will be so
amiable as to set aside all
impediments."

"Tell me what it is."

"My mother begs you to come."

"The Comtesse de Morcerf?" said Monte
Cristo, starting.

"Ah, count," said Albert, "I assure you
Madame de Morcerf speaks freely to me,
and if you have not felt those
sympathetic fibres of which I spoke just
now thrill within you, you must be
entirely devoid of them, for during the
last four days we have spoken of no one
else."

"You have talked of me?"

"Yes, that is the penalty of being a
living puzzle!"

"Then I am also a puzzle to your mother?
I should have thought her too reasonable
to be led by imagination."

"A problem, my dear count, for every
one -- for my mother as well as others;
much studied, but not solved, you still
remain an enigma, do not fear. My mother
is only astonished that you remain so
long unsolved. I believe, while the
Countess G---- takes you for Lord
Ruthven, my mother imagines you to be
Cagliostro or the Count Saint-Germain.
The first opportunity you have, confirm
her in her opinion; it will be easy for
you, as you have the philosophy of the
one and the wit of the other."

"I thank you for the warning," said the
count; "I shall endeavor to be prepared
for all suppositions."

"You will, then, come on Saturday?"

"Yes, since Madame de Morcerf invites
me."

"You are very kind."

"Will M. Danglars be there?"

"He has already been invited by my
father. We shall try to persuade the
great d'Aguesseau,* M. de Villefort, to
come, but have not much hope of seeing
him."

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

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

"Do you dance, count?"

"I dance?"

"Yes, you; it would not be astonishing."

"That is very well before one is over
forty. No, I do not dance, but I like to
see others do so. Does Madame de Morcerf
dance?"

"Never; you can talk to her, she so
delights in your conversation."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, truly; and I assure you. You are
the only man of whom I have heard her
speak with interest." Albert rose and
took his hat; the count conducted him to
the door. "I have one thing to reproach
myself with," said he, stopping Albert
on the steps. "What is it?"

"I have spoken to you indiscreetly about
Danglars."

"On the contrary, speak to me always in
the same strain about him."

"I am glad to be reassured on that
point. Apropos, when do you aspect M.
d'Epinay?"

"Five or six days hence at the latest."

"And when is he to be married?"

"Immediately on the arrival of M. and
Madame de Saint-Meran."

"Bring him to see me. Although you say I
do not like him, I assure you I shall be
happy to see him."

"I will obey your orders, my lord."

"Good-by."

"Until Saturday, when I may expect you,
may I not?"

"Yes, I promised you." The Count watched
Albert, waving his hand to him. When he
had mounted his phaeton, Monte Cristo
turned, and seeing Bertuccio, "What
news?" said he. "She went to the
Palais," replied the steward.

"Did she stay long there?"

"An hour and a half."

"Did she return home?"

"Directly."

"Well, my dear Bertuccio," said the
count, "I now advise you to go in quest
of the little estate I spoke to you of
in Normandy." Bertuccio bowed, and as
his wishes were in perfect harmony with
the order he had received, he started
the same evening.



Chapter 69 The Inquiry.

M. de Villefort kept the promise he had
made to Madame Danglars, to endeavor to
find out how the Count of Monte Cristo
had discovered the history of the house
at Auteuil. He wrote the same day for
the required information to M. de
Boville, who, from having been an
inspector of prisons, was promoted to a
high office in the police; and the
latter begged for two days time to
ascertain exactly who would be most
likely to give him full particulars. At
the end of the second day M. de
Villefort received the following
note: --

"The person called the Count of Monte
Cristo is an intimate acquaintance of
Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner, who is
sometimes seen in Paris and who is there
at this moment; he is also known to the
Abbe Busoni, a Sicilian priest, of high
repute in the East, where he has done
much good."

M. de Villefort replied by ordering the
strictest inquiries to be made
respecting these two persons; his orders
were executed, and the following evening
he received these details: --

"The abbe, who was in Paris only for a
month, inhabited a small two-storied
house behind Saint-Sulpice; there were
two rooms on each floor and he was the
only tenant. The two lower rooms
consisted of a dining-room, with a
table, chairs, and side-board of
walnut, -- and a wainscoted parlor,
without ornaments, carpet, or timepiece.
It was evident that the abbe limited
himself to objects of strict necessity.
He preferred to use the sitting-room
upstairs, which was more library than
parlor, and was furnished with
theological books and parchments, in
which he delighted to bury himself for
months at a time, according to his valet
de chambre. His valet looked at the
visitors through a sort of wicket; and
if their faces were unknown to him or
displeased him, he replied that the abbe
was not in Paris, an answer which
satisfied most persons, because the abbe
was known to be a great traveller.
Besides, whether at home or not, whether
in Paris or Cairo, the abbe always left
something to give away, which the valet
distributed through this wicket in his
master's name. The other room near the
library was a bedroom. A bed without
curtains, four arm-chairs, and a couch,
covered with yellow Utrecht velvet,
composed, with a prie-Dieu, all its
furniture. Lord Wilmore resided in Rue
Fontaine-Saint-George. He was one of
those English tourists who consume a
large fortune in travelling. He hired
the apartment in which he lived
furnished, passed only a few hours in
the day there, and rarely slept there.
One of his peculiarities was never to
speak a word of French, which he however
wrote with great facility."

The day after this important information
had been given to the king's attorney, a
man alighted from a carriage at the
corner of the Rue Ferou, and rapping at
an olive-green door, asked if the Abbe
Busoni were within. "No, he went out
early this morning," replied the valet.

"I might not always be content with that
answer," replied the visitor, "for I
come from one to whom everyone must be
at home. But have the kindness to give
the Abbe Busoni" --

"I told you he was not at home,"
repeated the valet. "Then on his return
give him that card and this sealed
paper. Will he be at home at eight
o'clock this evening?"

"Doubtless, unless he is at work, which
is the same as if he were out."

"I will come again at that time,"
replied the visitor, who then retired.

At the appointed hour the same man
returned in the same carriage, which,
instead of stopping this time at the end
of the Rue Ferou, drove up to the green
door. He knocked, and it opened
immediately to admit him. From the signs
of respect the valet paid him, he saw
that his note had produced a good
effect. "Is the abbe at home?" asked he.

"Yes; he is at work in his library, but
he expects you, sir," replied the valet.
The stranger ascended a rough staircase,
and before a table, illumined by a lamp
whose light was concentrated by a large
shade while the rest of the apartment
was in partial darkness, he perceived
the abbe in a monk's dress, with a cowl
on his head such as was used by learned
men of the Middle Ages. "Have I the
honor of addressing the Abbe Busoni?"
asked the visitor.

"Yes, sir," replied the abbe; "and you
are the person whom M. de Boville,
formerly an inspector of prisons, sends
to me from the prefect of police?"

"Exactly, sir."

"One of the agents appointed to secure
the safety of Paris?"

"Yes, sir"" replied the stranger with a
slight hesitation, and blushing.

The abbe replaced the large spectacles,
which covered not only his eyes but his
temples, and sitting down motioned to
his visitor to do the same. "I am at
your service, sir," said the abbe, with
a marked Italian accent.

"The mission with which I am charged,
sir," replied the visitor, speaking with
hesitation, "is a confidential one on
the part of him who fulfils it, and him
by whom he is employed." The abbe bowed.
"Your probity," replied the stranger,
"is so well known to the prefect that he
wishes as a magistrate to ascertain from
you some particulars connected with the
public safety, to ascertain which I am
deputed to see you. It is hoped that no
ties of friendship or humane
consideration will induce you to conceal
the truth."

"Provided, sir, the particulars you wish
for do not interfere with my scruples or
my conscience. I am a priest, sir, and
the secrets of confession, for instance,
must remain between me and God, and not
between me and human justice."

"Do not alarm yourself, monsieur, we
will duly respect your conscience."

At this moment the abbe pressed down his
side of the shade and so raised it on
the other, throwing a bright light on
the stranger's face, while his own
remained obscured. "Excuse me, abbe,"
said the envoy of the prefect of the
police, "but the light tries my eyes
very much." The abbe lowered the shade.
"Now, sir, I am listening -- go on."

"I will come at once to the point. Do
you know the Count of Monte Cristo?"

"You mean Monsieur Zaccone, I presume?"

"Zaccone? -- is not his name Monte
Cristo?"

"Monte Cristo is the name of an estate,
or, rather, of a rock, and not a family
name."

"Well, be it so -- let us not dispute
about words; and since M. de Monte
Cristo and M. Zaccone are the same" --

"Absolutely the same."

"Let us speak of M. Zaccone."

"Agreed."

"I asked you if you knew him?"

"Extremely well."

"Who is he?"

"The son of a rich shipbuilder in
Malta."

"I know that is the report; but, as you
are aware, the police does not content
itself with vague reports."

"However," replied the abbe, with an
affable smile, "when that report is in
accordance with the truth, everybody
must believe it, the police as well as
all the rest."

"Are you sure of what you assert?"

"What do you mean by that question?"

"Understand, sir, I do not in the least
suspect your veracity; I ask if you are
certain of it?"

"I knew his father, M. Zaccone."

"Ah, indeed?"

"And when a child I often played with
the son in the timber-yards."

"But whence does he derive the title of
count?"

"You are aware that may be bought."

"In Italy?"

"Everywhere."

"And his immense riches, whence does he
procure them?"

"They may not be so very great."

"How much do you suppose he possesses?"

"From one hundred and fifty to two
hundred thousand livres per annum."

"That is reasonable," said the visitor;
"I have heard he had three or four
millions."

"Two hundred thousand per annum would
make four millions of capital."

"But I was told he had four millions per
annum?"

"That is not probable."

"Do you know this Island of Monte
Cristo?"

"Certainly, every one who has come from
Palermo, Naples, or Rome to France by
sea must know it, since he has passed
close to it and must have seen it."

"I am told it is a delightful place?"

"It is a rock."

"And why has the count bought a rock?"

"For the sake of being a count. In Italy
one must have territorial possessions to
be a count."

"You have, doubtless, heard the
adventures of M. Zaccone's youth?"

"The father's?"

"No, the son's."

"I know nothing certain; at that period
of his life, I lost sight of my young
comrade."

"Was he in the wars?"

"I think he entered the service."

"In what branch?"

"In the navy."

"Are you not his confessor?"

"No, sir; I believe he is a Lutheran."

"A Lutheran?"

"I say, I believe such is the case, I do
not affirm it; besides, liberty of
conscience is established in France."

"Doubtless, and we are not now inquiring
into his creed, but his actions; in the
name of the prefect of police, I ask you
what you know of him.

"He passes for a very charitable man.
Our holy father, the pope, has made him
a knight of Jesus Christ for the
services he rendered to the Christians
in the East; he has five or six rings as
testimonials from Eastern monarchs of
his services."

"Does he wear them?"

"No, but he is proud of them; he is
better pleased with rewards given to the
benefactors of man than to his
destroyers."

"He is a Quaker then?"

"Exactly, he is a Quaker, with the
exception of the peculiar dress."

"Has he any friends?"

"Yes, every one who knows him is his
friend."

"But has he any enemies?"

"One only."

"What is his name?"

"Lord Wilmore."

"Where is he?"

"He is in Paris just now."

"Can he give me any particulars?"

"Important ones; he was in India with
Zaccone."

"Do you know his abode?"

"It's somewhere in the Chaussee d'Antin;
but I know neither the street nor the
number."

"Are you at variance with the
Englishman?"

"I love Zaccone, and he hates him; we
are consequently not friends."

"Do you think the Count of Monte Cristo
had ever been in France before he made
this visit to Paris?"

"To that question I can answer
positively; no, sir, he had not, because
he applied to me six months ago for the
particulars he required, and as I did
not know when I might again come to
Paris, I recommended M. Cavalcanti to
him."

"Andrea?"

"No, Bartolomeo, his father."

"Now, sir, I have but one question more
to ask, and I charge you, in the name of
honor, of humanity, and of religion, to
answer me candidly."

"What is it, sir?"

"Do you know with what design M. de
Monte Cristo purchased a house at
Auteuil?"

"Certainly, for he told me."

"What is it, sir?"

"To make a lunatic asylum of it, similar
to that founded by the Count of Pisani
at Palermo. Do you know about that
institution?"

"I have heard of it."

"It is a magnificent charity." Having
said this, the abbe bowed to imply he
wished to pursue his studies. The
visitor either understood the abbe's
meaning, or had no more questions to
ask; he arose, and the abbe accompanied
him to the door. "You are a great
almsgiver," said the visitor, "and
although you are said to be rich, I will
venture to offer you something for your
poor people; will you accept my
offering?"

"I thank you, sir; I am only jealous in
one thing, and that is that the relief I
give should be entirely from my own
resources."

"However" --

"My resolution, sir, is unchangeable,
but you have only to search for yourself
and you will find, alas, but too many
objects upon whom to exercise your
benevolence." The abbe once more bowed
as he opened the door, the stranger
bowed and took his leave, and the
carriage conveyed him straight to the
house of M. de Villefort. An hour
afterwards the carriage was again
ordered, and this time it went to the
Rue Fontaine-Saint-George, and stopped
at No. 5, where Lord Wilmore lived. The
stranger had written to Lord Wilmore,
requesting an interview, which the
latter had fixed for ten o'clock. As the
envoy of the prefect of police arrived
ten minutes before ten, he was told that
Lord Wilmore, who was precision and
punctuality personified, was not yet
come in, but that he would be sure to
return as the clock struck.

The visitor was introduced into the
drawing-room, which was like all other
furnished drawing-rooms. A mantle-piece,
with two modern Sevres vases, a
timepiece representing Cupid with his
bent bow, a mirror with an engraving on
each side -- one representing Homer
carrying his guide, the other,
Belisarius begging -- a grayish paper;
red and black tapestry -- such was the
appearance of Lord Wilmore's
drawing-room. It was illuminated by
lamps with ground-glass shades which
gave only a feeble light, as if out of
consideration for the envoy's weak
sight. After ten minutes' expectation
the clock struck ten; at the fifth
stroke the door opened and Lord Wilmore
appeared. He was rather above the middle
height, with thin reddish whiskers,
light complexion and light hair, turning
rather gray. He was dressed with all the
English peculiarity, namely, in a blue
coat, with gilt buttons and high collar,
in the fashion of 1811, a white
kerseymere waistcoat, and nankeen
pantaloons, three inches too short, but
which were prevented by straps from
slipping up to the knee. His first
remark on entering was, -- "You know,
sir, I do not speak French?"

"I know you do not like to converse in
our language," replied the envoy. "But
you may use it," replied Lord Wilmore;
"I understand it."

"And I," replied the visitor, changing
his idiom, "know enough of English to
keep up the conversation. Do not put
yourself to the slightest
inconvenience."

"Aw?" said Lord Wilmore, with that tone
which is only known to natives of Great
Britain.

The envoy presented his letter of
introduction, which the latter read with
English coolness, and having
finished, -- "I understand," said he,
"perfectly."

Then began the questions, which were
similar to those which had been
addressed to the Abbe Busoni. But as
Lord Wilmore, in the character of the
count's enemy, was less restrained in
his answers, they were more numerous; he
described the youth of Monte Cristo, who
he said, at ten years of age, entered
the service of one of the petty
sovereigns of India who make war on the
English. It was there Wilmore had first
met him and fought against him; and in
that war Zaccone had been taken
prisoner, sent to England, and consigned
to the hulks, whence he had escaped by
swimming. Then began his travels, his
duels, his caprices; then the
insurrection in Greece broke out, and he
had served in the Grecian ranks. While
in that service he had discovered a
silver mine in the mountains of
Thessaly, but he had been careful to
conceal it from every one. After the
battle of Navarino, when the Greek
government was consolidated, he asked of
King Otho a mining grant for that
district, which was given him. Hence
that immense fortune, which, in Lord
Wilmore's opinion, possibly amounted to
one or two millions per annum, -- a
precarious fortune, which might be
momentarily lost by the failure of the
mine.

"But," asked the visitor, "do you know
why he came to France?"

"He is speculating in railways," said
Lord Wilmore, "and as he is an expert
chemist and physicist, he has invented a
new system of telegraphy, which he is
seeking to bring to perfection."

"How much does he spend yearly?" asked
the prefect.

"Not more than five or six hundred
thousand francs," said Lord Wilmore; "he
is a miser." Hatred evidently inspired
the Englishman, who, knowing no other
reproach to bring on the count, accused
him of avarice. "Do you know his house
at Auteuil?"

"Certainly."

"What do you know respecting it?"

"Do you wish to know why he bought it?"

"Yes."

"The count is a speculator, who will
certainly ruin himself in experiments.
He supposes there is in the neighborhood
of the house he has bought a mineral
spring equal to those at Bagneres,
Luchon, and Cauterets. He is going to
turn his house into a Badhaus, as the
Germans term it. He has already dug up
all the garden two or three times to
find the famous spring, and, being
unsuccessful, he will soon purchase all
the contiguous houses. Now, as I dislike
him, and hope his railway, his electric
telegraph, or his search for baths, will
ruin him, I am watching for his
discomfiture, which must soon take
place."

"What was the cause of your quarrel?"

"When he was in England he seduced the
wife of one of my friends."

"Why do you not seek revenge?"

"I have already fought three duels with
him," said the Englishman, "the first
with the pistol, the second with the
sword, and the third with the sabre."

"And what was the result of those
duels?"

"The first time, he broke my arm; the
second, he wounded me in the breast; and
the third time, made this large wound."
The Englishman turned down his
shirt-collar, and showed a scar, whose
redness proved it to be a recent one.
"So that, you see, there is a deadly
feud between us."

"But," said the envoy, "you do not go
about it in the right way to kill him,
if I understand you correctly."

"Aw?" said the Englishman, "I practice
shooting every day, and every other day
Grisier comes to my house."

This was all the visitor wished to
ascertain, or, rather, all the
Englishman appeared to know. The agent
arose, and having bowed to Lord Wilmore,
who returned his salutation with the
stiff politeness of the English, he
retired. Lord Wilmore, having heard the
door close after him, returned to his
bedroom, where with one hand he pulled
off his light hair, his red whiskers,
his false jaw, and his wound, to resume
the black hair, dark complexion, and
pearly teeth of the Count of Monte
Cristo. It was M. de Villefort, and not
the prefect, who returned to the house
of M. de Villefort. The procureur felt
more at ease, although he had learned
nothing really satisfactory, and, for
the first time since the dinner-party at
Auteuil, he slept soundly.



Chapter 70 The Ball.

It was in the warmest days of July, when
in due course of time the Saturday
arrived upon which the ball was to take
place at M. de Morcerf's. It was ten
o'clock at night; the branches of the
great trees in the garden of the count's
house stood out boldly against the azure
canopy of heaven, which was studded with
golden stars, but where the last
fleeting clouds of a vanishing storm yet
lingered. From the apartments on the
ground-floor might be heard the sound of
music, with the whirl of the waltz and
galop, while brilliant streams of light
shone through the openings of the
Venetian blinds. At this moment the
garden was only occupied by about ten
servants, who had just received orders
from their mistress to prepare the
supper, the serenity of the weather
continuing to increase. Until now, it
had been undecided whether the supper
should take place in the dining-room, or
under a long tent erected on the lawn,
but the beautiful blue sky, studded with
stars, had settled the question in favor
of the lawn. The gardens were
illuminated with colored lanterns,
according to the Italian custom, and, as
is usual in countries where the luxuries
of the table -- the rarest of all
luxuries in their complete form -- are
well understood, the supper-table was
loaded with wax-lights and flowers.

At the time the Countess of Morcerf
returned to the rooms, after giving her
orders, many guests were arriving, more
attracted by the charming hospitality of
the countess than by the distinguished
position of the count; for, owing to the
good taste of Mercedes, one was sure of
finding some devices at her
entertainment worthy of describing, or
even copying in case of need. Madame
Danglars, in whom the events we have
related had caused deep anxiety, had
hesitated about going to Madame de
Morcerf's, when during the morning her
carriage happened to meet that of
Villefort. The latter made a sign, and
when the carriages had drawn close
together, said, -- "You are going to
Madame de Morcerf's, are you not?"

"No," replied Madame Danglars, "I am too
ill."

"You are wrong," replied Villefort,
significantly; "it is important that you
should be seen there."

"Do you think so?" asked the baroness.

"I do."

"In that case I will go." And the two
carriages passed on towards their
different destinations. Madame Danglars
therefore came, not only beautiful in
person, but radiant with splendor; she
entered by one door at the time when
Mercedes appeared at the door. The
countess took Albert to meet Madame
Danglars. He approached, paid her some
well merited compliments on her toilet,
and offered his arm to conduct her to a
seat. Albert looked around him. "You are
looking for my daughter?" said the
baroness, smiling.

"I confess it," replied Albert. "Could
you have been so cruel as not to bring
her?"

"Calm yourself. She has met Mademoiselle
de Villefort, and has taken her arm;
see, they are following us, both in
white dresses, one with a bouquet of
camellias, the other with one of
myosotis. But tell me" --

"Well, what do you wish to know?"

"Will not the Count of Monte Cristo be
here to-night?"

"Seventeen!" replied Albert.

"What do you mean?"

"I only mean that the count seems the
rage," replied the viscount, smiling,
"and that you are the seventeenth person
that has asked me the same question. The
count is in fashion; I congratulate him
upon it."

"And have you replied to every one as
you have to me?"

"Ah, to be sure, I have not answered
you; be satisfied, we shall have this
`lion;' we are among the privileged
ones."

"Were you at the opera yesterday?"

"No."

"He was there."

"Ah, indeed? And did the eccentric
person commit any new originality?"

"Can he be seen without doing so?
Elssler was dancing in the `Diable
Boiteux;' the Greek princess was in
ecstasies. After the cachucha he placed
a magnificent ring on the stem of a
bouquet, and threw it to the charming
danseuse, who, in the third act, to do
honor to the gift, reappeared with it on
her finger. And the Greek princess, --
will she be here?"

"No, you will be deprived of that
pleasure; her position in the count's
establishment is not sufficiently
understood."

"Wait; leave me here, and go and speak
to Madame de Villefort, who is trying to
attract your attention."

Albert bowed to Madame Danglars, and
advanced towards Madame de Villefort,
whose lips opened as he approached. "I
wager anything," said Albert,
interrupting her, "that I know what you
were about to say."

"Well, what is it?"

"If I guess rightly, will you confess
it?"

"Yes."

"On your honor?"

"On my honor."

"You were going to ask me if the Count
of Monte Cristo had arrived, or was
expected."

"Not at all. It is not of him that I am
now thinking. I was going to ask you if
you had received any news of Monsieur
Franz."

"Yes, -- yesterday."

"What did he tell you?"

"That he was leaving at the same time as
his letter."

"Well, now then, the count?"

"The count will come, of that you may be
satisfied."

"You know that he has another name
besides Monte Cristo?"

"No, I did not know it."

"Monte Cristo in the name of an island,
and he has a family name."

"I never heard it."

"Well, then, I am better informed than
you; his name is Zaccone."

"It is possible."

"He is a Maltese."

"That is also possible.

"The son of a shipowner."

"Really, you should relate all this
aloud, you would have the greatest
success."

"He served in India, discovered a mine
in Thessaly, and comes to Paris to
establish a mineral water-cure at
Auteuil."

"Well, I'm sure," said Morcerf, "this is
indeed news! Am I allowed to repeat it?"

"Yes, but cautiously, tell one thing at
a time, and do not say I told you."

"Why so?"

"Because it is a secret just
discovered."

"By whom?"

"The police."

"Then the news originated" --

"At the prefect's last night. Paris, you
can understand, is astonished at the
sight of such unusual splendor, and the
police have made inquiries."

"Well, well! Nothing more is wanting
than to arrest the count as a vagabond,
on the pretext of his being too rich."

"Indeed, that doubtless would have
happened if his credentials had not been
so favorable."

"Poor count! And is he aware of the
danger he has been in?"

"I think not."

"Then it will be but charitable to
inform him. When he arrives, I will not
fail to do so."

Just then, a handsome young man, with
bright eyes, black hair, and glossy
mustache, respectfully bowed to Madame
de Villefort. Albert extended his hand.
"Madame," said Albert, "allow me to
present to you M. Maximilian Morrel,
captain of Spahis, one of our best, and,
above all, of our bravest officers."

"I have already had the pleasure of
meeting this gentleman at Auteuil, at
the house of the Count of Monte Cristo,"
replied Madame de Villefort, turning
away with marked coldness of manner.
This answer, and especially the tone in
which it was uttered, chilled the heart
of poor Morrel. But a recompense was in
store for him; turning around, he saw
near the door a beautiful fair face,
whose large blue eyes were, without any
marked expression, fixed upon him, while
the bouquet of myosotis was gently
raised to her lips.

The salutation was so well understood
that Morrel, with the same expression in
his eyes, placed his handkerchief to his
mouth; and these two living statues,
whose hearts beat so violently under
their marble aspect, separated from each
other by the whole length of the room,
forgot themselves for a moment, or
rather forgot the world in their mutual
contemplation. They might have remained
much longer lost in one another, without
any one noticing their abstraction. The
Count of Monte Cristo had just entered.

We have already said that there was
something in the count which attracted
universal attention wherever he
appeared. It was not the coat,
unexceptional in its cut, though simple
and unornamented; it was not the plain
white waistcoat; it was not the
trousers, that displayed the foot so
perfectly formed -- it was none of these
things that attracted the attention, --
it was his pale complexion, his waving
black hair, his calm and serene
expression, his dark and melancholy eye,
his mouth, chiselled with such
marvellous delicacy, which so easily
expressed such high disdain, -- these
were what fixed the attention of all
upon him. Many men might have been
handsomer, but certainly there could be
none whose appearance was more
significant, if the expression may be
used. Everything about the count seemed
to have its meaning, for the constant
habit of thought which he had acquired
had given an ease and vigor to the
expression of his face, and even to the
most trifling gesture, scarcely to be
understood. Yet the Parisian world is so
strange, that even all this might not
have won attention had there not been
connected with it a mysterious story
gilded by an immense fortune.

Meanwhile he advanced through the
assemblage of guests under a battery of
curious glances towards Madame de
Morcerf, who, standing before a
mantle-piece ornamented with flowers,
had seen his entrance in a looking-glass
placed opposite the door, and was
prepared to receive him. She turned
towards him with a serene smile just at
the moment he was bowing to her. No
doubt she fancied the count would speak
to her, while on his side the count
thought she was about to address him;
but both remained silent, and after a
mere bow, Monte Cristo directed his
steps to Albert, who received him
cordially. "Have you seen my mother?"
asked Albert.

"I have just had the pleasure," replied
the count; "but I have not seen your
father."

"See, he is down there, talking politics
with that little group of great
geniuses."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo; "and so
those gentlemen down there are men of
great talent. I should not have guessed
it. And for what kind of talent are they
celebrated? You know there are different
sorts."

"That tall, harsh-looking man is very
learned, he discovered, in the
neighborhood of Rome, a kind of lizard
with a vertebra more than lizards
usually have, and he immediately laid
his discovery before the Institute. The
thing was discussed for a long time, but
finally decided in his favor. I can
assure you the vertebra made a great
noise in the learned world, and the
gentleman, who was only a knight of the
Legion of Honor, was made an officer."

"Come," said Monte Cristo, "this cross
seems to me to be wisely awarded. I
suppose, had he found another additional
vertebra, they would have made him a
commander."

"Very likely," said Albert.

"And who can that person be who has
taken it into his head to wrap himself
up in a blue coat embroidered with
green?"

"Oh, that coat is not his own idea; it
is the Republic's, which deputed David*
to devise a uniform for the
Academicians."

* Louis David, a famous French painter.

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo; "so this
gentleman is an Academician?"

"Within the last week he has been made
one of the learned assembly."

"And what is his especial talent?"

"His talent? I believe he thrusts pins
through the heads of rabbits, he makes
fowls eat madder, and punches the spinal
marrow out of dogs with whalebone."

"And he is made a member of the Academy
of Sciences for this?"

"No; of the French Academy."

"But what has the French Academy to do
with all this?"

"I was going to tell you. It seems" --

"That his experiments have very
considerably advanced the cause of
science, doubtless?"

"No; that his style of writing is very
good."

"This must be very flattering to the
feelings of the rabbits into whose heads
he has thrust pins, to the fowls whose
bones he has dyed red, and to the dogs
whose spinal marrow he has punched out?"

Albert laughed.

"And the other one?" demanded the count.

"That one?"

"Yes, the third."

"The one in the dark blue coat?"

"Yes."

"He is a colleague of the count, and one
of the most active opponents to the idea
of providing the Chamber of Peers with a
uniform. He was very successful upon
that question. He stood badly with the
Liberal papers, but his noble opposition
to the wishes of the court is now
getting him into favor with the
journalists. They talk of making him an
ambassador."

"And what are his claims to the
peerage?"

"He has composed two or three comic
operas, written four or five articles in
the Siecle, and voted five or six years
on the ministerial side."

"Bravo, Viscount," said Monte Cristo,
smiling; "you are a delightful cicerone.
And now you will do me a favor, will you
not?"

"What is it?"

"Do not introduce me to any of these
gentlemen; and should they wish it, you
will warn me." Just then the count felt
his arm pressed. He turned round; it was
Danglars.

"Ah, is it you, baron?" said he.

"Why do you call me baron?" said
Danglars; "you know that I care nothing
for my title. I am not like you,
viscount; you like your title, do you
not?"

"Certainly," replied Albert, "seeing
that without my title I should be
nothing; while you, sacrificing the
baron, would still remain the
millionaire."

"Which seems to me the finest title
under the royalty of July," replied
Danglars.

"Unfortunately," said Monte Cristo,
"one's title to a millionaire does not
last for life, like that of baron, peer
of France, or Academician; for example,
the millionaires Franck & Poulmann, of
Frankfort, who have just become
bankrupts."

"Indeed?" said Danglars, becoming pale.

"Yes; I received the news this evening
by a courier. I had about a million in
their hands, but, warned in time, I
withdrew it a month ago."

"Ah, mon Dieu," exclaimed Danglars,
"they have drawn on me for 200,000
francs!"

"Well, you can throw out the draft;
their signature is worth five per cent."

"Yes, but it is too late," said
Danglars, "I have honored their bills."

"Then," said Monte Cristo, "here are
200,000 francs gone after" --

"Hush, do not mention these things,"
said Danglars; then, approaching Monte
Cristo, he added, "especially before
young M. Cavalcanti;" after which he
smiled, and turned towards the young man
in question. Albert had left the count
to speak to his mother, Danglars to
converse with young Cavalcanti; Monte
Cristo was for an instant alone.
Meanwhile the heat became excessive. The
footmen were hastening through the rooms
with waiters loaded with ices. Monte
Cristo wiped the perspiration from his
forehead, but drew back when the waiter
was presented to him; he took no
refreshment. Madame de Morcerf did not
lose sight of Monte Cristo; she saw that
he took nothing, and even noticed his
gesture of refusal.

"Albert," she asked, "did you notice
that?"

"What, mother?"

"That the count has never been willing
to partake of food under the roof of M.
de Morcerf."

"Yes; but then he breakfasted with me --
indeed, he made his first appearance in
the world on that occasion."

"But your house is not M. de Morcerf's,"
murmured Mercedes; "and since he has
been here I have watched him."

"Well?"

"Well, he has taken nothing yet."

"The count is very temperate." Mercedes
smiled sadly. "Approach him," said she,
"and when the next waiter passes, insist
upon his taking something."

"But why, mother?"

"Just to please me, Albert," said
Mercedes. Albert kissed his mother's
hand, and drew near the count. Another
salver passed, loaded like the preceding
ones; she saw Albert attempt to persuade
the count, but he obstinately refused.
Albert rejoined his mother; she was very
pale.

"Well," said she, "you see he refuses?"

"Yes; but why need this annoy you?"

"You know, Albert, women are singular
creatures. I should like to have seen
the count take something in my house, if
only an ice. Perhaps he cannot reconcile
himself to the French style of living,
and might prefer something else."

"Oh, no; I have seen him eat of
everything in Italy; no doubt he does
not feel inclined this evening."

"And besides," said the countess,
"accustomed as he is to burning
climates, possibly he does not feel the
heat as we do."

"I do not think that, for he has
complained of feeling almost suffocated,
and asked why the Venetian blinds were
not opened as well as the windows."

"In a word," said Mercedes, "it was a
way of assuring me that his abstinence
was intended." And she left the room. A
minute afterwards the blinds were thrown
open, and through the jessamine and
clematis that overhung the window one
could see the garden ornamented with
lanterns, and the supper laid under the
tent. Dancers, players, talkers, all
uttered an exclamation of joy -- every
one inhaled with delight the breeze that
floated in. At the same time Mercedes
reappeared, paler than before, but with
that imperturbable expression of
countenance which she sometimes wore.
She went straight to the group of which
her husband formed the centre. "Do not
detain those gentlemen here, count," she
said; "they would prefer, I should
think, to breathe in the garden rather
than suffocate here, since they are not
playing."

"Ah," said a gallant old general, who,
in 1809, had sung "Partant pour la
Syrie," -- "we will not go alone to the
garden."

"Then," said Mercedes, "I will lead the
way." Turning towards Monte Cristo, she
added, "count, will you oblige me with
your arm?" The count almost staggered at
these simple words; then he fixed his
eyes on Mercedes. It was only a
momentary glance, but it seemed to the
countess to have lasted for a century,
so much was expressed in that one look.
He offered his arm to the countess; she
took it, or rather just touched it with
her little hand, and they together
descended the steps, lined with
rhododendrons and camellias. Behind
them, by another outlet, a group of
about twenty persons rushed into the
garden with loud exclamations of
delight.



Chapter 71 Bread and Salt.

Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of
trees with her companion. It led through
a grove of lindens to a conservatory.

"It was too warm in the room, was it
not, count?" she asked.

"Yes, madame; and it was an excellent
idea of yours to open the doors and the
blinds." As he ceased speaking, the
count felt the hand of Mercedes tremble.
"But you," he said, "with that light
dress, and without anything to cover you
but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel
cold?"

"Do you know where I am leading you?"
said the countess, without replying to
the question.

"No, madame," replied Monte Cristo; "but
you see I make no resistance."

"We are going to the greenhouse that you
see at the other end of the grove."

The count looked at Mercedes as if to
interrogate her, but she continued to
walk on in silence, and he refrained
from speaking. They reached the
building, ornamented with magnificent
fruits, which ripen at the beginning of
July in the artificial temperature which
takes the place of the sun, so
frequently absent in our climate. The
countess left the arm of Monte Cristo,
and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes.
"See, count," she said, with a smile so
sad in its expression that one could
almost detect the tears on her
eyelids -- "see, our French grapes are
not to be compared, I know, with yours
of Sicily and Cyprus, but you will make
allowance for our northern sun." The
count bowed, but stepped back. "Do you
refuse?" said Mercedes, in a tremulous
voice. "Pray excuse me, madame," replied
Monte Cristo, "but I never eat Muscatel
grapes."

Mercedes let them fall, and sighed. A
magnificent peach was hanging against an
adjoining wall, ripened by the same
artificial heat. Mercedes drew near, and
plucked the fruit. "Take this peach,
then," she said. The count again
refused. "What, again?" she exclaimed,
in so plaintive an accent that it seemed
to stifle a sob; "really, you pain me."

A long silence followed; the peach, like
the grapes, fell to the ground. "Count,"
added Mercedes with a supplicating
glance, "there is a beautiful Arabian
custom, which makes eternal friends of
those who have together eaten bread and
salt under the same roof."

"I know it, madame," replied the count;
"but we are in France, and not in
Arabia, and in France eternal
friendships are as rare as the custom of
dividing bread and salt with one
another."

"But," said the countess, breathlessly,
with her eyes fixed on Monte Cristo,
whose arm she convulsively pressed with
both hands, "we are friends, are we
not?"

The count became pale as death, the
blood rushed to his heart, and then
again rising, dyed his cheeks with
crimson; his eyes swam like those of a
man suddenly dazzled. "Certainly, we are
friends," he replied; "why should we not
be?" The answer was so little like the
one Mercedes desired, that she turned
away to give vent to a sigh, which
sounded more like a groan. "Thank you,"
she said. And they walked on again. They
went the whole length of the garden
without uttering a word. "Sir," suddenly
exclaimed the countess, after their walk
had continued ten minutes in silence,
"is it true that you have seen so much,
travelled so far, and suffered so
deeply?"

"I have suffered deeply, madame,"
answered Monte Cristo.

"But now you are happy?"

"Doubtless," replied the count, "since
no one hears me complain."

"And your present happiness, has it
softened your heart?"

"My present happiness equals my past
misery," said the count.

"Are you not married?" asked the
countess. "I married?" exclaimed Monte
Cristo, shuddering; "who could have told
you so?"

"No one told me you were, but you have
frequently been seen at the opera with a
young and lovely woman."

"She is a slave whom I bought at
Constantinople, madame, the daughter of
a prince. I have adopted her as my
daughter, having no one else to love in
the world."

"You live alone, then?"

"I do."

"You have no sister -- no son -- no
father?"

"I have no one."

"How can you exist thus without any one
to attach you to life?"

"It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I
loved a young girl, was on the point of
marrying her, when war came and carried
me away. I thought she loved me well
enough to wait for me, and even to
remain faithful to my memory. When I
returned she was married. This is the
history of most men who have passed
twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart
was weaker than the hearts of most men,
and I suffered more than they would have
done in my place; that is all." The
countess stopped for a moment, as if
gasping for breath. "Yes," she said,
"and you have still preserved this love
in your heart -- one can only love
once -- and did you ever see her again?"

"Never."

"Never?"

"I never returned to the country where
she lived."

"To Malta?"

"Yes; Malta."

"She is, then, now at Malta?"

"I think so."

"And have you forgiven her for all she
has made you suffer?"

"Her, -- yes."

"But only her; do you then still hate
those who separated you?"

"I hate them? Not at all; why should I?"
The countess placed herself before Monte
Cristo, still holding in her hand a
portion of the perfumed grapes. "Take
some," she said. "Madame, I never eat
Muscatel grapes," replied Monte Cristo,
as if the subject had not been mentioned
before. The countess dashed the grapes
into the nearest thicket, with a gesture
of despair. "Inflexible man!" she
murmured. Monte Cristo remained as
unmoved as if the reproach had not been
addressed to him. Albert at this moment
ran in. "Oh, mother," he exclaimed,
"such a misfortune his happened!"

"What? What has happened?" asked the
countess, as though awakening from a
sleep to the realities of life; "did you
say a misfortune? Indeed, I should
expect misfortunes."

"M. de Villefort is here."

"Well?"

"He comes to fetch his wife and
daughter."

"Why so?"

"Because Madame de Saint-Meran is just
arrived in Paris, bringing the news of
M. de Saint-Meran's death, which took
place on the first stage after he left
Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who was
in very good spirits, would neither
believe nor think of the misfortune, but
Mademoiselle Valentine, at the first
words, guessed the whole truth,
notwithstanding all the precautions of
her father; the blow struck her like a
thunderbolt, and she fell senseless."

"And how was M. de Saint-Meran related
to Mademoiselle de Villefort?" said the
count.

"He was her grandfather on the mother's
side. He was coming here to hasten her
marriage with Franz."

"Ah, indeed?"

"So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de
Saint-Meran also grandfather to
Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Albert, Albert," said Madame de
Morcerf, in a tone of mild reproof,
"what are you saying? Ah, count, he
esteems you so highly, tell him that he
has spoken amiss." And she took two or
three steps forward. Monte Cristo
watched her with an air so thoughtful,
and so full of affectionate admiration,
that she turned back and grasped his
hand; at the same time she seized that
of her son, and joined them together.

"We are friends; are we not?" she asked.

"Oh, madame, I do not presume to call
myself your friend, but at all times I
am your most respectful servant." The
countess left with an indescribable pang
in her heart, and before she had taken
ten steps the count saw her raise her
handkerchief to her eyes. "Do not my
mother and you agree?" asked Albert,
astonished.

"On the contrary," replied the count,
"did you not hear her declare that we
were friends?" They re-entered the
drawing-room, which Valentine and Madame
de Villefort had just quitted. It is
perhaps needless to add that Morrel
departed almost at the same time.



Chapter 72 Madame de Saint-Meran.

A gloomy scene had indeed just passed at
the house of M. de Villefort. After the
ladies had departed for the ball,
whither all the entreaties of Madame de
Villefort had failed in persuading him
to accompany them, the procureur had
shut himself up in his study, according
to his custom. with a heap of papers
calculated to alarm any one else, but
which generally scarcely satisfied his
inordinate desires. But this time the
papers were a mere matter of form.
Villefort had secluded himself, not to
study, but to reflect; and with the door
locked and orders given that he should
not be disturbed excepting for important
business, he sat down in his arm-chair
and began to ponder over the events, the
remembrance of which had during the last
eight days filled his mind with so many
gloomy thoughts and bitter
recollections. Then, instead of plunging
into the mass of documents piled before
him, he opened the drawer of his desk.
touched a spring, and drew out a parcel
of cherished memoranda, amongst which he
had carefully arranged, in characters
only known to himself, the names of all
those who, either in his political
career, in money matters, at the bar, or
in his mysterious love affairs, had
become his enemies.

Their number was formidable, now that he
had begun to fear, and yet these names,
powerful though they were, had often
caused him to smile with the same kind
of satisfaction experienced by a
traveller who from the summit of a
mountain beholds at his feet the craggy
eminences, the almost impassable paths,
and the fearful chasms, through which he
has so perilously climbed. When he had
run over all these names in his memory,
again read and studied them, commenting
meanwhile upon his lists, he shook his
head.

"No," he murmured, "none of my enemies
would have waited so patiently and
laboriously for so long a space of time,
that they might now come and crush me
with this secret. Sometimes, as Hamlet
says --

`Foul deeds will rise, Tho, all the
earth o'erwhelm them to men's eyes;'

but, like a phosphoric light, they rise
but to mislead. The story has been told
by the Corsican to some priest, who in
his turn has repeated it. M. de Monte
Cristo may have heard it, and to
enlighten himself -- but why should he
wish to enlighten himself upon the
subject?" asked Villefort, after a
moment's reflection, "what interest can
this M. de Monte Cristo or M.
Zaccone, -- son of a shipowner of Malta,
discoverer of a mine in Thessaly, now
visiting Paris for the first time, --
what interest, I say, can he take in
discovering a gloomy, mysterious, and
useless fact like this? However, among
all the incoherent details given to me
by the Abbe Busoni and by Lord Wilmore,
by that friend and that enemy, one thing
appears certain and clear in my
opinion -- that in no period, in no
case, in no circumstance, could there
have been any contact between him and
me."

But Villefort uttered words which even
he himself did not believe. He dreaded
not so much the revelation, for he could
reply to or deny its truth; -- he cared
little for that mene, tekel, upharsin,
which appeared suddenly in letters of
blood upon the wall; -- but what he was
really anxious for was to discover whose
hand had traced them. While he was
endeavoring to calm his fears, -- and
instead of dwelling upon the political
future that had so often been the
subject of his ambitious dreams, was
imagining a future limited to the
enjoyments of home, in fear of awakening
the enemy that had so long slept, -- the
noise of a carriage sounded in the yard,
then he heard the steps of an aged
person ascending the stairs, followed by
tears and lamentations, such as servants
always give vent to when they wish to
appear interested in their master's
grief. He drew back the bolt of his
door, and almost directly an old lady
entered, unannounced, carrying her shawl
on her arm, and her bonnet in her hand.
The white hair was thrown back from her
yellow forehead, and her eyes, already
sunken by the furrows of age, now almost
disappeared beneath the eyelids swollen
with grief. "Oh, sir," she said; "oh,
sir, what a misfortune! I shall die of
it; oh, yes, I shall certainly die of
it!"

And then, falling upon the chair nearest
the door, she burst into a paroxysm of
sobs. The servants, standing in the
doorway, not daring to approach nearer,
were looking at Noirtier's old servant,
who had heard the noise from his
master's room, and run there also,
remaining behind the others. Villefort
rose, and ran towards his mother-in-law,
for it was she.

"Why, what can have happened?" he
exclaimed, "what has thus disturbed you?
Is M. de Saint-Meran with you?"

"M. de Saint-Meran is dead," answered
the old marchioness, without preface and
without expression; she appeared to be
stupefied. Villefort drew back, and
clasping his hands together,
exclaimed -- "Dead! -- so suddenly?"

"A week ago," continued Madame de
Saint-Meran, "we went out together in
the carriage after dinner. M. de
Saint-Meran had been unwell for some
days; still, the idea of seeing our dear
Valentine again inspired him with
courage, and notwithstanding his illness
he would leave. At six leagues from
Marseilles, after having eaten some of
the lozenges he is accustomed to take,
he fell into such a deep sleep, that it
appeared to me unnatural; still I
hesitated to wake him, although I
fancied that his face was flushed, and
that the veins of his temples throbbed
more violently than usual. However, as
it became dark, and I could no longer
see, I fell asleep; I was soon aroused
by a piercing shriek, as from a person
suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly
threw his head back violently. I called
the valet, I stopped the postilion, I
spoke to M. de Saint-Meran, I applied my
smelling-salts; but all was over, and I
arrived at Aix by the side of a corpse."
Villefort stood with his mouth half
open, quite stupefied.

"Of course you sent for a doctor?"

"Immediately; but, as I have told you,
it was too late."

"Yes; but then he could tell of what
complaint the poor marquis had died."

"Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to
have been an apoplectic stroke."

"And what did you do then?"

"M. de Saint-Meran had always expressed
a desire, in case his death happened
during his absence from Paris, that his
body might be brought to the family
vault. I had him put into a leaden
coffin, and I am preceding him by a few
days."

"Oh, my poor mother," said Villefort,
"to have such duties to perform at your
age after such a blow!"

"God has supported me through all; and
then, my dear marquis, he would
certainly have done everything for me
that I performed for him. It is true
that since I left him, I seem to have
lost my senses. I cannot cry; at my age
they say that we have no more tears, --
still I think that when one is in
trouble one should have the power of
weeping. Where is Valentine. sir? It is
on her account I am here; I wish to see
Valentine." Villefort thought it would
be terrible to reply that Valentine was
at a ball; so he only said that she had
gone out with her step-mother, and that
she should be fetched. "This instant,
sir -- this instant, I beseech you!"
said the old lady. Villefort placed the
arm of Madame de Saint-Meran within his
own, and conducted her to his apartment.
"Rest yourself, mother," he said.

The marchioness raised her head at this
word, and beholding the man who so
forcibly reminded her of her
deeply-regretted child, who still lived
for her in Valentine, she felt touched
at the name of mother, and bursting into
tears, she fell on her knees before an
arm-chair, where she buried her
venerable head. Villefort left her to
the care of the women, while old Barrois
ran, half-scared, to his master; for
nothing frightens old people so much as
when death relaxes its vigilance over
them for a moment in order to strike
some other old person. Then, while
Madame de Saint-Meran remained on her
knees, praying fervently, Villefort sent
for a cab, and went himself to fetch his
wife and daughter from Madame de
Morcerf's. He was so pale when he
appeared at the door of the ball-room,
that Valentine ran to him, saying --

"Oh, father, some misfortune has
happened!"

"Your grandmamma has just arrived,
Valentine," said M. de Villefort.

"And grandpapa?" inquired the young
girl, trembling with apprehension. M. de
Villefort only replied by offering his
arm to his daughter. It was just in
time, for Valentine's head swam, and she
staggered; Madame de Villefort instantly
hastened to her assistance, and aided
her husband in dragging her to the
carriage, saying -- "What a singular
event! Who could have thought it? Ah,
yes, it is indeed strange!" And the
wretched family departed, leaving a
cloud of sadness hanging over the rest
of the evening. At the foot of the
stairs, Valentine found Barrois awaiting
her.

"M. Noirtier wishes to see you to-night,
he said, in an undertone.

"Tell him I will come when I leave my
dear grandmamma," she replied, feeling,
with true delicacy, that the person to
whom she could be of the most service
just then was Madame de Saint-Meran.
Valentine found her grandmother in bed;
silent caresses, heartwrung sobs, broken
sighs, burning tears, were all that
passed in this sad interview, while
Madame de Villefort, leaning on her
husband's arm, maintained all outward
forms of respect, at least towards the
poor widow. She soon whispered to her
husband, "I think it would be better for
me to retire, with your permission, for
the sight of me appears still to afflict
your mother-in-law." Madame de
Saint-Meran heard her. "Yes, yes," she
said softly to Valentine, "let her
leave; but do you stay." Madame de
Villefort left, and Valentine remained
alone beside the bed, for the procureur,
overcome with astonishment at the
unexpected death, had followed his wife.
Meanwhile, Barrois had returned for the
first time to old Noirtier, who having
heard the noise in the house, had, as we
have said, sent his old servant to
inquire the cause; on his return, his
quick intelligent eye interrogated the
messenger. "Alas, sir," exclaimed
Barrois, "a great misfortune has
happened. Madame de Saint-Meran has
arrived, and her husband is dead!"

M. de Saint-Meran and Noirtier had never
been on strict terms of friendship;
still, the death of one old man always
considerably affects another. Noirtier
let his head fall upon his chest,
apparently overwhelmed and thoughtful;
then he closed one eye, in token of
inquiry. "Mademoiselle Valentine?"
Noirtier nodded his head. "She is at the
ball, as you know, since she came to say
good-by to you in full dress." Noirtier
again closed his left eye. "Do you wish
to see her?" Noirtier again made an
affirmative sign. "Well, they have gone
to fetch her, no doubt, from Madame de
Morcerf's; I will await her return, and
beg her to come up here. Is that what
you wish for?"

"Yes," replied the invalid.

Barrois, therefore, as we have seen,
watched for Valentine, and informed her
of her grandfather's wish. Consequently,
Valentine came up to Noirtier, on
leaving Madame de Saint-Meran, who in
the midst of her grief had at last
yielded to fatigue and fallen into a
feverish sleep. Within reach of her hand
they placed a small table upon which
stood a bottle of orangeade, her usual
beverage, and a glass. Then, as we have
said, the young girl left the bedside to
see M. Noirtier. Valentine kissed the
old man, who looked at her with such
tenderness that her eyes again filled
with tears, whose sources he thought
must be exhausted. The old gentleman
continued to dwell upon her with the
same expression. "Yes, yes," said
Valentine, "you mean that I have yet a
kind grandfather left, do you not." The
old man intimated that such was his
meaning. "Ah, yes, happily I have,"
replied Valentine. "Without that, what
would become of me?"

It was one o'clock in the morning.
Barrois, who wished to go to bed
himself, observed that after such sad
events every one stood in need of rest.
Noirtier would not say that the only
rest he needed was to see his child, but
wished her good-night, for grief and
fatigue had made her appear quite ill.
The next morning she found her
grandmother in bed; the fever had not
abated, on the contrary her eyes
glistened and she appeared to be
suffering from violent nervous
irritability. "Oh, dear grandmamma, are
you worse?" exclaimed Valentine,
perceiving all these signs of agitation.

"No, my child, no," said Madame de
Saint-Meran; "but I was impatiently
waiting for your arrival, that I might
send for your father."

"My father?" inquired Valentine,
uneasily.

"Yes, I wish to speak to him." Valentine
durst not oppose her grandmother's wish,
the cause of which she did not know, and
an instant afterwards Villefort entered.
"Sir," said Madame de Saint-Meran,
without using any circumlocution, and as
if fearing she had no time to lose, "you
wrote to me concerning the marriage of
this child?"

"Yes, madame," replied Villefort, "it is
not only projected but arranged."

"Your intended son-in-law is named M.
Franz d'Epinay?"

"Yes, madame."

"Is he not the son of General d'Epinay
who was on our side, and who was
assassinated some days before the
usurper returned from the Island of
Elba?"

"The same."

"Does he not dislike the idea of
marrying the granddaughter of a
Jacobin?"

"Our civil dissensions are now happily
extinguished, mother," said Villefort;
"M. d'Epinay was quite a child when his
father died, he knows very little of M.
Noirtier, and will meet him, if not with
pleasure, at least with indifference."

"Is it a suitable match?"

"In every respect."

"And the young man?"

"Is regarded with universal esteem."

"You approve of him?"

"He is one of the most well-bred young
men I know." During the whole of this
conversation Valentine had remained
silent. "Well, sir," said Madame de
Saint-Meran, after a few minutes'
reflection, "I must hasten the marriage,
for I have but a short time to live."

"You, madame?" "You, dear mamma?"
exclaimed M. de Villefort and Valentine
at the same time.

"I know what I am saying," continued the
marchioness; "I must hurry you, so that,
as she has no mother, she may at least
have a grandmother to bless her
marriage. I am all that is left to her
belonging to my poor Renee, whom you
have so soon forgotten, sir."

"Ah, madame," said Villefort, "you
forget that I was obliged to give a
mother to my child."

"A stepmother is never a mother, sir.
But this is not to the purpose, -- our
business concerns Valentine, let us
leave the dead in peace."

All this was said with such exceeding
rapidity, that there was something in
the conversation that seemed like the
beginning of delirium.

"It shall be as you wish, madame," said
Villefort; "more especially since your
wishes coincide with mine, and as soon
as M. d'Epinay arrives in Paris" --

"My dear grandmother," interrupted
Valentine, "consider decorum -- the
recent death. You would not have me
marry under such sad auspices?"

"My child," exclaimed the old lady
sharply, "let us hear none of the
conventional objections that deter weak
minds from preparing for the future. I
also was married at the death-bed of my
mother, and certainly I have not been
less happy on that account."

"Still that idea of death, madame," said
Villefort.

"Still? -- Always! I tell you I am going
to die -- do you understand? Well,
before dying, I wish to see my
son-in-law. I wish to tell him to make
my child happy; I wish to read in his
eyes whether he intends to obey me; --
in fact, I will know him -- I will!"
continued the old lady, with a fearful
expression, "that I may rise from the
depths of my grave to find him, if he
should not fulfil his duty!"

"Madame," said Villefort, "you must lay
aside these exalted ideas, which almost
assume the appearance of madness. The
dead, once buried in their graves, rise
no more."

"And I tell you, sir, that you are
mistaken. This night I have had a
fearful sleep. It seemed as though my
soul were already hovering over my body,
my eyes, which I tried to open, closed
against my will, and what will appear
impossible above all to you, sir, I saw,
with my eyes shut, in the spot where you
are now standing, issuing from that
corner where there is a door leading
into Madame Villefort's dressing-room --
I saw, I tell you, silently enter, a
white figure." Valentine screamed. "It
was the fever that disturbed you,
madame," said Villefort.

"Doubt, if you please, but I am sure of
what I say. I saw a white figure, and as
if to prevent my discrediting the
testimony of only one of my senses, I
heard my glass removed -- the same which
is there now on the table."

"Oh, dear mother, it was a dream."

"So little was it a dream, that I
stretched my hand towards the bell; but
when I did so, the shade disappeared; my
maid then entered with a light."

"But she saw no one?"

"Phantoms are visible to those only who
ought to see them. It was the soul of my
husband! -- Well, if my husband's soul
can come to me, why should not my soul
reappear to guard my granddaughter? the
tie is even more direct, it seems to
me."

"Oh, madame," said Villefort, deeply
affected, in spite of himself, "do not
yield to those gloomy thoughts; you will
long live with us, happy, loved, and
honored, and we will make you forget" --

"Never, never, never," said the
marchioness. "when does M. d'Epinay
return?"

"We expect him every moment."

"It is well. As soon as he arrives
inform me. We must be expeditious. And
then I also wish to see a notary, that I
may be assured that all our property
returns to Valentine."

"Ah, grandmamma," murmured Valentine,
pressing her lips on the burning brow,
"do you wish to kill me? Oh, how
feverish you are; we must not send for a
notary, but for a doctor."

"A doctor?" said she, shrugging her
shoulders, "I am not ill; I am
thirsty -- that is all."

"What are you drinking, dear
grandmamma?"

"The same as usual, my dear, my glass is
there on the table -- give it to me,
Valentine." Valentine poured the
orangeade into a glass and gave it to
her grandmother with a certain degree of
dread, for it was the same glass she
fancied that had been touched by the
spectre. The marchioness drained the
glass at a single draught, and then
turned on her pillow, repeating, -- "The
notary, the notary!"

M. de Villefort left the room, and
Valentine seated herself at the bedside
of her grandmother. The poor child
appeared herself to require the doctor
she had recommended to her aged
relative. A bright spot burned in either
cheek, her respiration was short and
difficult, and her pulse beat with
feverish excitement. She was thinking of
the despair of Maximilian, when he
should be informed that Madame de
Saint-Meran, instead of being an ally,
was unconsciously acting as his enemy.
More than once she thought of revealing
all to her grandmother, and she would
not have hesitated a moment, if
Maximilian Morrel had been named Albert
de Morcerf or Raoul de Chateau-Renaud;
but Morrel was of plebeian extraction,
and Valentine knew how the haughty
Marquise de Saint-Meran despised all who
were not noble. Her secret had each time
been repressed when she was about to
reveal it, by the sad conviction that it
would be useless to do so; for, were it
once discovered by her father and
mother, all would be lost. Two hours
passed thus; Madame de Saint-Meran was
in a feverish sleep, and the notary had
arrived. Though his coming was announced
in a very low tone, Madame de
Saint-Meran arose from her pillow. "The
notary!" she exclaimed, "let him come
in."

The notary, who was at the door,
immediately entered. "Go, Valentine,"
said Madame de Saint-Meran, "and leave
me with this gentleman."

"But, grandmamma" --

"Leave me -- go!" The young girl kissed
her grandmother, and left with her
handkerchief to her eyes; at the door
she found the valet de chambre, who told
her that the doctor was waiting in the
dining-room. Valentine instantly ran
down. The doctor was a friend of the
family, and at the same time one of the
cleverest men of the day, and very fond
of Valentine, whose birth he had
witnessed. He had himself a daughter
about her age, but whose life was one
continued source of anxiety and fear to
him from her mother having been
consumptive.

"Oh," said Valentine, "we have been
waiting for you with such impatience,
dear M. d'Avrigny. But, first of all,
how are Madeleine and Antoinette?"
Madeleine was the daughter of M.
d'Avrigny, and Antoinette his niece. M.
d'Avrigny smiled sadly. "Antoinette is
very well," he said, "and Madeleine
tolerably so. But you sent for me, my
dear child. It is not your father or
Madame de Villefort who is ill. As for
you, although we doctors cannot divest
our patients of nerves, I fancy you have
no further need of me than to recommend
you not to allow your imagination to
take too wide a field." Valentine
colored. M. d'Avrigny carried the
science of divination almost to a
miraculous extent, for he was one of the
physicians who always work upon the body
through the mind. "No," she replied, "it
is for my poor grandmother. You know the
calamity that has happened to us, do you
not?"

"I know nothing." said M. d'Avrigny.

"Alas," said Valentine, restraining her
tears, "my grandfather is dead."

"M. de Saint-Meran?"

"Yes."

"Suddenly?"

"From an apoplectic stroke."

"An apoplectic stroke?" repeated the
doctor.

"Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies
that her husband, whom she never left,
has called her, and that she must go and
join him. Oh, M. d'Avrigny, I beseech
you, do something for her!"

"Where is she?"

"In her room with the notary."

"And M. Noirtier?"

"Just as he was, his mind perfectly
clear, but the same incapability of
moving or speaking."

"And the same love for you -- eh, my
dear child?"

"Yes," said Valentine, "he was very fond
of me."

"Who does not love you?" Valentine
smiled sadly. "What are your
grandmother's symptoms?"

"An extreme nervous excitement and a
strangely agitated sleep; she fancied
this morning in her sleep that her soul
was hovering above her body, which she
at the same time watched. It must have
been delirium; she fancies, too, that
she saw a phantom enter her chamber and
even heard the noise it made on touching
her glass."

"It is singular," said the doctor; "I
was not aware that Madame de Saint-Meran
was subject to such hallucinations."

"It is the first time I ever saw her in
this condition," said Valentine; "and
this morning she frightened me so that I
thought her mad; and my father, who you
know is a strong-minded man, himself
appeared deeply impressed."

"We will go and see," said the doctor;
"what you tell me seems very strange."
The notary here descended, and Valentine
was informed that her grandmother was
alone. "Go upstairs," she said to the
doctor.

"And you?"

"Oh, I dare not -- she forbade my
sending for you; and, as you say, I am
myself agitated, feverish and out of
sorts. I will go and take a turn in the
garden to recover myself." The doctor
pressed Valentine's hand, and while he
visited her grandmother, she descended
the steps. We need not say which portion
of the garden was her favorite walk.
After remaining for a short time in the
parterre surrounding the house, and
gathering a rose to place in her waist
or hair, she turned into the dark avenue
which led to the bench; then from the
bench she went to the gate. As usual,
Valentine strolled for a short time
among her flowers, but without gathering
them. The mourning in her heart forbade
her assuming this simple ornament,
though she had not yet had time to put
on the outward semblance of woe. She
then turned towards the avenue. As she
advanced she fancied she heard a voice
speaking her name. She stopped
astonished, then the voice reached her
ear more distinctly, and she recognized
it to be that of Maximilian.



Chapter 73 The Promise.

It was, indeed, Maximilian Morrel, who
had passed a wretched existence since
the previous day. With the instinct
peculiar to lovers he had anticipated
after the return of Madame de
Saint-Meran and the death of the
marquis, that something would occur at
M. de Villefort's in connection with his
attachment for Valentine. His
presentiments were realized, as we shall
see, and his uneasy forebodings had
goaded him pale and trembling to the
gate under the chestnut-trees. Valentine
was ignorant of the cause of this sorrow
and anxiety, and as it was not his
accustomed hour for visiting her, she
had gone to the spot simply by accident
or perhaps through sympathy. Morrel
called her, and she ran to the gate.
"You here at this hour?" said she. "Yes,
my poor girl," replied Morrel; "I come
to bring and to hear bad tidings."

"This is, indeed, a house of mourning,"
said Valentine; "speak, Maximilian,
although the cup of sorrow seems already
full."

"Dear Valentine," said Morrel,
endeavoring to conceal his own emotion,
"listen, I entreat you; what I am about
to say is very serious. When are you to
be married?"

"I will tell you all," said Valentine;
"from you I have nothing to conceal.
This morning the subject was introduced,
and my dear grandmother, on whom I
depended as my only support, not only
declared herself favorable to it, but is
so anxious for it, that they only await
the arrival of M. d'Epinay, and the
following day the contract will be
signed." A deep sigh escaped the young
man, who gazed long and mournfully at
her he loved. "Alas," replied he, "it is
dreadful thus to hear my condemnation
from your own lips. The sentence is
passed, and, in a few hours, will be
executed; it must be so, and I will not
endeavor to prevent it. But, since you
say nothing remains but for M. d'Epinay
to arrive that the contract may be
signed, and the following day you will
be his, to-morrow you will be engaged to
M. d'Epinay, for he came this morning to
Paris." Valentine uttered a cry.

"I was at the house of Monte Cristo an
hour since," said Morrel; "we were
speaking, he of the sorrow your family
had experienced, and I of your grief,
when a carriage rolled into the
court-yard. Never, till then, had I
placed any confidence in presentiments,
but now I cannot help believing them,
Valentine. At the sound of that carriage
I shuddered; soon I heard steps on the
staircase, which terrified me as much as
the footsteps of the commander did Don
Juan. The door at last opened; Albert de
Morcerf entered first, and I began to
hope my fears were vain, when, after
him, another young man advanced, and the
count exclaimed -- `Ah, here is the
Baron Franz d'Epinay!' I summoned all my
strength and courage to my support.
Perhaps I turned pale and trembled, but
certainly I smiled; and five minutes
after I left, without having heard one
word that had passed."

"Poor Maximilian!" murmured Valentine.

"Valentine, the time has arrived when
you must answer me. And remember my life
depends on your answer. What do you
intend doing?" Valentine held down her
head; she was overwhelmed.

"Listen," said Morrel; "it is not the
first time you have contemplated our
present position, which is a serious and
urgent one; I do not think it is a
moment to give way to useless sorrow;
leave that for those who like to suffer
at their leisure and indulge their grief
in secret. There are such in the world,
and God will doubtless reward them in
heaven for their resignation on earth,
but those who mean to contend must not
lose one precious moment, but must
return immediately the blow which
fortune strikes. Do you intend to
struggle against our ill-fortune? Tell
me, Valentine for it is that I came to
know."

Valentine trembled, and looked at him
with amazement. The idea of resisting
her father, her grandmother, and all the
family, had never occurred to her. "What
do you say, Maximilian?" asked
Valentine. "What do you mean by a
struggle? Oh, it would be a sacrilege.
What? I resist my father's order, and my
dying grandmother's wish? Impossible!"
Morrel started. "You are too noble not
to understand me, and you understand me
so well that you already yield, dear
Maximilian. No, no; I shall need all my
strength to struggle with myself and
support my grief in secret, as you say.
But to grieve my father -- to disturb my
grandmother's last moments -- never!"

"You are right," said Morrel, calmly.

"In what a tone you speak!" cried
Valentine.

"I speak as one who admires you,
mademoiselle."

"Mademoiselle," cried Valentine;
"mademoiselle! Oh, selfish man, -- he
sees me in despair, and pretends he
cannot understand me!"

"You mistake -- I understand you
perfectly. You will not oppose M.
Villefort, you will not displease the
marchioness, and to-morrow you will sign
the contract which will bind you to your
husband."

"But, mon Dieu, tell me, how can I do
otherwise?"

"Do not appeal to me, mademoiselle; I
shall be a bad judge in such a case; my
selfishness will blind me," replied
Morrel, whose low voice and clinched
hands announced his growing desperation.

"What would you have proposed,
Maximilian, had you found me willing to
accede?"

"It is not for me to say."

"You are wrong; you must advise me what
to do."

"Do you seriously ask my advice,
Valentine?"

"Certainly, dear Maximilian, for if it
is good, I will follow it; you know my
devotion to you."

"Valentine," said Morrel pushing aside a
loose plank, "give me your hand in token
of forgiveness of my anger; my senses
are confused, and during the last hour
the most extravagant thoughts have
passed through my brain. Oh, if you
refuse my advice" --

"What do you advise?" said Valentine,
raising her eyes to heaven and sighing.
"I am free," replied Maximilian, "and
rich enough to support you. I swear to
make you my lawful wife before my lips
even shall have approached your
forehead."

"You make me tremble!" said the young
girl.

"Follow me," said Morrel; "I will take
you to my sister, who is worthy also to
be yours. We will embark for Algiers,
for England, for America, or, if your
prefer it, retire to the country and
only return to Paris when our friends
have reconciled your family." Valentine
shook her head. "I feared it,
Maximilian," said she; "it is the
counsel of a madman, and I should be
more mad than you, did I not stop you at
once with the word `Impossible,
impossible!'"

"You will then submit to what fate
decrees for you without even attempting
to contend with it?" said Morrel
sorrowfully. "Yes, -- if I die!"

"Well, Valentine," resumed Maximilian,
"I can only say again that you are
right. Truly, it is I who am mad, and
you prove to me that passion blinds the
most well-meaning. I appreciate your
calm reasoning. It is then understood
that to-morrow you will be irrevocably
promised to M. Franz d'Epinay, not only
by that theatrical formality invented to
heighten the effect of a comedy called
the signature of the contract, but your
own will?"

"Again you drive me to despair,
Maximilian," said Valentine, "again you
plunge the dagger into the wound! What
would you do, tell me, if your sister
listened to such a proposition?"

"Mademoiselle," replied Morrel with a
bitter smile, "I am selfish -- you have
already said so -- and as a selfish man
I think not of what others would do in
my situation, but of what I intend doing
myself. I think only that I have known
you not a whole year. From the day I
first saw you, all my hopes of happiness
have been in securing your affection.
One day you acknowledged that you loved
me, and since that day my hope of future
happiness has rested on obtaining you,
for to gain you would be life to me.
Now, I think no more; I say only that
fortune has turned against me -- I had
thought to gain heaven, and now I have
lost it. It is an every-day occurrence
for a gambler to lose not only what he
possesses but also what he has not."
Morrel pronounced these words with
perfect calmness; Valentine looked at
him a moment with her large,
scrutinizing eyes, endeavoring not to
let Morrel discover the grief which
struggled in her heart. "But, in a word,
what are you going to do?" asked she.

"I am going to have the honor of taking
my leave of you, mademoiselle, solemnly
assuring you that I wish your life may
be so calm, so happy, and so fully
occupied, that there may be no place for
me even in your memory."

"Oh!" murmured Valentine.

"Adieu, Valentine, adieu!" said Morrel,
bowing.

"Where are you going?" cried the young
girl, extending her hand through the
opening, and seizing Maximilian by his
coat, for she understood from her own
agitated feelings that her lover's
calmness could not be real; "where are
you going?"

"I am going, that I may not bring fresh
trouble into your family: and to set an
example which every honest and devoted
man, situated as I am, may follow."

"Before you leave me, tell me what you
are going to do, Maximilian." The young
man smiled sorrowfully. "Speak, speak!"
said Valentine; "I entreat you."

"Has your resolution changed,
Valentine?"

"It cannot change, unhappy man; you know
it must not!" cried the young girl.
"Then adieu, Valentine!" Valentine shook
the gate with a strength of which she
could not have been supposed to be
possessed, as Morrel was going away, and
passing both her hands through the
opening, she clasped and wrung them. "I
must know what you mean to do!" said
she. "Where are you going?"

"Oh, fear not," said Maximilian,
stopping at a short distance, "I do not
intend to render another man responsible
for the rigorous fate reserved for me.
Another might threaten to seek M. Franz,
to provoke him, and to fight with him;
all that would be folly. What has M.
Franz to do with it? He saw me this
morning for the first time, and has
already forgotten he has seen me. He did
not even know I existed when it was
arranged by your two families that you
should be united. I have no enmity
against M. Franz, and promise you the
punishment shall not fall on him."

"On whom, then! -- on me?"

"On you? Valentine! Oh, heaven forbid!
Woman is sacred; the woman one loves is
holy."

"On yourself, then, unhappy man; on
yourself?"

"I am the only guilty person, am I not?'
said Maximilian.

"Maximilian!" said Valentine,
"Maximilian, come back, I entreat you!"
He drew near with his sweet smile, and
but for his paleness one might have
thought him in his usual happy mood.
"Listen, my dear, my adored Valentine,"
said he in his melodious and grave tone;
"those who, like us, have never had a
thought for which we need blush before
the world, such may read each other's
hearts. I never was romantic, and am no
melancholy hero. I imitate neither
Manfred nor Anthony; but without words,
protestations, or vows, my life has
entwined itself with yours; you leave
me, and you are right in doing so, -- I
repeat it, you are right; but in losing
you, I lose my life.

"The moment you leave me, Valentine, I
am alone in the world. My sister is
happily married; her husband is only my
brother-in-law, that is, a man whom the
ties of social life alone attach to me;
no one then longer needs my useless
life. This is what I shall do; I will
wait until the very moment you are
married, for I will not lose the shadow
of one of those unexpected chances which
are sometimes reserved for us, since M.
Franz may, after all, die before that
time, a thunderbolt may fall even on the
altar as you approach it, -- nothing
appears impossible to one condemned to
die, and miracles appear quite
reasonable when his escape from death is
concerned. I will, then, wait until the
last moment, and when my misery is
certain, irremediable, hopeless, I will
write a confidential letter to my
brother-in-law, another to the prefect
of police, to acquaint them with my
intention, and at the corner of some
wood, on the brink of some abyss, on the
bank of some river, I will put an end to
my existence, as certainly as I am the
son of the most honest man who ever
lived in France."

Valentine trembled convulsively; she
loosened her hold of the gate, her arms
fell by her side, and two large tears
rolled down her cheeks. The young man
stood before her, sorrowful and
resolute. "Oh, for pity's sake," said
she, "you will live, will you not?"

"No, on my honor," said Maximilian; "but
that will not affect you. You have done
your duty, and your conscience will be
at rest." Valentine fell on her knees,
and pressed her almost bursting heart.
"Maximilian," said she, "Maximilian, my
friend, my brother on earth, my true
husband in heaven, I entreat you, do as
I do, live in suffering; perhaps we may
one day be united."

"Adieu, Valentine," repeated Morrel.

"My God," said Valentine, raising both
her hands to heaven with a sublime
expression, "I have done my utmost to
remain a submissive daughter; I have
begged, entreated, implored; he has
regarded neither my prayers, my
entreaties, nor my tears. It is done,"
cried she, willing away her tears, and
resuming her firmness, "I am resolved
not to die of remorse, but rather of
shame. Live, Maximilian, and I will be
yours. Say when shall it be? Speak,
command, I will obey." Morrel, who had
already gone some few steps away, again
returned, and pale with joy extended
both hands towards Valentine through the
opening. "Valentine," said he, "dear
Valentine, you must not speak thus --
rather let me die. Why should I obtain
you by violence, if our love is mutual?
Is it from mere humanity you bid me
live? I would then rather die."

"Truly," murmured Valentine, "who on
this earth cares for me, if he does not?
Who has consoled me in my sorrow but he?
On whom do my hopes rest? On whom does
my bleeding heart repose? On him, on
him, always on him! Yes, you are right,
Maximilian, I will follow you. I will
leave the paternal home, I will give up
all. Oh, ungrateful girl that I am,"
cried Valentine, sobbing, "I will give
up all, even my dear old grandfather,
whom I had nearly forgotten."

"No," said Maximilian, "you shall not
leave him. M. Noirtier has evinced, you
say, a kind feeling towards me. Well,
before you leave, tell him all; his
consent would be your justification in
God's sight. As soon as we are married,
he shall come and live with us, instead
of one child, he shall have two. You
have told me how you talk to him and how
he answers you; I shall very soon learn
that language by signs, Valentine, and I
promise you solemnly, that instead of
despair, it is happiness that awaits
us."

"Oh, see, Maximilian, see the power you
have over me, you almost make me believe
you; and yet, what you tell me is
madness, for my father will curse me --
he is inflexible -- he will never pardon
me. Now listen to me, Maximilian; if by
artifice, by entreaty, by accident -- in
short, if by any means I can delay this
marriage, will you wait?"

"Yes, I promise you, as faithfully as
you have promised me that this horrible
marriage shall not take place, and that
if you are dragged before a magistrate
or a priest, you will refuse."

"I promise you by all that is most
sacred to me in the world, namely, by my
mother."

"We will wait, then," said Morrel.

"Yes, we will wait," replied Valentine,
who revived at these words; "there are
so many things which may save unhappy
beings such as we are."

"I rely on you, Valentine," said Morrel;
"all you do will be well done; only if
they disregard your prayers, if your
father and Madame de Saint-Meran insist
that M. d'Epinay should be called
to-morrow to sign the contract" --

"Then you have my promise, Maximilian."

"Instead of signing" --

"I will go to you, and we will fly; but
from this moment until then, let us not
tempt providence, let us not see each
other. It is a miracle, it is a
providence that we have not been
discovered. If we were surprised, if it
were known that we met thus, we should
have no further resource."

"You are right, Valentine; but how shall
I ascertain?"

"From the notary, M. Deschamps."

"I know him."

"And for myself -- I will write to you,
depend on me. I dread this marriage,
Maximilian, as much as you."

"Thank you, my adored Valentine, thank
you; that is enough. When once I know
the hour, I will hasten to this spot,
you can easily get over this fence with
my assistance, a carriage will await us
at the gate, in which you will accompany
me to my sister's; there living, retired
or mingling in society, as you wish, we
shall be enabled to use our power to
resist oppression, and not suffer
ourselves to be put to death like sheep,
which only defend themselves by sighs."

"Yes," said Valentine, "I will now
acknowledge you are right, Maximilian;
and now are you satisfied with your
betrothal?" said the young girl
sorrowfully.

"My adored Valentine, words cannot
express one half of my satisfaction."
Valentine had approached, or rather, had
placed her lips so near the fence, that
they nearly touched those of Morrel,
which were pressed against the other
side of the cold and inexorable barrier.
"Adieu, then, till we meet again," said
Valentine, tearing herself away. "I
shall hear from you?"

"Yes."

"Thanks, thanks, dear love, adieu!" The
sound of a kiss was heard, and Valentine
fled through the avenue. Morrel listened
to catch the last sound of her dress
brushing the branches, and of her
footstep on the gravel, then raised his
eyes with an ineffable smile of
thankfulness to heaven for being
permitted to be thus loved, and then
also disappeared. The young man returned
home and waited all the evening and all
the next day without getting any
message. It was only on the following
day, at about ten o'clock in the
morning, as he was starting to call on
M. Deschamps, the notary, that he
received from the postman a small
billet, which he knew to be from
Valentine, although he had not before
seen her writing. It was to this
effect: --

Tears, entreaties, prayers, have availed
me nothing. Yesterday, for two hours, I
was at the church of Saint-Phillippe du
Roule, and for two hours I prayed most
fervently. Heaven is as inflexible as
man, and the signature of the contract
is fixed for this evening at nine
o'clock. I have but one promise and but
one heart to give; that promise is
pledged to you, that heart is also
yours. This evening, then, at a quarter
to nine at the gate.

Your betrothed,

Valentine de Villefort.

P.S. -- My poor grandmother gets worse
and worse; yesterday her fever amounted
to delirium; to-day her delirium is
almost madness. You will be very kind to
me, will you not, Morrel, to make me
forget my sorrow in leaving her thus? I
think it is kept a secret from grandpapa
Noirtier, that the contract is to be
signed this evening.

Morrel went also to the notary, who
confirmed the news that the contract was
to be signed that evening. Then he went
to call on Monte Cristo and heard still
more. Franz had been to announce the
ceremony, and Madame de Villefort had
also written to beg the count to excuse
her not inviting him; the death of M. de
Saint-Meran and the dangerous illness of
his widow would cast a gloom over the
meeting which she would regret should be
shared by the count whom she wished
every happiness. The day before Franz
had been presented to Madame de
Saint-Meran, who had left her bed to
receive him, but had been obliged to
return to it immediately after. It is
easy to suppose that Morrel's agitation
would not escape the count's penetrating
eye. Monte Cristo was more affectionate
than ever, -- indeed, his manner was so
kind that several times Morrel was on
the point of telling him all. But he
recalled the promise he had made to
Valentine, and kept his secret.

The young man read Valentine's letter
twenty times in the course of the day.
It was her first, and on what an
occasion! Each time he read it he
renewed his vow to make her happy. How
great is the power of a woman who has
made so courageous a resolution! What
devotion does she deserve from him for
whom she has sacrificed everything! How
ought she really to be supremely loved!
She becomes at once a queen and a wife,
and it is impossible to thank and love
her sufficiently. Morrel longed
intensely for the moment when he should
hear Valentine say, "Here I am,
Maximilian; come and help me." He had
arranged everything for her escape; two
ladders were hidden in the clover-field;
a cabriolet was ordered for Maximilian
alone, without a servant, without
lights; at the turning of the first
street they would light the lamps, as it
would be foolish to attract the notice
of the police by too many precautions.
Occasionally he shuddered; he thought of
the moment when, from the top of that
wall, he should protect the descent of
his dear Valentine, pressing in his arms
for the first time her of whom he had
yet only kissed the delicate hand.

When the afternoon arrived and he felt
that the hour was drawing near, he
wished for solitude, his agitation was
extreme; a simple question from a friend
would have irritated him. He shut
himself in his room, and tried to read,
but his eye glanced over the page
without understanding a word, and he
threw away the book, and for the second
time sat down to sketch his plan, the
ladders and the fence. At length the
hour drew near. Never did a man deeply
in love allow the clocks to go on
peacefully. Morrel tormented his so
effectually that they struck eight at
half-past six. He then said, "It is time
to start; the signature was indeed fixed
to take place at nine o'clock, but
perhaps Valentine will not wait for
that. Consequently, Morrel, having left
the Rue Meslay at half-past eight by his
timepiece, entered the clover-field
while the clock of Saint-Phillippe du
Roule was striking eight. The horse and
cabriolet were concealed behind a small
ruin, where Morrel had often waited.

The night gradually drew on, and the
foliage in the garden assumed a deeper
hue. Then Morrel came out from his
hiding-place with a beating heart, and
looked through the small opening in the
gate; there was yet no one to be seen.
The clock struck half-past eight, and
still another half-hour was passed in
waiting, while Morrel walked to and fro,
and gazed more and more frequently
through the opening. The garden became
darker still, but in the darkness he
looked in vain for the white dress, and
in the silence he vainly listened for
the sound of footsteps. The house, which
was discernible through the trees,
remained in darkness, and gave no
indication that so important an event as
the signature of a marriage-contract was
going on. Morrel looked at his watch,
which wanted a quarter to ten; but soon
the same clock he had already heard
strike two or three times rectified the
error by striking half-past nine.

This was already half an hour past the
time Valentine had fixed. It was a
terrible moment for the young man. The
slightest rustling of the foliage, the
least whistling of the wind, attracted
his attention, and drew the perspiration
to his brow; then he tremblingly fixed
his ladder, and, not to lose a moment,
placed his foot on the first step.
Amidst all these alternations of hope
and fear, the clock struck ten. "It is
impossible," said Maximilian, "that the
signing of a contract should occupy so
long a time without unexpected
interruptions. I have weighed all the
chances, calculated the time required
for all the forms; something must have
happened." And then he walked rapidly to
and fro, and pressed his burning
forehead against the fence. Had
Valentine fainted? or had she been
discovered and stopped in her flight?
These were the only obstacles which
appeared possible to the young man.

The idea that her strength had failed
her in attempting to escape, and that
she had fainted in one of the paths, was
the one that most impressed itself upon
his mind. "In that case," said he, "I
should lose her, and by my own fault."
He dwelt on this idea for a moment, then
it appeared reality. He even thought he
could perceive something on the ground
at a distance; he ventured to call, and
it seemed to him that the wind wafted
back an almost inarticulate sigh. At
last the half-hour struck. It was
impossible to wait longer, his temples
throbbed violently, his eyes were
growing dim; he passed one leg over the
wall, and in a moment leaped down on the
other side. He was on Villefort's
premises -- had arrived there by scaling
the wall. What might be the
consequences? However, he had not
ventured thus far to draw back. He
followed a short distance close under
the wall, then crossed a path, hid
entered a clump of trees. In a moment he
had passed through them, and could see
the house distinctly. Then Morrel saw
that he had been right in believing that
the house was not illuminated. Instead
of lights at every window, as is
customary on days of ceremony, he saw
only a gray mass, which was veiled also
by a cloud, which at that moment
obscured the moon's feeble light. A
light moved rapidly from time to time
past three windows of the second floor.
These three windows were in Madame de
Saint-Meran's room. Another remained
motionless behind some red curtains
which were in Madame de Villefort's
bedroom. Morrel guessed all this. So
many times, in order to follow Valentine
in thought at every hour in the day, had
he made her describe the whole house,
that without having seen it he knew it
all.

This darkness and silence alarmed Morrel
still more than Valentine's absence had
done. Almost mad with grief, and
determined to venture everything in
order to see Valentine once more, and be
certain of the misfortune he feared,
Morrel gained the edge of the clump of
trees, and was going to pass as quickly
as possible through the flower-garden,
when the sound of a voice, still at some
distance, but which was borne upon the
wind, reached him.

At this sound, as he was already
partially exposed to view, he stepped
back and concealed himself completely,
remaining perfectly motionless. He had
formed his resolution. If it was
Valentine alone, he would speak as she
passed; if she was accompanied, and he
could not speak, still he should see
her, and know that she was safe; if they
were strangers, he would listen to their
conversation, and might understand
something of this hitherto
incomprehensible mystery. The moon had
just then escaped from behind the cloud
which had concealed it, and Morrel saw
Villefort come out upon the steps,
followed by a gentleman in black. They
descended, and advanced towards the
clump of trees, and Morrel soon
recognized the other gentleman as Doctor
d'Avrigny.

The young man, seeing them approach,
drew back mechanically, until he found
himself stopped by a sycamore-tree in
the centre of the clump; there he was
compelled to remain. Soon the two
gentlemen stopped also.

"Ah, my dear doctor," said the
procureur, "heaven declares itself
against my house! What a dreadful
death -- what a blow! Seek not to
console me; alas, nothing can alleviate
so great a sorrow -- the wound is too
deep and too fresh! Dead, dead!" The
cold sweat sprang to the young man's
brow, and his teeth chattered. Who could
be dead in that house, which Villefort
himself had called accursed? "My dear M.
de Villefort," replied the doctor, with
a tone which redoubled the terror of the
young man, "I have not led you here to
console you; on the contrary" --

"What can you mean?" asked the
procureur, alarmed.

"I mean that behind the misfortune which
has just happened to you, there is
another, perhaps, still greater."

"Can it be possible?" murmured
Villefort, clasping his hands. "What are
you going to tell me?"

"Are we quite alone, my friend?"

"Yes, quite; but why all these
precautions?"

"Because I have a terrible secret to
communicate to you," said the doctor.
"Let us sit down."

Villefort fell, rather than seated
himself The doctor stood before him,
with one hand placed on his shoulder.
Morrel, horrified, supported his head
with one hand, and with the other
pressed his heart, lest its beatings
should be heard. "Dead, dead!" repeated
he within himself; and he felt as if he
were also dying.

"Speak, doctor -- I am listening," said
Villefort; "strike -- I am prepared for
everything!"

"Madame de Saint-Meran was, doubtless,
advancing in years, but she enjoyed
excellent health." Morrel began again to
breathe freely, which he had not done
during the last ten minutes.

"Grief has consumed her," said
Villefort -- "yes, grief, doctor! After
living forty years with the marquis" --

"It is not grief, my dear Villefort,"
said the doctor; "grief may kill,
although it rarely does, and never in a
day, never in an hour, never in ten
minutes." Villefort answered nothing, he
simply raised his head, which had been
cast down before, and looked at the
doctor with amazement.

"Were you present during the last
struggle?" asked M. d'Avrigny.

"I was," replied the procureur; "you
begged me not to leave."

"Did you notice the symptoms of the
disease to which Madame de Saint-Meran
has fallen a victim?"

"I did. Madame de Saint-Meran had three
successive attacks, at intervals of some
minutes, each one more serious than the
former. When you arrived, Madame de
Saint-Meran had already been panting for
breath some minutes; she then had a fit,
which I took to be simply a nervous
attack, and it was only when I saw her
raise herself in the bed, and her limbs
and neck appear stiffened, that I became
really alarmed. Then I understood from
your countenance there was more to fear
than I had thought. This crisis past, I
endeavored to catch your eye, but could
not. You held her hand -- you were
feeling her pulse -- and the second fit
came on before you had turned towards
me. This was more terrible than the
first; the same nervous movements were
repeated, and the mouth contracted and
turned purple."

"And at the third she expired."

"At the end of the first attack I
discovered symptoms of tetanus; you
confirmed my opinion."

"Yes, before others," replied the
doctor; "but now we are alone" --

"What are you going to say? Oh, spare
me!"

"That the symptoms of tetanus and
poisoning by vegetable substances are
the same." M. de Villefort started from
his seat, then in a moment fell down
again, silent and motionless. Morrel
knew not if he were dreaming or awake.
"Listen, said the doctor; "I know the
full importance of the statement I have
just made, and the disposition of the
man to whom I have made it."

"Do you speak to me as a magistrate or
as a friend?" asked Villefort.

"As a friend, and only as a friend, at
this moment. The similarity in the
symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by
vegetable substances is so great, that
were I obliged to affirm by oath what I
have now stated, I should hesitate; I
therefore repeat to you, I speak not to
a magistrate, but to a friend. And to
that friend I say. `During the
three-quarters of an hour that the
struggle continued, I watched the
convulsions and the death of Madame de
Saint-Meran, and am thoroughly convinced
that not only did her death proceed from
poison, but I could also specify the
poison.'"

"Can it be possible?"

"The symptoms are marked, do you see? --
sleep broken by nervous spasms,
excitation of the brain, torpor of the
nerve centres. Madame de Saint-Meran
succumbed to a powerful dose of brucine
or of strychnine, which by some mistake,
perhaps, has been given to her."
Villefort seized the doctor's hand. "Oh,
it is impossible," said he, "I must be
dreaming! It is frightful to hear such
things from such a man as you! Tell me,
I entreat you, my dear doctor, that you
may be deceived."

"Doubtless I may, but" --

"But?"

"But I do not think so."

"Have pity on me doctor! So many
dreadful things have happened to me
lately that I am on the verge of
madness."

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

"No."

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

"Nothing."

"Had Madame de Saint-Meran any enemies?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Would her death affect any one's
interest?"

"It could not indeed, my daughter is her
only heiress -- Valentine alone. Oh, if
such a thought could present itself, I
would stab myself to punish my heart for
having for one instant harbored it."

"Indeed, my dear friend," said M.
d'Avrigny, "I would not accuse any one;
I speak only of an accident, you
understand, -- of a mistake, -- but
whether accident or mistake, the fact is
there; it is on my conscience and
compels me to speak aloud to you. Make
inquiry."

"Of whom? -- how? -- of what?"

"May not Barrois, the old servant, have
made a mistake, and have given Madame de
Saint-Meran a dose prepared for his
master?"

"For my father?"

"Yes."

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

"Nothing is more simple. You know
poisons become remedies in certain
diseases, of which paralysis is one. For
instance, having tried every other
remedy to restore movement and speech to
M. Noirtier, I resolved to try one last
means, and for three months I have been
giving him brucine; so that in the last
dose I ordered for him there were six
grains. This quantity, which is
perfectly safe to administer to the
paralyzed frame of M. Noirtier, which
has become gradually accustomed to it,
would be sufficient to kill another
person."

"My dear doctor, there is no
communication between M. Noirtier's
apartment and that of Madame de
Saint-Meran, and Barrois never entered
my mother-in-law's room. In short,
doctor although I know you to be the
most conscientious man in the world, and
although I place the utmost reliance in
you, I want, notwithstanding my
conviction, to believe this axiom,
errare humanum est."

"Is there one of my brethren in whom you
have equal confidence with myself?"

"Why do you ask me that? -- what do you
wish?"

"Send for him; I will tell him what I
have seen, and we will consult together,
and examine the body."

"And you will find traces of poison?"

"No, I did not say of poison, but we can
prove what was the state of the body; we
shall discover the cause of her sudden
death, and we shall say, `Dear
Villefort, if this thing has been caused
by negligence, watch over your servants;
if from hatred, watch your enemies.'"

"What do you propose to me, d'Avrigny?"
said Villefort in despair; "so soon as
another is admitted into our secret, an
inquest will become necessary; and an
inquest in my house -- impossible!
Still," continued the procureur, looking
at the doctor with uneasiness, "if you
wish it -- if you demand it, why then it
shall be done. But, doctor, you see me
already so grieved -- how can I
introduce into my house so much scandal,
after so much sorrow? My wife and my
daughter would die of it! And I,
doctor -- you know a man does not arrive
at the post I occupy -- one has not been
king's attorney twenty-five years
without having amassed a tolerable
number of enemies; mine are numerous.
Let this affair be talked of, it will be
a triumph for them, which will make them
rejoice, and cover me with shame. Pardon
me, doctor, these worldly ideas; were
you a priest I should not dare tell you
that, but you are a man, and you know
mankind. Doctor, pray recall your words;
you have said nothing, have you?"

"My dear M. de Villefort," replied the
doctor, "my first duty is to humanity. I
would have saved Madame de Saint-Meran,
if science could have done it; but she
is dead and my duty regards the living.
Let us bury this terrible secret in the
deepest recesses of our hearts; I am
willing, if any one should suspect this,
that my silence on the subject should be
imputed to my ignorance. Meanwhile, sir,
watch always -- watch carefully, for
perhaps the evil may not stop here. And
when you have found the culprit, if you
find him, I will say to you, `You are a
magistrate, do as you will!'"

"I thank you, doctor," said Villefort
with indescribable joy; "I never had a
better friend than you." And, as if he
feared Doctor d'Avrigny would recall his
promise, he hurried him towards the
house.

When they were gone, Morrel ventured out
from under the trees, and the moon shone
upon his face, which was so pale it
might have been taken for that of a
ghost. "I am manifestly protected in a
most wonderful, but most terrible
manner," said he; "but Valentine, poor
girl, how will she bear so much sorrow?"

As he thought thus, he looked
alternately at the window with red
curtains and the three windows with
white curtains. The light had almost
disappeared from the former; doubtless
Madame de Villefort had just put out her
lamp, and the nightlamp alone reflected
its dull light on the window. At the
extremity of the building, on the
contrary, he saw one of the three
windows open. A wax-light placed on the
mantle-piece threw some of its pale rays
without, and a shadow was seen for one
moment on the balcony. Morrel shuddered;
he thought he heard a sob.

It cannot be wondered at that his mind,
generally so courageous, but now
disturbed by the two strongest human
passions, love and fear, was weakened
even to the indulgence of superstitious
thoughts. Although it was impossible
that Valentine should see him, hidden as
he was, he thought he heard the shadow
at the window call him; his disturbed
mind told him so. This double error
became an irresistible reality, and by
one of the incomprehensible transports
of youth, he bounded from his
hiding-place, and with two strides, at
the risk of being seen, at the risk of
alarming Valentine, at the risk of being
discovered by some exclamation which
might escape the young girl, he crossed
the flower-garden, which by the light of
the moon resembled a large white lake,
and having passed the rows of
orange-trees which extended in front of
the house, he reached the step, ran
quickly up and pushed the door, which
opened without offering any resistance.
Valentine had not seen him. Her eyes,
raised towards heaven, were watching a
silvery cloud gliding over the azure,
its form that of a shadow mounting
towards heaven. Her poetic and excited
mind pictured it as the soul of her
grandmother.

Meanwhile, Morrel had traversed the
anteroom and found the staircase, which,
being carpeted, prevented his approach
being heard, and he had regained that
degree of confidence that the presence
of M. de Villefort even would not have
alarmed him. He was quite prepared for
any such encounter. He would at once
approach Valentine's father and
acknowledge all, begging Villefort to
pardon and sanction the love which
united two fond and loving hearts.
Morrel was mad. Happily he did not meet
any one. Now, especially, did he find
the description Valentine had given of
the interior of the house useful to him;
he arrived safely at the top of the
staircase, and while he was feeling his
way, a sob indicated the direction he
was to take. He turned back, a door
partly open enabled him to see his road,
and to hear the voice of one in sorrow.
He pushed the door open and entered. At
the other end of the room, under a white
sheet which covered it, lay the corpse,
still more alarming to Morrel since the
account he had so unexpectedly
overheard. By its side, on her knees,
and with her head buried in the cushion
of an easy-chair, was Valentine,
trembling and sobbing, her hands
extended above her head, clasped and
stiff. She had turned from the window,
which remained open, and was praying in
accents that would have affected the
most unfeeling; her words were rapid,
incoherent, unintelligible, for the
burning weight of grief almost stopped
her utterance. The moon shining through
the open blinds made the lamp appear to
burn paler, and cast a sepulchral hue
over the whole scene. Morrel could not
resist this; he was not exemplary for
piety, he was not easily impressed, but
Valentine suffering, weeping, wringing
her hands before him, was more than he
could bear in silence. He sighed, and
whispered a name, and the head bathed in
tears and pressed on the velvet cushion
of the chair -- a head like that of a
Magdalen by Correggio -- was raised and
turned towards him. Valentine perceived
him without betraying the least
surprise. A heart overwhelmed with one
great grief is insensible to minor
emotions. Morrel held out his hand to
her. Valentine, as her only apology for
not having met him, pointed to the
corpse under the sheet, and began to sob
again. Neither dared for some time to
speak in that room. They hesitated to
break the silence which death seemed to
impose; at length Valentine ventured.

"My friend," said she, "how came you
here? Alas, I would say you are welcome,
had not death opened the way for you
into this house."

"Valentine," said Morrel with a
trembling voice, "I had waited since
half-past eight, and did not see you
come; I became uneasy, leaped the wall,
found my way through the garden, when
voices conversing about the fatal
event" --

"What voices ?" asked Valentine. Morrel
shuddered as he thought of the
conversation of the doctor and M. de
Villefort, and he thought he could see
through the sheet the extended hands,
the stiff neck, and the purple lips.

"Your servants," said he, "who were
repeating the whole of the sorrowful
story; from them I learned it all."

"But it was risking the failure of our
plan to come up here, love."

"Forgive me," replied Morrel; "I will go
away."

"No," said Valentine, "you might meet
some one; stay."

"But if any one should come here" --

The young girl shook her head. "No one
will come," said she; "do not fear,
there is our safeguard," pointing to the
bed.

"But what has become of M. d'Epinay?"
replied Morrel.

"M. Franz arrived to sign the contract
just as my dear grandmother was dying."

"Alas," said Morrel with a feeling of
selfish joy; for he thought this death
would cause the wedding to be postponed
indefinitely. "But what redoubles my
sorrow," continued the young girl, as if
this feeling was to receive its
immediate punishment, "is that the poor
old lady, on her death-bed, requested
that the marriage might take place as
soon as possible; she also, thinking to
protect me, was acting against me."

"Hark!" said Morrel. They both listened;
steps were distinctly heard in the
corridor and on the stairs.

"It is my father, who has just left his
study."

"To accompany the doctor to the door,"
added Morrel.

"How do you know it is the doctor?"
asked Valentine, astonished.

"I imagined it must be," said Morrel.
Valentine looked at the young man; they
heard the street door close, then M. de
Villefort locked the garden door, and
returned up-stairs. He stopped a moment
in the anteroom, as if hesitating
whether to turn to his own apartment or
into Madame de Saint-Meran's; Morrel
concealed himself behind a door;
Valentine remained motionless, grief
seeming to deprive her of all fear. M.
de Villefort passed on to his own room.
"Now," said Valentine, "you can neither
go out by the front door nor by the
garden." Morrel looked at her with
astonishment. "There is but one way left
you that is safe," said she; "it is
through my grandfather's room." She
rose, "Come," she added. -- "Where?"
asked Maximilian.

"To my grandfather's room."

"I in M. Noirtier's apartment?"

"Yes."

"Can you mean it, Valentine?"

"I have long wished it; he is my only
remaining friend and we both need his
help, -- come."

"Be careful, Valentine," said Morrel,
hesitating to comply with the young
girl's wishes; "I now see my error -- I
acted like a madman in coming in here.
Are you sure you are more reasonable?"

"Yes," said Valentine; "and I have but
one scruple, -- that of leaving my dear
grandmother's remains, which I had
undertaken to watch."

"Valentine," said Morrel, "death is in
itself sacred."

"Yes," said Valentine; "besides, it will
not be for long." She then crossed the
corridor, and led the way down a narrow
staircase to M. Noirtier's room; Morrel
followed her on tiptoe; at the door they
found the old servant. "Barrois," said
Valentine, "shut the door, and let no
one come in." She passed first.
Noirtier, seated in his chair, and
listening to every sound, was watching
the door; he saw Valentine, and his eye
brightened. There was something grave
and solemn in the approach of the young
girl which struck the old man, and
immediately his bright eye began to
interrogate. "Dear grandfather." said
she hurriedly, "you know poor grandmamma
died an hour since, and now I have no
friend in the world but you." His
expressive eyes evinced the greatest
tenderness. "To you alone, then, may I
confide my sorrows and my hopes?" The
paralytic motioned "Yes." Valentine took
Maximilian's hand. "Look attentively,
then, at this gentleman." The old man
fixed his scrutinizing gaze with slight
astonishment on Morrel. "It is M.
Maximilian Morrel," said she; "the son
of that good merchant of Marseilles,
whom you doubtless recollect."

"Yes," said the old man. "He brings an
irreproachable name, which Maximilian is
likely to render glorious, since at
thirty years of age he is a captain, an
officer of the Legion of Honor." The old
man signified that he recollected him.
"Well, grandpapa," said Valentine,
kneeling before him, and pointing to
Maximilian, "I love him, and will be
only his; were I compelled to marry
another, I would destroy myself."

The eyes of the paralytic expressed a
multitude of tumultuous thoughts. "You
like M. Maximilian Morrel, do you not,
grandpapa?" asked Valentine.

"Yes."

"And you will protect us, who are your
children, against the will of my
father?" -- Noirtier cast an intelligent
glance at Morrel, as if to say, "perhaps
I may." Maximilian understood him.

"Mademoiselle," said he, "you have a
sacred duty to fulfil in your deceased
grandmother's room, will you allow me
the honor of a few minutes' conversation
with M. Noirtier?"

"That is it," said the old man's eye.
Then he looked anxiously at Valentine.

"Do you fear he will not understand?"

"Yes."

"Oh, we have so often spoken of you,
that he knows exactly how I talk to
you." Then turning to Maximilian, with
an adorable smile; although shaded by
sorrow, -- "He knows everything I know,"
said she.

Valentine arose, placed a chair for
Morrel, requested Barrois not to admit
any one, and having tenderly embraced
her grandfather, and sorrowfully taken
leave of Morrel, she went away. To prove
to Noirtier that he was in Valentine's
confidence and knew all their secrets,
Morrel took the dictionary, a pen, and
some paper, and placed them all on a
table where there was a light.

"But first," said Morrel, "allow me,
sir, to tell you who I am, how much I
love Mademoiselle Valentine, and what
are my designs respecting her." Noirtier
made a sign that he would listen.

It was an imposing sight to witness this
old man, apparently a mere useless
burden, becoming the sole protector,
support, and adviser of the lovers who
were both young, beautiful, and strong.
His remarkably noble and austere
expression struck Morrel, who began his
story with trembling. He related the
manner in which he had become acquainted
with Valentine, and how he had loved
her, and that Valentine, in her solitude
and her misfortune, had accepted the
offer of his devotion. He told him his
birth, his position, his fortune, and
more than once, when he consulted the
look of the paralytic, that look
answered, "That is good, proceed."

"And now," said Morrel, when he had
finished the first part of his recital,
"now I have told you of my love and my
hopes, may I inform you of my
intentions?"

"Yes," signified the old man.

"This was our resolution; a cabriolet
was in waiting at the gate, in which I
intended to carry off Valentine to my
sister's house, to marry her, and to
wait respectfully M. de Villefort's
pardon."

"No," said Noirtier.

"We must not do so?"

"No."

"You do not sanction our project?"

"No."

"There is another way," said Morrel. The
old man's interrogative eye said,
"What?"

"I will go," continued Maximilian, "I
will seek M. Franz d'Epinay -- I am
happy to be able to mention this in
Mademoiselle de Villefort's absence --
and will conduct myself toward him so as
to compel him to challenge me."
Noirtier's look continued to
interrogate. "You wish to know what I
will do?"

"Yes."

"I will find him, as I told you. I will
tell him the ties which bind me to
Mademoiselle Valentine; if he be a
sensible man, he will prove it by
renouncing of his own accord the hand of
his betrothed, and will secure my
friendship, and love until death; if he
refuse, either through interest or
ridiculous pride, after I have proved to
him that he would be forcing my wife
from me, that Valentine loves me, and
will have no other, I will fight with
him, give him every advantage, and I
shall kill him, or he will kill me; if I
am victorious, he will not marry
Valentine, and if I die, I am very sure
Valentine will not marry him." Noirtier
watched, with indescribable pleasure,
this noble and sincere countenance, on
which every sentiment his tongue uttered
was depicted, adding by the expression
of his fine features all that coloring
adds to a sound and faithful drawing.
Still, when Morrel had finished, he shut
his eyes several times, which was his
manner of saying "No."

"No?" said Morrel; "you disapprove of
this second project, as you did of the
first?"

"I do," signified the old man.

"But what then must be done?" asked
Morrel. "Madame de Saint-Meran's last
request was, that the marriage might not
be delayed; must I let things take their
course?" Noirtier did not move. "I
understand," said Morrel; "I am to
wait."

"Yes."

"But delay may ruin our plan, sir,"
replied the young man. "Alone, Valentine
has no power; she will be compelled to
submit. I am here almost miraculously,
and can scarcely hope for so good an
opportunity to occur again. Believe me,
there are only the two plans I have
proposed to you; forgive my vanity, and
tell me which you prefer. Do you
authorize Mademoiselle Valentine to
intrust herself to my honor?"

"No."

"Do you prefer I should seek M.
d'Epinay?"

"No."

"Whence then will come the help we
need -- from chance?" resumed Morrel.

"No."

"From you?"

"Yes."

"You thoroughly understand me, sir?
Pardon my eagerness, for my life depends
on your answer. Will our help come from
you?"

"Yes."

"You are sure of it?"

"Yes." There was so much firmness in the
look which gave this answer, no one
could, at any rate, doubt his will, if
they did his power. "Oh, thank you a
thousand times! But how, unless a
miracle should restore your speech, your
gesture, your movement, how can you,
chained to that arm-chair, dumb and
motionless, oppose this marriage?" A
smile lit up the old man's face, a
strange smile of the eyes in a paralyzed
face. "Then I must wait?" asked the
young man.

"Yes."

"But the contract?" The same smile
returned. "Will you assure me it shall
not be signed?"

"Yes," said Noirtier.

"The contract shall not be signed!"
cried Morrel. "Oh, pardon me, sir; I can
scarcely realize so great a happiness.
Will they not sign it?"

"No," said the paralytic.
Notwithstanding that assurance, Morrel
still hesitated. This promise of an
impotent old man was so strange that,
instead of being the result of the power
of his will, it might emanate from
enfeebled organs. Is it not natural that
the madman, ignorant of his folly,
should attempt things beyond his power?
The weak man talks of burdens he can
raise, the timid of giants he can
confront, the poor of treasures he
spends, the most humble peasant, in the
height of his pride, calls himself
Jupiter. Whether Noirtier understood the
young man's indecision, or whether he
had not full confidence in his docility,
he looked uneasily at him. "What do you
wish, sir?" asked Morrel; "that I should
renew my promise of remaining tranquil?"
Noirtier's eye remained fixed and firm,
as if to imply that a promise did not
suffice; then it passed from his face to
his hands.

"Shall I swear to you, sir?" asked
Maximilian.

"Yes?" said the paralytic with the same
solemnity. Morrel understood that the
old man attached great importance to an
oath. He extended his hand.

"I swear to you, on my honor," said he,
"to await your decision respecting the
course I am to pursue with M. d'Epinay."

"That is right," said the old man.

"Now," said Morrel, "do you wish me to
retire?"

"Yes."

"Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine?"

"Yes."

Morrel made a sign that he was ready to
obey. "But," said he, "first allow me to
embrace you as your daughter did just
now." Noirtier's expression could not be
understood. The young man pressed his
lips on the same spot, on the old man's
forehead, where Valentine's had been.
Then he bowed a second time and retired.
He found outside the door the old
servant, to whom Valentine had given
directions. Morrel was conducted along a
dark passage, which led to a little door
opening on the garden, soon found the
spot where he had entered, with the
assistance of the shrubs gained the top
of the wall, and by his ladder was in an
instant in the clover-field where his
cabriolet was still waiting for him. He
got in it, and thoroughly wearied by so
many emotions, arrived about midnight in
the Rue Meslay, threw himself on his bed
and slept soundly.



Chapter 74 The Villefort Family Vault.

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

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

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

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

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

"Nearly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As soon as possible."

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

"If not unpleasant to you."

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

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

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

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

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

"But the mourning?" said Franz,
hesitating.

"Don't be uneasy on that score," replied
Villefort; "no ceremony will be
neglected in my house. Mademoiselle de
Villefort may retire during the
prescribed three months to her estate of
Saint-Meran; I say hers, for she
inherits it to-day. There, after a few
days, if you like, the civil marriage
shall be celebrated without pomp or
ceremony. Madame de Saint-Meran wished
her daughter should be married there.
When that in over, you, sir, can return
to Paris, while your wife passes the
time of her mourning with her
mother-in-law."

"As you please, sir," said Franz.

"Then," replied M. de Villefort, "have
the kindness to wait half an hour;
Valentine shall come down into the
drawing-room. I will send for M.
Deschamps; we will read and sign the
contract before we separate, and this
evening Madame de Villefort; shall
accompany Valentine to her estate, where
we will rejoin them in a week."

"Sir," said Franz, "I have one request
to make."

"What is it?"

"I wish Albert de Morcerf and Raoul de
Chateau-Renaud to be present at this
signature; you know they are my
witnesses."

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

"I prefer going, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Chapter 75 A Signed Statement.

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

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

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

"Yes," said the old man.

"And the drawers?"

"Yes."

"Those at the side?"

"No."

"The middle one?"

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

"No."

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

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

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

"Yes," said Noirtier.

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

"Yes."

"Shall I call him?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

"No."

"To Mademoiselle Valentine?"

"No."

"To M. Franz d'Epinay?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

"No," replied Noirtier eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, misery," cried Franz: "the only
hope which sustained me and enabled me
to read to the end was that of knowing,
at least, the name of him who killed my
father! Sir, sir," cried he, turning to
Noirtier, "do what you can -- make me
understand in some way!"

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"Oh, mademoiselle, -- mademoiselle!"
cried Franz, "your grandfather says he
can indicate the person. Help me, --
lend me your assistance!" Noirtier
looked at the dictionary. Franz took it
with a nervous trembling, and repeated
the letters of the alphabet
successively, until he came to M. At
that letter the old man signified "Yes."

"M," repeated Franz. The young man's
finger, glided over the words, but at
each one Noirtier answered by a negative
sign. Valentine hid her head between her
hands. At length, Franz arrived at the
word MYSELF.

"Yes!"

"You?" cried Franz, whose hair stood on
end; "you, M. Noirtier -- you killed my
father?"

"Yes!" replied Noirtier, fixing a
majestic look on the young man. Franz
fell powerless on a chair; Villefort
opened the door and escaped, for the
idea had entered his mind to stifle the
little remaining life in the heart of
this terrible old man.



Chapter 76 Progress of Cavalcanti the
Younger.

Meanwhile M. Cavalcanti the elder had
returned to his service, not in the army
of his majesty the Emperor of Austria,
but at the gaming-table of the baths of
Lucca, of which he was one of the most
assiduous courtiers. He had spent every
farthing that had been allowed for his
journey as a reward for the majestic and
solemn manner in which he had maintained
his assumed character of father. M.
Andrea at his departure inherited all
the papers which proved that he had
indeed the honor of being the son of the
Marquis Bartolomeo and the Marchioness
Oliva Corsinari. He was now fairly
launched in that Parisian society which
gives such ready access to foreigners,
and treats them, not as they really are,
but as they wish to be considered.
Besides, what is required of a young man
in Paris? To speak its language
tolerably, to make a good appearance, to
be a good gamester, and to pay in cash.
They are certainly less particular with
a foreigner than with a Frenchman.
Andrea had, then, in a fortnight,
attained a very fair position. He was
called count, he was said to possess
50,000 livres per annum; and his
father's immense riches, buried in the
quarries of Saravezza, were a constant
theme. A learned man, before whom the
last circumstance was mentioned as a
fact, declared he had seen the quarries
in question, which gave great weight to
assertions hitherto somewhat doubtful,
but which now assumed the garb of
reality.

Such was the state of society in Paris
at the period we bring before our
readers, when Monte Cristo went one
evening to pay M. Danglars a visit. M.
Danglars was out, but the count was
asked to go and see the baroness, and he
accepted the invitation. It was never
without a nervous shudder, since the
dinner at Auteuil, and the events which
followed it, that Madame Danglars heard
Monte Cristo's name announced. If he did
not come, the painful sensation became
most intense; if, on the contrary, he
appeared, his noble countenance, his
brilliant eyes, his amiability, his
polite attention even towards Madame
Danglars, soon dispelled every
impression of fear. It appeared
impossible to the baroness that a man of
such delightfully pleasing manners
should entertain evil designs against
her; besides, the most corrupt minds
only suspect evil when it would answer
some interested end -- useless injury is
repugnant to every mind. When Monte
Cristo entered the boudoir, -- to which
we have already once introduced our
readers, and where the baroness was
examining some drawings, which her
daughter passed to her after having
looked at them with M. Cavalcanti, --
his presence soon produced its usual
effect, and it was with smiles that the
baroness received the count, although
she had been a little disconcerted at
the announcement of his name. The latter
took in the whole scene at a glance.

The baroness was partially reclining on
a sofa, Eugenie sat near her, and
Cavalcanti was standing. Cavalcanti,
dressed in black, like one of Goethe's
heroes, with varnished shoes and white
silk open-worked stockings, passed a
white and tolerably nice-looking hand
through his light hair, and so displayed
a sparkling diamond, that in spite of
Monte Cristo's advice the vain young man
had been unable to resist putting on his
little finger. This movement was
accompanied by killing glances at
Mademoiselle Danglars, and by sighs
launched in the same direction.
Mademoiselle Danglars was still the
same -- cold, beautiful, and satirical.
Not one of these glances, nor one sigh,
was lost on her; they might have been
said to fall on the shield of Minerva,
which some philosophers assert protected
sometimes the breast of Sappho. Eugenie
bowed coldly to the count, and availed
herself of the first moment when the
conversation became earnest to escape to
her study, whence very soon two cheerful
and noisy voices being heard in
connection with occasional notes of the
piano assured Monte Cristo that
Mademoiselle Danglars preferred to his
society and to that of M. Cavalcanti the
company of Mademoiselle Louise
d'Armilly, her singing teacher.

It was then, especially while conversing
with Madame Danglars, and apparently
absorbed by the charm of the
conversation, that the count noticed M.
Andrea Cavalcanti's solicitude, his
manner of listening to the music at the
door he dared not pass, and of
manifesting his admiration. The banker
soon returned. His first look was
certainly directed towards Monte Cristo,
but the second was for Andrea. As for
his wife, he bowed to her, as some
husbands do to their wives, but in a way
that bachelors will never comprehend,
until a very extensive code is published
on conjugal life.

"Have not the ladies invited you to join
them at the piano?" said Danglars to
Andrea. "Alas, no, sir," replied Andrea
with a sigh, still more remarkable than
the former ones. Danglars immediately
advanced towards the door and opened it.

The two young ladies were seen seated on
the same chair, at the piano,
accompanying themselves, each with one
hand, a fancy to which they had
accustomed themselves, and performed
admirably. Mademoiselle d'Armilly, whom
they then perceived through the open
doorway, formed with Eugenie one of the
tableaux vivants of which the Germans
are so fond. She was somewhat beautiful,
and exquisitely formed -- a little
fairy-like figure, with large curls
falling on her neck, which was rather
too long, as Perugino sometimes makes
his Virgins, and her eyes dull from
fatigue. She was said to have a weak
chest, and like Antonia in the "Cremona
Violin," she would die one day while
singing. Monte Cristo cast one rapid and
curious glance round this sanctum; it
was the first time he had ever seen
Mademoiselle d'Armilly, of whom he had
heard much. "Well," said the banker to
his daughter, "are we then all to be
excluded?" He then led the young man
into the study, and either by chance or
manoeuvre the door was partially closed
after Andrea, so that from the place
where they sat neither the Count nor the
baroness could see anything; but as the
banker had accompanied Andrea, Madame
Danglars appeared to take no notice of
it.

The count soon heard Andrea's voice,
singing a Corsican song, accompanied by
the piano. While the count smiled at
hearing this song, which made him lose
sight of Andrea in the recollection of
Benedetto, Madame Danglars was boasting
to Monte Cristo of her husband's
strength of mind, who that very morning
had lost three or four hundred thousand
francs by a failure at Milan. The praise
was well deserved, for had not the count
heard it from the baroness, or by one of
those means by which he knew everything,
the baron's countenance would not have
led him to suspect it. "Hem," thought
Monte Cristo, "he begins to conceal his
losses; a month since he boasted of
them." Then aloud, -- "Oh, madame, M.
Danglars is so skilful, he will soon
regain at the Bourse what he loses
elsewhere."

"I see that you participate in a
prevalent error," said Madame Danglars.
"What is it?" said Monte Cristo.

"That M. Danglars speculates, whereas he
never does."

"Truly, madame, I recollect M. Debray
told me -- apropos, what is become of
him? I have seen nothing of him the last
three or four days."

"Nor I," said Madame Danglars; "but you
began a sentence, sir, and did not
finish."

"Which?"

"M. Debray had told you" --

"Ah, yes; he told me it was you who
sacrificed to the demon of speculation."

"I was once very fond of it, but I do
not indulge now."

"Then you are wrong, madame. Fortune is
precarious; and if I were a woman and
fate had made me a banker's wife,
whatever might be my confidence in my
husband's good fortune, still in
speculation you know there is great
risk. Well, I would secure for myself a
fortune independent of him, even if I
acquired it by placing my interests in
hands unknown to him." Madame Danglars
blushed, in spite of all her efforts.
"Stay," said Monte Cristo, as though he
had not observed her confusion, "I have
heard of a lucky hit that was made
yesterday on the Neapolitan bonds."

"I have none -- nor have I ever
possessed any; but really we have talked
long enough of money, count, we are like
two stockbrokers; have you heard how
fate is persecuting the poor
Villeforts?"

"What has happened?" said the count,
simulating total ignorance.

"You know the Marquis of Saint-Meran
died a few days after he had set out on
his journey to Paris, and the
marchioness a few days after her
arrival?"

"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "I have heard
that; but, as Claudius said to Hamlet,
`it is a law of nature; their fathers
died before them, and they mourned their
loss; they will die before their
children, who will, in their turn,
grieve for them.'"

"But that is not all."

"Not all!"

"No; they were going to marry their
daughter" --

"To M. Franz d'Epinay. Is it broken
off?"

"Yesterday morning, it appears, Franz
declined the honor."

"Indeed? And is the reason known?"

"No."

"How extraordinary! And how does M. de
Villefort bear it?"

"As usual. Like a philosopher." Danglars
returned at this moment alone. "Well,"
said the baroness, "do you leave M.
Cavalcanti with your daughter?"

"And Mademoiselle d'Armilly," said the
banker; "do you consider her no one?"
Then, turning to Monte Cristo, he said,
"Prince Cavalcanti is a charming young
man, is he not? But is he really a
prince?"

"I will not answer for it," said Monte
Cristo. "His father was introduced to me
as a marquis, so he ought to be a count;
but I do not think he has much claim to
that title."

"Why?" said the banker. "If he is a
prince, he is wrong not to maintain his
rank; I do not like any one to deny his
origin."

"Oh, you are a thorough democrat," said
Monte Cristo, smiling.

"But do you see to what you are exposing
yourself?" said the baroness. "If,
perchance, M. de Morcerf came, he would
find M. Cavalcanti in that room, where
he, the betrothed of Eugenie, has never
been admitted."

"You may well say, perchance," replied
the banker; "for he comes so seldom, it
would seem only chance that brings him."

"But should he come and find that young
man with your daughter, he might be
displeased."

"He? You are mistaken. M. Albert would
not do us the honor to be jealous; he
does not like Eugenie sufficiently.
Besides, I care not for his
displeasure."

"Still, situated as we are" --

"Yes, do you know how we are situated?
At his mother's ball he danced once with
Eugenie, and M. Cavalcanti three times,
and he took no notice of it." The valet
announced the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf.
The baroness rose hastily, and was going
into the study, when Danglars stopped
her. "Let her alone," said he. She
looked at him in amazement. Monte Cristo
appeared to be unconscious of what
passed. Albert entered, looking very
handsome and in high spirits. He bowed
politely to the baroness, familiarly to
Danglars, and affectionately to Monte
Cristo. Then turning to the baroness:
"May I ask how Mademoiselle Danglars
is?" said he.

"She is quite well," replied Danglars
quickly; "she is at the piano with M.
Cavalcanti." Albert retained his calm
and indifferent manner; he might feel
perhaps annoyed, but he knew Monte
Cristo's eye was on him. "M. Cavalcanti
has a fine tenor voice," said he, "and
Mademoiselle Eugenie a splendid soprano,
and then she plays the piano like
Thalberg. The concert must be a
delightful one."

"They suit each other remarkably well,"
said Danglars. Albert appeared not to
notice this remark, which was, however,
so rude that Madame Danglars blushed.

"I, too," said the young man, "am a
musician -- at least, my masters used to
tell me so; but it is strange that my
voice never would suit any other, and a
soprano less than any." Danglars smiled,
and seemed to say, "It is of no
consequence." Then, hoping doubtless to
effect his purpose, he said, -- "The
prince and my daughter were universally
admired yesterday. You were not of the
party, M. de Morcerf?"

"What prince?" asked Albert. "Prince
Cavalcanti," said Danglars, who
persisted in giving the young man that
title.

"Pardon me," said Albert, "I was not
aware that he was a prince. And Prince
Cavalcanti sang with Mademoiselle
Eugenie yesterday? It must have been
charming, indeed. I regret not having
heard them. But I was unable to accept
your invitation, having promised to
accompany my mother to a German concert
given by the Baroness of
Chateau-Renaud." This was followed by
rather an awkward silence. "May I also
be allowed," said Morcerf, "to pay my
respects to Mademoiselle Danglars?"
"Wait a moment," said the banker,
stopping the young man; "do you hear
that delightful cavatina? Ta, ta, ta,
ti, ta, ti, ta, ta; it is charming, let
them finish -- one moment. Bravo, bravi,
brava!" The banker was enthusiastic in
his applause.

"Indeed," said Albert, "it is exquisite;
it is impossible to understand the music
of his country better than Prince
Cavalcanti does. You said prince, did
you not? But he can easily become one,
if he is not already; it is no uncommon
thing in Italy. But to return to the
charming musicians -- you should give us
a treat, Danglars, without telling them
there is a stranger. Ask them to sing
one more song; it is so delightful to
hear music in the distance, when the
musicians are unrestrained by
observation."

Danglars was quite annoyed by the young
man's indifference. He took Monte Cristo
aside. "What do you think of our lover?"
said he.

"He appears cool. But, then your word is
given."

"Yes, doubtless I have promised to give
my daughter to a man who loves her, but
not to one who does not. See him there,
cold as marble and proud like his
father. If he were rich, if he had
Cavalcanti's fortune, that might be
pardoned. Ma foi, I haven't consulted my
daughter; but if she has good taste" --

"Oh," said Monte Cristo, "my fondness
may blind me, but I assure you I
consider Morcerf a charming young man
who will render your daughter happy and
will sooner or later attain a certain
amount of distinction, and his father's
position is good."

"Hem," said Danglars.

"Why do you doubt?"

"The past -- that obscurity on the
past."

"But that does not affect the son."

"Very true."

"Now, I beg of you, don't go off your
head. It's a month now that you have
been thinking of this marriage, and you
must see that it throws some
responsibility on me, for it was at my
house you met this young Cavalcanti,
whom I do not really know at all."

"But I do."

"Have you made inquiry?"

"Is there any need of that! Does not his
appearance speak for him? And he is very
rich."

"I am not so sure of that."

"And yet you said he had money."

"Fifty thousand livres -- a mere
trifle."

"He is well educated."

"Hem," said Monte Cristo in his turn.

"He is a musician."

"So are all Italians."

"Come, count, you do not do that young
man justice."

"Well, I acknowledge it annoys me,
knowing your connection with the Morcerf
family, to see him throw himself in the
way." Danglars burst out laughing. "What
a Puritan you are!" said he; "that
happens every day."

"But you cannot break it off in this
way; the Morcerfs are depending on this
union."

"Indeed."

"Positively."

"Then let them explain themselves; you
should give the father a hint, you are
so intimate with the family."

"I? -- where the devil did you find out
that?"

"At their ball; it was apparent enough.
Why, did not the countess, the proud
Mercedes, the disdainful Catalane, who
will scarcely open her lips to her
oldest acquaintances, take your arm,
lead you into the garden, into the
private walks, and remain there for half
an hour?"

"Ah, baron, baron," said Albert, "you
are not listening -- what barbarism in a
melomaniac like you!"

"Oh, don't worry about me, Sir Mocker,"
said Danglars; then turning to the count
he said, "but will you undertake to
speak to the father?"

"Willingly, if you wish it."

"But let it be done explicitly and
positively. If he demands my daughter
let him fix the day -- declare his
conditions; in short, let us either
understand each other, or quarrel. You
understand -- no more delay."

"Yes. sir, I will give my attention to
the subject."

"I do not say that I await with pleasure
his decision, but I do await it. A
banker must, you know, be a slave to his
promise." And Danglars sighed as M.
Cavalcanti had done half an hour before.
"Bravi, bravo, brava!" cried Morcerf,
parodying the banker, as the selection
came to an end. Danglars began to look
suspiciously at Morcerf, when some one
came and whispered a few words to him.
"I shall soon return," said the banker
to Monte Cristo; "wait for me. I shall,
perhaps, have something to say to you."
And he went out.

The baroness took advantage of her
husband's absence to push open the door
of her daughter's study, and M. Andrea,
who was sitting before the piano with
Mademoiselle Eugenie, started up like a
jack-in-the-box. Albert bowed with a
smile to Mademoiselle Danglars, who did
not appear in the least disturbed, and
returned his bow with her usual
coolness. Cavalcanti was evidently
embarrassed; he bowed to Morcerf, who
replied with the most impertinent look
possible. Then Albert launched out in
praise of Mademoiselle Danglars' voice,
and on his regret, after what he had
just heard, that he had been unable to
be present the previous evening.
Cavalcanti, being left alone, turned to
Monte Cristo.

"Come," said Madame Danglars, "leave
music and compliments, and let us go and
take tea."

"Come, Louise," said Mademoiselle
Danglars to her friend. They passed into
the next drawing-room, where tea was
prepared. Just as they were beginning,
in the English fashion, to leave the
spoons in their cups, the door again
opened and Danglars entered, visibly
agitated. Monte Cristo observed it
particularly, and by a look asked the
banker for an explanation. "I have just
received my courier from Greece," said
Danglars.

"Ah, yes," said the count; "that was the
reason of your running away from us."

"Yes."

"How is King Otho getting on?" asked
Albert in the most sprightly tone.
Danglars cast another suspicious look
towards him without answering, and Monte
Cristo turned away to conceal the
expression of pity which passed over his
features, but which was gone in a
moment. "We shall go together, shall we
not?" said Albert to the count.

"If you like," replied the latter.
Albert could not understand the banker's
look, and turning to Monte Cristo, who
understood it perfectly, -- "Did you
see," said he, "how he looked at me?"

"Yes," said the count; "but did you
think there was anything particular in
his look?"

"Indeed, I did; and what does he mean by
his news from Greece?"

"How can I tell you?"

"Because I imagine you have
correspondents in that country." Monte
Cristo smiled significantly.

"Stop," said Albert, "here he comes. I
shall compliment Mademoiselle Danglars
on her cameo, while the father talks to
you."

"If you compliment her at all, let it be
on her voice, at least," said Monte
Cristo.

"No, every one would do that."

"My dear viscount, you are dreadfully
impertinent." Albert advanced towards
Eugenie, smiling. Meanwhile, Danglars,
stooping to Monte Cristo's ear, "Your
advice was excellent," said he; "there
is a whole history connected with the
names Fernand and Yanina."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo.

"Yes, I will tell you all; but take away
the young man; I cannot endure his
presence."

"He is going with me. Shall I send the
father to you?"

"Immediately."

"Very well." The count made a sign to
Albert and they bowed to the ladies, and
took their leave, Albert perfectly
indifferent to Mademoiselle Danglars'
contempt, Monte Cristo reiterating his
advice to Madame Danglars on the
prudence a banker's wife should exercise
in providing for the future. M.
Cavalcanti remained master of the field.



Chapter 77 Haidee.

Scarcely had the count's horses cleared
the angle of the boulevard, than Albert,
turning towards the count, burst into a
loud fit of laughter -- much too loud in
fact not to give the idea of its being
rather forced and unnatural. "Well,"
said he, "I will ask you the same
question which Charles IX. put to
Catherine de Medicis, after the massacre
of Saint Bartholomew, `How have I played
my little part?'"

"To what do you allude?" asked Monte
Cristo.

"To the installation of my rival at M.
Danglars'."

"What rival?"

"Ma foi, what rival? Why, your protege,
M. Andrea Cavalcanti!"

"Ah, no joking, viscount, if you please;
I do not patronize M. Andrea -- at
least, not as concerns M. Danglars."

"And you would be to blame for not
assisting him, if the young man really
needed your help in that quarter, but,
happily for me, he can dispense with
it."

"What, do you think he is paying his
addresses?"

"I am certain of it; his languishing
looks and modulated tones when
addressing Mademoiselle Danglars fully
proclaim his intentions. He aspires to
the hand of the proud Eugenie."

"What does that signify, so long as they
favor your suit?"

"But it is not the case, my dear count:
on the contrary. I am repulsed on all
sides."

"What!"

"It is so indeed; Mademoiselle Eugenie
scarcely answers me, and Mademoiselle
d'Armilly, her confidant, does not speak
to me at all."

"But the father has the greatest regard
possible for you," said Monte Cristo.

"He? Oh, no, he has plunged a thousand
daggers into my heart, tragedy-weapons,
I own, which instead of wounding sheathe
their points in their own handles, but
daggers which he nevertheless believed
to be real and deadly."

"Jealousy indicates affection."

"True; but I am not jealous."

"He is."

"Of whom? -- of Debray?"

"No, of you."

"Of me? I will engage to say that before
a week is past the door will be closed
against me."

"You are mistaken, my dear viscount."

"Prove it to me."

"Do you wish me to do so?"

"Yes."

"Well, I am charged with the commission
of endeavoring to induce the Comte de
Morcerf to make some definite
arrangement with the baron."

"By whom are you charged?"

"By the baron himself."

"Oh," said Albert with all the cajolery
of which he was capable. "You surely
will not do that, my dear count?"

"Certainly I shall, Albert, as I have
promised to do it."

"Well," said Albert, with a sigh, "it
seems you are determined to marry me."

"I am determined to try and be on good
terms with everybody, at all events,"
said Monte Cristo. "But apropos of
Debray, how is it that I have not seen
him lately at the baron's house?"

"There has been a misunderstanding."

"What, with the baroness?"

"No, with the baron."

"Has he perceived anything?"

"Ah, that is a good joke!"

"Do you think he suspects?" said Monte
Cristo with charming artlessness.

"Where have you come from, my dear
count?" said Albert.

"From Congo, if you will."

"It must be farther off than even that."

"But what do I know of your Parisian
husbands?"

"Oh, my dear count, husbands are pretty
much the same everywhere; an individual
husband of any country is a pretty fair
specimen of the whole race."

"But then, what can have led to the
quarrel between Danglars and Debray?
They seemed to understand each other so
well," said Monte Cristo with renewed
energy.

"Ah, now you are trying to penetrate
into the mysteries of Isis, in which I
am not initiated. When M. Andrea
Cavalcanti has become one of the family,
you can ask him that question." The
carriage stopped. "Here we are," said
Monte Cristo; "it is only half-past ten
o'clock, come in."

"Certainly I will."

"My carriage shall take you back."

"No, thank you; I gave orders for my
coupe to follow me."

"There it is, then," said Monte Cristo,
as he stepped out of the carriage. They
both went into the house; the
drawing-room was lighted up -- they went
in there. "You will make tea for us,
Baptistin," said the count. Baptistin
left the room without waiting to answer,
and in two seconds reappeared, bringing
on a waiter all that his master had
ordered, ready prepared, and appearing
to have sprung from the ground, like the
repasts which we read of in fairy tales.
"Really, my dear count," said Morcerf.
"what I admire in you is, not so much
your riches, for perhaps there are
people even wealthier than yourself, nor
is it only your wit, for Beaumarchais
might have possessed as much, -- but it
is your manner of being served, without
any questions, in a moment, in a second;
it is as it they guessed what you wanted
by your manner of ringing, and made a
point of keeping everything you can
possibly desire in constant readiness."

"What you say is perhaps true; they know
my habits. For instance, you shall see;
how do you wish to occupy yourself
during tea-time?"

"Ma foi, I should like to smoke."

Monte Cristo took the gong and struck it
once. In about the space of a second a
private door opened, and Ali appeared,
bringing two chibouques filled with
excellent latakia. "It is quite
wonderful," said Albert.

"Oh no, it is as simple as possible,"
replied Monte Cristo. "Ali knows I
generally smoke while I am taking my tea
or coffee; he has heard that I ordered
tea, and he also knows that I brought
you home with me; when I summoned him he
naturally guessed the reason of my doing
so, and as he comes from a country where
hospitality is especially manifested
through the medium of smoking, he
naturally concludes that we shall smoke
in company, and therefore brings two
chibouques instead of one -- and now the
mystery is solved."

"Certainly you give a most commonplace
air to your explanation, but it is not
the less true that you -- Ah, but what
do I hear?" and Morcerf inclined his
head towards the door, through which
sounds seemed to issue resembling those
of a guitar.

"Ma foi, my dear viscount, you are fated
to hear music this evening; you have
only escaped from Mademoiselle Danglars'
piano, to be attacked by Haidee's
guzla."

"Haidee -- what an adorable name! Are
there, then, really women who bear the
name of Haidee anywhere but in Byron's
poems?"

"Certainly there are. Haidee is a very
uncommon name in France, but is common
enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as
it you said, for example, Chastity,
Modesty, Innocence, -- it is a kind of
baptismal name, as you Parisians call
it."

"Oh, that is charming," said Albert,
"how I should like to hear my
countrywomen called Mademoiselle
Goodness, Mademoiselle Silence,
Mademoiselle Christian Charity! Only
think, then, if Mademoiselle Danglars,
instead of being called
Claire-Marie-Eugenie, had been named
Mademoiselle Chastity-Modesty-Innocence
Danglars; what a fine effect that would
have produced on the announcement of her
marriage!"

"Hush," said the count, "do not joke in
so loud a tone; Haidee may hear you,
perhaps."

"And you think she would be angry?"

"No, certainly not," said the count with
a haughty expression.

"She is very amiable, then, is she not?"
said Albert.

"It is not to be called amiability, it
is her duty; a slave does not dictate to
a master."

"Come; you are joking yourself now. Are
there any more slaves to be had who bear
this beautiful name?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Really, count, you do nothing, and have
nothing like other people. The slave of
the Count of Monte Cristo! Why, it is a
rank of itself in France, and from the
way in which you lavish money, it is a
place that must be worth a hundred
thousand francs a year."

"A hundred thousand francs! The poor
girl originally possessed much more than
that; she was born to treasures in
comparison with which those recorded in
the `Thousand and One Nights' would seem
but poverty."

"She must be a princess then."

"You are right; and she is one of the
greatest in her country too."

"I thought so. But how did it happen
that such a great princess became a
slave?"

"How was it that Dionysius the Tyrant
became a schoolmaster? The fortune of
war, my dear viscount, -- the caprice of
fortune; that is the way in which these
things are to be accounted for."

"And is her name a secret?"

"As regards the generality of mankind it
is; but not for you, my dear viscount,
who are one of my most intimate friends,
and on whose silence I feel I may rely,
if I consider it necessary to enjoin
it -- may I not do so?"

"Certainly; on my word of honor."

"You know the history of the pasha of
Yanina, do you not?"

"Of Ali Tepelini?* Oh, yes; it was in
his service that my father made his
fortune."

"True, I had forgotten that."

* Ali Pasha, "The Lion," was born at
Tepelini, an Albanian village at the
foot of the Klissoura Mountains, in
1741. By diplomacy and success in arms
he became almost supreme ruler of
Albania, Epirus, and adjacent territory.
Having aroused the enmity of the Sultan,
he was proscribed and put to death by
treachery in 1822, at the age of
eighty. -- Ed.

"Well, what is Haidee to Ali Tepelini?"

"Merely his daughter."

"What? the daughter of Ali Pasha?"

"Of Ali Pasha and the beautiful
Vasiliki."

"And your slave?"

"Ma foi, yes."

"But how did she become so?"

"Why, simply from the circumstance of my
having bought her one day, as I was
passing through the market at
Constantinople."

"Wonderful! Really, my dear count, you
seem to throw a sort of magic influence
over all in which you are concerned;
when I listen to you, existence no
longer seems reality, but a waking
dream. Now, I am perhaps going to make
an imprudent and thoughtless request,
but" --

"Say on."

"But, since you go out with Haidee, and
sometimes even take her to the opera" --

"Well?"

"I think I may venture to ask you this
favor."

"You may venture to ask me anything."

"Well then, my dear count, present me to
your princess."

"I will do so; but on two conditions."

"I accept them at once."

"The first is, that you will never tell
any one that I have granted the
interview."

"Very well," said Albert, extending his
hand; "I swear I will not."

"The second is, that you will not tell
her that your father ever served hers."

"I give you my oath that I will not."

"Enough, viscount; you will remember
those two vows, will you not? But I know
you to be a man of honor." The count
again struck the gong. Ali reappeared.
"Tell Haidee," said he, "that I will
take coffee with her, and give her to
understand that I desire permission to
present one of my friends to her." Ali
bowed and left the room. "Now,
understand me," said the count, "no
direct questions, my dear Morcerf; if
you wish to know anything, tell me, and
I will ask her."

"Agreed." Ali reappeared for the third
time, and drew back the tapestried
hanging which concealed the door, to
signify to his master and Albert that
they were at liberty to pass on. "Let us
go in," said Monte Cristo.

Albert passed his hand through his hair,
and curled his mustache, then, having
satisfied himself as to his personal
appearance, followed the count into the
room, the latter having previously
resumed his hat and gloves. Ali was
stationed as a kind of advanced guard,
and the door was kept by the three
French attendants, commanded by Myrtho.
Haidee was awaiting her visitors in the
first room of her apartments, which was
the drawing-room. Her large eyes were
dilated with surprise and expectation,
for it was the first time that any man,
except Monte Cristo, had been accorded
an entrance into her presence. She was
sitting on a sofa placed in an angle of
the room, with her legs crossed under
her in the Eastern fashion, and seemed
to have made for herself, as it were, a
kind of nest in the rich Indian silks
which enveloped her. Near her was the
instrument on which she had just been
playing; it was elegantly fashioned, and
worthy of its mistress. On perceiving
Monte Cristo, she arose and welcomed him
with a smile peculiar to herself,
expressive at once of the most implicit
obedience and also of the deepest love.
Monte Cristo advanced towards her and
extended his hand, which she as usual
raised to her lips.

Albert had proceeded no farther than the
door, where he remained rooted to the
spot, being completely fascinated by the
sight of such surpassing beauty, beheld
as it was for the first time, and of
which an inhabitant of more northern
climes could form no adequate idea.

"Whom do you bring?" asked the young
girl in Romaic, of Monte Cristo; "is it
a friend, a brother, a simple
acquaintance, or an enemy."

"A friend," said Monte Cristo in the
same language.

"What is his name?"

"Count Albert; it is the same man whom I
rescued from the hands of the banditti
at Rome."

"In what language would you like me to
converse with him?"

Monte Cristo turned to Albert. "Do you
know modern Greek," asked he.

"Alas, no," said Albert; "nor even
ancient Greek, my dear count; never had
Homer or Plato a more unworthy scholar
than myself."

"Then," said Haidee, proving by her
remark that she had quite understood
Monte Cristo's question and Albert's
answer, "then I will speak either in
French or Italian, if my lord so wills
it."

Monte Cristo reflected one instant. "You
will speak in Italian," said he. Then,
turning towards Albert, -- "It is a pity
you do not understand either ancient or
modern Greek, both of which Haidee
speaks so fluently; the poor child will
be obliged to talk to you in Italian,
which will give you but a very false
idea of her powers of conversation." The
count made a sign to Haidee to address
his visitor. "Sir," she said to Morcerf,
"you are most welcome as the friend of
my lord and master." This was said in
excellent Tuscan, and with that soft
Roman accent which makes the language of
Dante as sonorous as that of Homer.
Then, turning to Ali, she directed him
to bring coffee and pipes, and when he
had left the room to execute the orders
of his young mistress she beckoned
Albert to approach nearer to her. Monte
Cristo and Morcerf drew their seats
towards a small table, on which were
arranged music, drawings, and vases of
flowers. Ali then entered bringing
coffee and chibouques; as to M.
Baptistin, this portion of the building
was interdicted to him. Albert refused
the pipe which the Nubian offered him.
"Oh, take it -- take it," said the
count; "Haidee is almost as civilized as
a Parisian; the smell of an Havana is
disagreeable to her, but the tobacco of
the East is a most delicious perfume,
you know."

Ali left the room. The cups of coffee
were all prepared, with the addition of
sugar, which had been brought for
Albert. Monte Cristo and Haidee took the
beverage in the original Arabian manner,
that is to say, without sugar. Haidee
took the porcelain cup in her little
slender fingers and conveyed it to her
mouth with all the innocent artlessness
of a child when eating or drinking
something which it likes. At this moment
two women entered, bringing salvers
filled with ices and sherbet, which they
placed on two small tables appropriated
to that purpose. "My dear host, and you,
signora," said Albert, in Italian,
"excuse my apparent stupidity. I am
quite bewildered, and it is natural that
it should be so. Here I am in the heart
of Paris; but a moment ago I heard the
rumbling of the omnibuses and the
tinkling of the bells of the
lemonade-sellers, and now I feel as if I
were suddenly transported to the East;
not such as I have seen it, but such as
my dreams have painted it. Oh, signora,
if I could but speak Greek, your
conversation, added to the fairy-scene
which surrounds me, would furnish an
evening of such delight as it would be
impossible for me ever to forget."

"I speak sufficient Italian to enable me
to converse with you, sir," said Haidee
quietly; "and if you like what is
Eastern, I will do my best to secure the
gratification of your tastes while you
are here."

"On what subject shall I converse with
her?" said Albert, in a low tone to
Monte Cristo.

"Just what you please; you may speak of
her country and of her youthful
reminiscences, or if you like it better
you can talk of Rome, Naples, or
Florence."

"Oh," said Albert, "it is of no use to
be in the company of a Greek if one
converses just in the same style as with
a Parisian; let me speak to her of the
East."

"Do so then, for of all themes which you
could choose that will be the most
agreeable to her taste." Albert turned
towards Haidee. "At what age did you
leave Greece, signora?" asked he.

"I left it when I was but five years
old," replied Haidee.

"And have you any recollection of your
country?"

"When I shut my eyes and think, I seem
to see it all again. The mind can see as
well as the body. The body forgets
sometimes -- but the mind never
forgets."

"And how far back into the past do your
recollections extend?"

"I could scarcely walk when my mother,
who was called Vasiliki, which means
royal," said the young girl, tossing her
head proudly, "took me by the hand, and
after putting in our purse all the money
we possessed, we went out, both covered
with veils, to solicit alms for the
prisoners, saying, `He who giveth to the
poor lendeth to the Lord.' Then when our
purse was full we returned to the
palace, and without saying a word to my
father, we sent it to the convent, where
it was divided amongst the prisoners."

"And how old were you at that time?"

"I was three years old," said Haidee.

"Then you remember everything that went
on about you from the time when you were
three years old?" said Albert.

"Everything."

"Count," said Albert, in a low tone to
Monte Cristo, "do allow the signora to
tell me something of her history. You
prohibited my mentioning my father's
name to her, but perhaps she will allude
to him of her own accord in the course
of the recital, and you have no idea how
delighted I should be to hear our name
pronounced by such beautiful lips."
Monte Cristo turned to Haidee, and with
an expression of countenance which
commanded her to pay the most implicit
attention to his words, he said in
Greek, -- "Tell us the fate of your
father; but neither the name of the
traitor nor the treason." Haidee sighed
deeply, and a shade of sadness clouded
her beautiful brow.

"What are you saying to her?" said
Morcerf in an undertone.

"I again reminded her that you were a
friend, and that she need not conceal
anything from you."

"Then," said Albert, "this pious
pilgrimage in behalf of the prisoners
was your first remembrance; what is the
next?"

"Oh, then I remember as if it were but
yesterday sitting under the shade of
some sycamore-trees, on the borders of a
lake, in the waters of which the
trembling foliage was reflected as in a
mirror. Under the oldest and thickest of
these trees, reclining on cushions, sat
my father; my mother was at his feet,
and I, childlike, amused myself by
playing with his long white beard which
descended to his girdle, or with the
diamond-hilt of the scimitar attached to
his girdle. Then from time to time there
came to him an Albanian who said
something to which I paid no attention,
but which he always answered in the same
tone of voice, either `Kill,' or
`Pardon.'"

"It is very strange," said Albert, "to
hear such words proceed from the mouth
of any one but an actress on the stage,
and one needs constantly to be saying to
one's self, `This is no fiction, it is
all reality,' in order to believe it.
And how does France appear in your eyes,
accustomed as they have been to gaze on
such enchanted scenes?"

"I think it is a fine country," said
Haidee, "but I see France as it really
is, because I look on it with the eyes
of a woman; whereas my own country,
which I can only judge of from the
impression produced on my childish mind,
always seems enveloped in a vague
atmosphere, which is luminous or
otherwise, according as my remembrances
of it are sad or joyous."

"So young," said Albert, forgetting at
the moment the Count's command that he
should ask no questions of the slave
herself, "is it possible that you can
have known what suffering is except by
name?"

Haidee turned her eyes towards Monte
Cristo, who, making at the same time
some imperceptible sign, murmured, --
"Go on."

"Nothing is ever so firmly impressed on
the mind as the memory of our early
childhood, and with the exception of the
two scenes I have just described to you,
all my earliest reminiscences are
fraught with deepest sadness."

"Speak, speak, signora," said Albert, "I
am listening with the most intense
delight and interest to all you say."

Haidee answered his remark with a
melancholy smile. "You wish me, then, to
relate the history of my past sorrows?"
said she.

"I beg you to do so," replied Albert.

"Well, I was but four years old when one
night I was suddenly awakened by my
mother. We were in the palace of Yanina;
she snatched me from the cushions on
which I was sleeping, and on opening my
eyes I saw hers filled with tears. She
took me away without speaking. When I
saw her weeping I began to cry too.
`Hush, child!' said she. At other times
in spite of maternal endearments or
threats, I had with a child's caprice
been accustomed to indulge my feelings
of sorrow or anger by crying as much as
I felt inclined; but on this occasion
there was an intonation of such extreme
terror in my mother's voice when she
enjoined me to silence, that I ceased
crying as soon as her command was given.
She bore me rapidly away.

"I saw then that we were descending a
large staircase; around us were all my
mother's servants carrying trunks, bags,
ornaments, jewels, purses of gold, with
which they were hurrying away in the
greatest distraction.

"Behind the women came a guard of twenty
men armed with long guns and pistols,
and dressed in the costume which the
Greeks have assumed since they have
again become a nation. You may imagine
there was something startling and
ominous," said Haidee, shaking her head
and turning pale at the mere remembrance
of the scene, "in this long file of
slaves and women only half-aroused from
sleep, or at least so they appeared to
me, who was myself scarcely awake. Here
and there on the walls of the staircase,
were reflected gigantic shadows, which
trembled in the flickering light of the
pine-torches till they seemed to reach
to the vaulted roof above.

"`Quick!' said a voice at the end of the
gallery. This voice made every one bow
before it, resembling in its effect the
wind passing over a field of wheat, by
its superior strength forcing every ear
to yield obeisance. As for me, it made
me tremble. This voice was that of my
father. He came last, clothed in his
splendid robes and holding in his hand
the carbine which your emperor presented
him. He was leaning on the shoulder of
his favorite Selim, and he drove us all
before him, as a shepherd would his
straggling flock. My father," said
Haidee, raising her head, "was that
illustrious man known in Europe under
the name of Ali Tepelini, pasha of
Yanina, and before whom Turkey
trembled."

Albert, without knowing why, started on
hearing these words pronounced with such
a haughty and dignified accent; it
appeared to him as if there was
something supernaturally gloomy and
terrible in the expression which gleamed
from the brilliant eyes of Haidee at
this moment; she appeared like a
Pythoness evoking a spectre, as she
recalled to his mind the remembrance of
the fearful death of this man, to the
news of which all Europe had listened
with horror. "Soon," said Haidee, "we
halted on our march, and found ourselves
on the borders of a lake. My mother
pressed me to her throbbing heart, and
at the distance of a few paces I saw my
father, who was glancing anxiously
around. Four marble steps led down to
the water's edge, and below them was a
boat floating on the tide.

"From where we stood I could see in the
middle of the lake a large blank mass;
it was the kiosk to which we were going.
This kiosk appeared to me to be at a
considerable distance, perhaps on
account of the darkness of the night,
which prevented any object from being
more than partially discerned. We
stepped into the boat. I remember well
that the oars made no noise whatever in
striking the water, and when I leaned
over to ascertain the cause I saw that
they were muffled with the sashes of our
Palikares.* Besides the rowers, the boat
contained only the women, my father,
mother, Selim, and myself. The Palikares
had remained on the shore of the lake,
ready to cover our retreat; they were
kneeling on the lowest of the marble
steps, and in that manner intended
making a rampart of the three others, in
case of pursuit. Our bark flew before
the wind. `Why does the boat go so
fast?' asked I of my mother.

* Greek militiamen in the war for
independence. -- Ed.

"`Silence, child! Hush, we are flying!'
I did not understand. Why should my
father fly? -- he, the all-powerful --
he, before whom others were accustomed
to fly -- he, who had taken for his
device, `They hate me; then they fear
me!' It was, indeed, a flight which my
father was trying to effect. I have been
told since that the garrison of the
castle of Yanina, fatigued with long
service" --

Here Haidee cast a significant glance at
Monte Cristo, whose eyes had been
riveted on her countenance during the
whole course of her narrative. The young
girl then continued, speaking slowly,
like a person who is either inventing or
suppressing some feature of the history
which he is relating. "You were saying,
signora," said Albert, who was paying
the most implicit attention to the
recital, "that the garrison of Yanina,
fatigued with long service" --

"Had treated with the Serasker*
Koorshid, who had been sent by the
sultan to gain possession of the person
of my father; it was then that Ali
Tepelini -- after having sent to the
sultan a French officer in whom he
reposed great confidence -- resolved to
retire to the asylum which he had long
before prepared for himself, and which
he called kataphygion, or the refuge."

"And this officer," asked Albert, "do
you remember his name, signora?" Monte
Cristo exchanged a rapid glance with the
young girl, which was quite unperceived
by Albert. "No," said she, "I do not
remember it just at this moment; but if
it should occur to me presently, I will
tell you." Albert was on the point of
pronouncing his father's name, when
Monte Cristo gently held up his finger
in token of reproach; the young man
recollected his promise, and was silent.

* A Turkish pasha in command of the
troops of a province. -- Ed.

"It was towards this kiosk that we were
rowing. A ground-floor, ornamented with
arabesques, bathing its terraces in the
water, and another floor, looking on the
lake, was all which was visible to the
eye. But beneath the ground-floor,
stretching out into the island, was a
large subterranean cavern, to which my
mother, myself, and the women were
conducted. In this place were together
60,000 pouches and 200 barrels; the
pouches contained 25,000,000 of money in
gold, and the barrels were filled with
30,000 pounds of gunpowder.

"Near the barrels stood Selim, my
father's favorite, whom I mentioned to
you just now. He stood watch day and
night with a lance provided with a
lighted slowmatch in his hand, and he
had orders to blow up everything --
kiosk, guards, women, gold, and Ali
Tepelini himself -- at the first signal
given by my father. I remember well that
the slaves, convinced of the precarious
tenure on which they held their lives,
passed whole days and nights in praying,
crying, and groaning. As for me, I can
never forget the pale complexion and
black eyes of the young soldier, and
whenever the angel of death summons me
to another world, I am quite sure I
shall recognize Selim. I cannot tell you
how long we remained in this state; at
that period I did not even know what
time meant. Sometimes, but very rarely,
my father summoned me and my mother to
the terrace of the palace; these were
hours of recreation for me, as I never
saw anything in the dismal cavern but
the gloomy countenances of the slaves
and Selim's fiery lance. My father was
endeavoring to pierce with his eager
looks the remotest verge of the horizon,
examining attentively every black speck
which appeared on the lake, while my
mother, reclining by his side, rested
her head on his shoulder, and I played
at his feet, admiring everything I saw
with that unsophisticated innocence of
childhood which throws a charm round
objects insignificant in themselves, but
which in its eyes are invested with the
greatest importance. The heights of
Pindus towered above us; the castle of
Yanina rose white and angular from the
blue waters of the lake, and the immense
masses of black vegetation which, viewed
in the distance, gave the idea of
lichens clinging to the rocks, were in
reality gigantic fir-trees and myrtles.

"One morning my father sent for us; my
mother had been crying all the night,
and was very wretched; we found the
pasha calm, but paler than usual. `Take
courage, Vasiliki,' said he; `to-day
arrives the firman of the master, and my
fate will be decided. If my pardon be
complete, we shall return triumphant to
Yanina; if the news be inauspicious, we
must fly this night.' -- `But supposing
our enemy should not allow us to do so?'
said my mother. `Oh, make yourself easy
on that head,' said Ali, smiling; `Selim
and his flaming lance will settle that
matter. They would be glad to see me
dead, but they would not like themselves
to die with me.'

"My mother only answered by sighs to
consolations which she knew did not come
from my father's heart. She prepared the
iced water which he was in the habit of
constantly drinking, -- for since his
sojourn at the kiosk he had been parched
by the most violent fever, -- after
which she anointed his white beard with
perfumed oil, and lighted his chibouque,
which he sometimes smoked for hours
together, quietly watching the wreaths
of vapor that ascended in spiral clouds
and gradually melted away in the
surrounding atmosphere. Presently he
made such a sudden movement that I was
paralyzed with fear. Then, without
taking his eyes from the object which
had first attracted his attention, he
asked for his telescope. My mother gave
it him. and as she did so, looked whiter
than the marble against which she
leaned. I saw my father's hand tremble.
`A boat! -- two! -- three!' murmured my,
father; -- `four!' He then arose,
seizing his arms and priming his
pistols. `Vasiliki,' said he to my
mother, trembling perceptibly, `the
instant approaches which will decide
everything. In the space of half an hour
we shall know the emperor's answer. Go
into the cavern with Haidee.' -- `I will
not quit you,' said Vasiliki; `if you
die, my lord, I will die with you.' --
`Go to Selim!' cried my father. `Adieu,
my lord,' murmured my mother,
determining quietly to await the
approach of death. `Take away Vasiliki!'
said my father to his Palikares.

"As for me, I had been forgotten in the
general confusion; I ran toward Ali
Tepelini; he saw me hold out my arms to
him, and he stooped down and pressed my
forehead with his lips. Oh, how
distinctly I remember that kiss! -- it
was the last he ever gave me, and I feel
as if it were still warm on my forehead.
On descending, we saw through the
lattice-work several boats which were
gradually becoming more distinct to our
view. At first they appeared like black
specks, and now they looked like birds
skimming the surface of the waves.
During this time, in the kiosk at my
father's feet, were seated twenty
Palikares, concealed from view by an
angle of the wall and watching with
eager eyes the arrival of the boats.
They were armed with their long guns
inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver,
and cartridges in great numbers were
lying scattered on the floor. My father
looked at his watch, and paced up and
down with a countenance expressive of
the greatest anguish. This was the scene
which presented itself to my view as I
quitted my father after that last kiss.
My mother and I traversed the gloomy
passage leading to the cavern. Selim was
still at his post, and smiled sadly on
us as we entered. We fetched our
cushions from the other end of the
cavern, and sat down by Selim. In great
dangers the devoted ones cling to each
other; and, young as I was, I quite
understood that some imminent danger was
hanging over our heads."

Albert had often heard -- not from his
father, for he never spoke on the
subject, but from strangers -- the
description of the last moments of the
vizier of Yanina; he had read different
accounts of his death, but the story
seemed to acquire fresh meaning from the
voice and expression of the young girl,
and her sympathetic accent and the
melancholy expression of her countenance
at once charmed and horrified him. As to
Haidee, these terrible reminiscences
seemed to have overpowered her for a
moment, for she ceased speaking, her
head leaning on her hand like a
beautiful flower bowing beneath the
violence of the storm; and her eyes
gazing on vacancy indicated that she was
mentally contemplating the green summit
of the Pindus and the blue waters of the
lake of Yanina, which, like a magic
mirror, seemed to reflect the sombre
picture which she sketched. Monte Cristo
looked at her with an indescribable
expression of interest and pity.

"Go on," said the count in the Romaic
language.

Haidee looked up abruptly, as if the
sonorous tones of Monte Cristo's voice
had awakened her from a dream; and she
resumed her narrative. "It was about
four o'clock in the afternoon, and
although the day was brilliant
out-of-doors, we were enveloped in the
gloomy darkness of the cavern. One
single, solitary light was burning
there, and it appeared like a star set
in a heaven of blackness; it was Selim's
flaming lance. My mother was a
Christian, and she prayed. Selim
repeated from time to time the sacred
words: `God is great!' However, my
mother had still some hope. As she was
coming down, she thought she recognized
the French officer who had been sent to
Constantinople, and in whom my father
placed so much confidence; for he knew
that all the soldiers of the French
emperor were naturally noble and
generous. She advanced some steps
towards the staircase, and listened.
`They are approaching,' said she;
`perhaps they bring us peace and
liberty!' -- `What do you fear,
Vasiliki?' said Selim, in a voice at
once so gentle and yet so proud. `If
they do not bring us peace, we will give
them war; if they do not bring life, we
will give them death.' And he renewed
the flame of his lance with a gesture
which made one think of Dionysus of
Crete.* But I, being only a little
child, was terrified by this undaunted
courage, which appeared to me both
ferocious and senseless, and I recoiled
with horror from the idea of the
frightful death amidst fire and flames
which probably awaited us.

* The god of fruitfulness in Grecian
mythology. In Crete he was supposed to
be slain in winter with the decay of
vegetation and to revive in the spring.
Haidee's learned reference is to the
behavior of an actor in the Dionysian
festivals. -- Ed.

"My mother experienced the same
sensations, for I felt her tremble.
`Mamma, mamma,' said I, `are we really
to be killed?' And at the sound of my
voice the slaves redoubled their cries
and prayers and lamentations. `My
child,' said Vasiliki, `may God preserve
you from ever wishing for that death
which to-day you so much dread!' Then,
whispering to Selim, she asked what were
her master's orders. `If he send me his
poniard, it will signify that the
emperor's intentions are not favorable,
and I am to set fire to the powder; if,
on the contrary, he send me his ring, it
will be a sign that the emperor pardons
him, and I am to extinguish the match
and leave the magazine untouched.' --
`My friend,' said my mother, `when your
master's orders arrive, if it is the
poniard which he sends, instead of
despatching us by that horrible death
which we both so much dread, you will
mercifully kill us with this same
poniard, will you not?' -- `Yes,
Vasiliki,' replied Selim tranquilly.

"Suddenly we heard loud cries; and,
listening, discerned that they were
cries of joy. The name of the French
officer who had been sent to
Constantinople resounded on all sides
amongst our Palikares; it was evident
that he brought the answer of the
emperor, and that it was favorable."

"And do you not remember the Frenchman's
name?" said Morcerf, quite ready to aid
the memory of the narrator. Monte Cristo
made a sign to him to be silent.

"I do not recollect it," said Haidee.

"The noise increased; steps were heard
approaching nearer and nearer: they were
descending the steps leading to the
cavern. Selim made ready his lance. Soon
a figure appeared in the gray twilight
at the entrance of the cave, formed by
the reflection of the few rays of
daylight which had found their way into
this gloomy retreat. `Who are you?'
cried Selim. `But whoever you may be, I
charge you not to advance another
step.' -- `Long live the emperor!' said
the figure. `He grants a full pardon to
the Vizier Ali, and not only gives him
his life, but restores to him his
fortune and his possessions.' My mother
uttered a cry of joy, and clasped me to
her bosom. `Stop,' said Selim, seeing
that she was about to go out; you see I
have not yet received the ring,' --
`True,' said my mother. And she fell on
her knees, at the same time holding me
up towards heaven, as if she desired,
while praying to God in my behalf, to
raise me actually to his presence."

And for the second time Haidee stopped,
overcome by such violent emotion that
the perspiration stood upon her pale
brow, and her stifled voice seemed
hardly able to find utterance, so
parched and dry were her throat and
lips. Monte Cristo poured a little iced
water into a glass, and presented it to
her, saying with a mildness in which was
also a shade of command, -- "Courage."

Haidee dried her eyes, and continued:
"By this time our eyes, habituated to
the darkness, had recognized the
messenger of the pasha, -- it was a
friend. Selim had also recognized him,
but the brave young man only
acknowledged one duty, which was to
obey. `In whose name do you come?' said
he to him. `I come in the name of our
master, Ali Tepelini.' -- `If you come
from Ali himself,' said Selim, `you know
what you were charged to remit to
me?' -- `Yes,' said the messenger, `and
I bring you his ring.' At these words he
raised his hand above his head, to show
the token; but it was too far off, and
there was not light enough to enable
Selim, where he was standing, to
distinguish and recognize the object
presented to his view. `I do not see
what you have in your hand,' said Selim.
`Approach then,' said the messenger, `or
I will come nearer to you, if you prefer
it.' -- `I will agree to neither one nor
the other,' replied the young soldier;
`place the object which I desire to see
in the ray of light which shines there,
and retire while I examine it.' -- `Be
it so,' said the envoy; and he retired,
after having first deposited the token
agreed on in the place pointed out to
him by Selim.

"Oh, how our hearts palpitated; for it
did, indeed, seem to be a ring which was
placed there. But was it my father's
ring? that was the question. Selim,
still holding in his hand the lighted
match, walked towards the opening in the
cavern, and, aided by the faint light
which streamed in through the mouth of
the cave, picked up the token.

"`It is well,' said he, kissing it; `it
is my master's ring!' And throwing the
match on the ground, he trampled on it
and extinguished it. The messenger
uttered a cry of joy and clapped his
hands. At this signal four soldiers of
the Serasker Koorshid suddenly appeared,
and Selim fell, pierced by five blows.
Each man had stabbed him separately,
and, intoxicated by their crime, though
still pale with fear, they sought all
over the cavern to discover if there was
any fear of fire, after which they
amused themselves by rolling on the bags
of gold. At this moment my mother seized
me in her arms, and hurrying noiselessly
along numerous turnings and windings
known only to ourselves, she arrived at
a private staircase of the kiosk, where
was a scene of frightful tumult and
confusion. The lower rooms were entirely
filled with Koorshid's troops; that is
to say, with our enemies. Just as my
mother was on the point of pushing open
a small door, we heard the voice of the
pasha sounding in a loud and threatening
tone. My mother applied her eye to the
crack between the boards; I luckily
found a small opening which afforded me
a view of the apartment and what was
passing within. `What do you want?' said
my father to some people who were
holding a paper inscribed with
characters of gold. `What we want,'
replied one, `is to communicate to you
the will of his highness. Do you see
this firman?' -- `I do,' said my father.
`Well, read it; he demands your head.'

"My father answered with a loud laugh,
which was more frightful than even
threats would have been, and he had not
ceased when two reports of a pistol were
heard; he had fired them himself, and
had killed two men. The Palikares, who
were prostrated at my father's feet, now
sprang up and fired, and the room was
filled with fire and smoke. At the same
instant the firing began on the other
side, and the balls penetrated the
boards all round us. Oh, how noble did
the grand vizier my father look at that
moment, in the midst of the flying
bullets, his scimitar in his hand, and
his face blackened with the powder of
his enemies! and how he terrified them,
even then, and made them fly before him!
`Selim, Selim!' cried he, `guardian of
the fire, do your duty!' -- `Selim is
dead,' replied a voice which seemed to
come from the depths of the earth, `and
you are lost, Ali!' At the same moment
an explosion was heard, and the flooring
of the room in which my father was
sitting was suddenly torn up and
shivered to atoms -- the troops were
firing from underneath. Three or four
Palikares fell with their bodies
literally ploughed with wounds.

"My father howled aloud, plunged his
fingers into the holes which the balls
had made, and tore up one of the planks
entire. But immediately through this
opening twenty more shots were fired,
and the flame, rushing up like fire from
the crater of a volcano, soon reached
the tapestry, which it quickly devoured.
In the midst of all this frightful
tumult and these terrific cries, two
reports, fearfully distinct, followed by
two shrieks more heartrending than all,
froze me with terror. These two shots
had mortally wounded my father, and it
was he who had given utterance to these
frightful cries. However, he remained
standing, clinging to a window. My
mother tried to force the door, that she
might go and die with him, but it was
fastened on the inside. All around him
were lying the Palikares, writhing in
convulsive agonies, while two or three
who were only slightly wounded were
trying to escape by springing from the
windows. At this crisis the whole
flooring suddenly gave way. my father
fell on one knee, and at the same moment
twenty hands were thrust forth, armed
with sabres, pistols, and poniards --
twenty blows were instantaneously
directed against one man, and my father
disappeared in a whirlwind of fire and
smoke kindled by these demons, and which
seemed like hell itself opening beneath
his feet. I felt myself fall to the
ground, my mother had fainted."

Haidee's arms fell by her side, and she
uttered a deep groan, at the same time
looking towards the count as if to ask
if he were satisfied with her obedience
to his commands. Monte Cristo arose and
approached her, took her hand, and said
to her in Romaic, "Calm yourself, my
dear child, and take courage in
remembering that there is a God who will
punish traitors."

"It is a frightful story, count," said
Albert, terrified at the paleness of
Haidee's countenance, "and I reproach
myself now for having been so cruel and
thoughtless in my request."

"Oh, it is nothing," said Monte Cristo.
Then, patting the young girl on the
head, he continued, "Haidee is very
courageous, and she sometimes even finds
consolation in the recital of her
misfortunes."

"Because, my lord." said Haidee eagerly,
"my miseries recall to me the
remembrance of your goodness."

Albert looked at her with curiosity, for
she had not yet related what he most
desired to know, -- how she had become
the slave of the count. Haidee saw at a
glance the same expression pervading the
countenances of her two auditors; she
exclaimed, `When my mother recovered her
senses we were before the serasker.
`Kill,' said she, `but spare the honor
of the widow of Ali.' -- `It is not to
me to whom you must address yourself,'
said Koorshid.

"`To whom, then?' -- `To your new
master.'

"`Who and where is he?' -- `He is here.'

"And Koorshid pointed out one who had
more than any contributed to the death
of my father," said Haidee, in a tone of
chastened anger. "Then," said Albert,
"you became the property of this man?"

"No," replied Haidee, "he did not dare
to keep us, so we were sold to some
slave-merchants who were going to
Constantinople. We traversed Greece, and
arrived half dead at the imperial gates.
They were surrounded by a crowd of
people, who opened a way for us to pass,
when suddenly my mother, having looked
closely at an object which was
attracting their attention, uttered a
piercing cry and fell to the ground,
pointing as she did so to a head which
was placed over the gates, and beneath
which were inscribed these words:

"`This is the head of Ali Tepelini Pasha
of Yanina.' I cried bitterly, and tried
to raise my mother from the earth, but
she was dead! I was taken to the
slave-market, and was purchased by a
rich Armenian. He caused me to be
instructed, gave me masters, and when I
was thirteen years of age he sold me to
the Sultan Mahmood."

"Of whom I bought her," said Monte
Cristo, "as I told you, Albert, with the
emerald which formed a match to the one
I had made into a box for the purpose of
holding my hashish pills."

"Oh, you are good, you are great, my
lord!" said Haidee, kissing the count's
hand, "and I am very fortunate in
belonging to such a master!" Albert
remained quite bewildered with all that
he had seen and heard. "Come, finish
your cup of coffee," said Monte Cristo;
"the history is ended."



Chapter 78 We hear From Yanina.

If Valentine could have seen the
trembling step and agitated countenance
of Franz when he quitted the chamber of
M. Noirtier, even she would have been
constrained to pity him. Villefort had
only just given utterance to a few
incoherent sentences, and then retired
to his study, where he received about
two hours afterwards the following
letter: --

"After all the disclosures which were
made this morning, M. Noirtier de
Villefort must see the utter
impossibility of any alliance being
formed between his family and that of M.
Franz d'Epinay. M. d'Epinay must say
that he is shocked and astonished that
M. de Villefort, who appeared to be
aware of all the circumstances detailed
this morning, should not have
anticipated him in this announcement."

No one who had seen the magistrate at
this moment, so thoroughly unnerved by
the recent inauspicious combination of
circumstances, would have supposed for
an instant that he had anticipated the
annoyance; although it certainly never
had occurred to him that his father
would carry candor, or rather rudeness,
so far as to relate such a history. And
in justice to Villefort, it must be
understood that M. Noirtier, who never
cared for the opinion of his son on any
subject, had always omitted to explain
the affair to Villefort, so that he had
all his life entertained the belief that
General de Quesnel, or the Baron
d'Epinay, as he was alternately styled,
according as the speaker wished to
identify him by his own family name, or
by the title which had been conferred on
him, fell the victim of assassination,
and not that he was killed fairly in a
duel. This harsh letter, coming as it
did from a man generally so polite and
respectful, struck a mortal blow at the
pride of Villefort. Hardly had he read
the letter, when his wife entered. The
sudden departure of Franz, after being
summoned by M. Noirtier, had so much
astonished every one, that the position
of Madame de Villefort, left alone with
the notary and the witnesses, became
every moment more embarrassing.
Determined to bear it no longer, she
arose and left the room; saying she
would go and make some inquiries into
the cause of his sudden disappearance.

M. de Villefort's communications on the
subject were very limited and concise;
he told her, in fact, that an
explanation had taken place between M.
Noirtier, M. d'Epinay, and himself, and
that the marriage of Valentine and Franz
would consequently be broken off. This
was an awkward and unpleasant thing to
have to report to those who were
awaiting her return in the chamber of
her father-in-law. She therefore
contented herself with saying that M.
Noirtier having at the commencement of
the discussion been attacked by a sort
of apoplectic fit, the affair would
necessarily be deferred for some days
longer. This news, false as it was
following so singularly in the train of
the two similar misfortunes which had so
recently occurred, evidently astonished
the auditors, and they retired without a
word. During this time Valentine, at
once terrified and happy, after having
embraced and thanked the feeble old man
for thus breaking with a single blow the
chain which she had been accustomed to
consider as irrefragable, asked leave to
retire to her own room, in order to
recover her composure. Noirtier looked
the permission which she solicited. But
instead of going to her own room,
Valentine, having once gained her
liberty, entered the gallery, and,
opening a small door at the end of it.
found herself at once in the garden.

In the midst of all the strange events
which had crowded one on the other, an
indefinable sentiment of dread had taken
possession of Valentine's mind. She
expected every moment that she should
see Morrel appear, pale and trembling,
to forbid the signing of the contract,
like the Laird of Ravenswood in "The
Bride of Lammermoor." It was high time
for her to make her appearance at the
gate, for Maximilian had long awaited
her coming. He had half guessed what was
going on when he saw Franz quit the
cemetery with M. de Villefort. He
followed M. d'Epinay, saw him enter,
afterwards go out, and then re-enter
with Albert and Chateau-Renaud. He had
no longer any doubts as to the nature of
the conference; he therefore quickly
went to the gate in the clover-patch,
prepared to hear the result of the
proceedings, and very certain that
Valentine would hasten to him the first
moment she should he set at liberty. He
was not mistaken; peering through the
crevices of the wooden partition, he
soon discovered the young girl, who cast
aside all her usual precautions and
walked at once to the barrier. The first
glance which Maximilian directed towards
her entirely reassured him, and the
first words she spoke made his heart
bound with delight.

"We are saved!" said Valentine. "Saved?"
repeated Morrel, not being able to
conceive such intense happiness; "by
whom?"

"By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel, pray
love him for all his goodness to us!"
Morrel swore to love him with all his
soul; and at that moment he could safely
promise to do so, for he felt as though
it were not enough to love him merely as
a friend or even as a father. "But tell
me, Valentine, how has it all been
effected? What strange means has he used
to compass this blessed end?"

Valentine was on the point of relating
all that had passed, but she suddenly
remembered that in doing so she must
reveal a terrible secret which concerned
others as well as her grandfather, and
she said, "At some future time I will
tell you all about it."

"But when will that be?"

"When I am your wife."

The conversation had now turned upon a
topic so pleasing to Morrel, that he was
ready to accede to anything that
Valentine thought fit to propose, and he
likewise felt that a piece of
intelligence such as he just heard ought
to be more than sufficient to content
him for one day. However, he would not
leave without the promise of seeing
Valentine again the next night.
Valentine promised all that Morrel
required of her, and certainly it was
less difficult now for her to believe
that she should marry Maximilian than it
was an hour ago to assure herself that
she should not marry Franz. During the
time occupied by the interview we have
just detailed, Madame de Villefort had
gone to visit M. Noirtier. The old man
looked at her with that stern and
forbidding expression with which he was
accustomed to receive her.

"Sir," said she, "it is superfluous for
me to tell you that Valentine's marriage
is broken off, since it was here that
the affair was concluded." Noirtier's
countenance remained immovable. "But one
thing I can tell you, of which I do not
think you are aware; that is, that I
have always been opposed to this
marriage, and that the contract was
entered into entirely without my consent
or approbation." Noirtier regarded his
daughter-in-law with the look of a man
desiring an explanation. "Now that this
marriage, which I know you so much
disliked, is done away with, I come to
you on an errand which neither M. de
Villefort nor Valentine could
consistently undertake." Noirtier's eyes
demanded the nature of her mission. "I
come to entreat you, sir," continued
Madame de Villefort, "as the only one
who has the right of doing so, inasmuch
as I am the only one who will receive no
personal benefit from the
transaction, -- I come to entreat you to
restore, not your love, for that she has
always possessed, but to restore your
fortune to your granddaughter."

There was a doubtful expression in
Noirtier's eyes; he was evidently trying
to discover the motive of this
proceeding, and he could not succeed in
doing so. "May I hope, sir," said Madame
de Villefort, "that your intentions
accord with my request?" Noirtier made a
sign that they did. "In that case, sir,"
rejoined Madame de Villefort, "I will
leave you overwhelmed with gratitude and
happiness at your prompt acquiescence to
my wishes." She then bowed to M.
Noirtier and retired.

The next day M. Noirtier sent for the
notary; the first will was torn up and a
second made, in which he left the whole
of his fortune to Valentine, on
condition that she should never be
separated from him. It was then
generally reported that Mademoiselle de
Villefort, the heiress of the marquis
and marchioness of Saint-Meran, had
regained the good graces of her
grandfather, and that she would
ultimately be in possession of an income
of 300,000 livres.

While all the proceedings relative to
the dissolution of the marriage-contract
were being carried on at the house of M.
de Villefort, Monte Cristo had paid his
visit to the Count of Morcerf, who, in
order to lose no time in responding to
M. Danglars' wishes, and at the same
time to pay all due deference to his
position in society, donned his uniform
of lieutenant-general, which he
ornamented with all his crosses, and
thus attired, ordered his finest horses
and drove to the Rue de la Chausse
d'Antin.

Danglars was balancing his monthly
accounts, and it was perhaps not the
most favorable moment for finding him in
his best humor. At the first sight of
his old friend, Danglars assumed his
majestic air, and settled himself in his
easy-chair. Morcerf, usually so stiff
and formal, accosted the banker in an
affable and smiling manner, and, feeling
sure that the overture he was about make
would be well received, he did not
consider it necessary to adopt any
manoeuvres in order to gain his end, but
went at once straight to the point.

"Well, baron," said he, "here I am at
last; some time has elapsed since our
plans were formed, and they are not yet
executed." Morcerf paused at these
words, quietly waiting till the cloud
should have dispersed which had gathered
on the brow of Danglars, and which he
attributed to his silence; but, on the
contrary, to his great surprise, it grew
darker and darker. "To what do you
allude, monsieur?" said Danglars; as if
he were trying in vain to guess at the
possible meaning of the general's words.

"Ah," said Morcerf, "I see you are a
stickler for forms, my dear sir, and you
would remind me that the ceremonial
rites should not be omitted. Ma foi, I
beg your pardon, but as I have but one
son, and it is the first time I have
ever thought of marrying him, I am still
serving my apprenticeship, you know;
come, I will reform." And Morcerf with a
forced smile arose, and, making a low
bow to M. Danglars, said: "Baron, I have
the honor of asking of you the hand of
Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars for my
son, the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf."

But Danglars, instead of receiving this
address in the favorable manner which
Morcerf had expected, knit his brow, and
without inviting the count, who was
still standing, to take a seat. he said:
"Monsieur, it will be necessary to
reflect before I give you an answer."

"To reflect?" said Morcerf, more and
more astonished; "have you not had
enough time for reflection during the
eight years which have elapsed since
this marriage was first discussed
between us?"

"Count," said the banker, "things are
constantly occurring in the world to
induce us to lay aside our most
established opinions, or at all events
to cause us to remodel them according to
the change of circumstances, which may
have placed affairs in a totally
different light to that in which we at
first viewed them."

"I do not understand you, baron," said
Morcerf.

"What I mean to say is this, sir, --
that during the last fortnight
unforeseen circumstances have
occurred" --

"Excuse me," said Morcerf, "but is it a
play we are acting?"

"A play?"

"Yes, for it is like one; pray let us
come more to the point, and endeavor
thoroughly to understand each other."

"That is quite my desire."

"You have seen M. de Monte Cristo have
you not?"

"I see him very often," said Danglars,
drawing himself up; "he is a particular
friend of mine."

"Well, in one of your late conversations
with him, you said that I appeared to be
forgetful and irresolute concerning this
marriage, did you not?"

"I did say so."

"Well, here I am, proving at once that I
am really neither the one nor the other,
by entreating you to keep your promise
on that score."

Danglars did not answer. "Have you so
soon changed your mind," added Morcerf,
"or have you only provoked my request
that you may have the pleasure of seeing
me humbled?" Danglars, seeing that if he
continued the conversation in the same
tone in which he had begun it, the whole
thing might turn out to his own
disadvantage, turned to Morcerf, and
said: "Count, you must doubtless be
surprised at my reserve, and I assure
you it costs me much to act in such a
manner towards you; but, believe me when
I say that imperative necessity has
imposed the painful task upon me."

"These are all so many empty words, my
dear sir," said Morcerf: "they might
satisfy a new acquaintance, but the
Comte de Morcerf does not rank in that
list; and when a man like him comes to
another, recalls to him his plighted
word, and this man fails to redeem the
pledge, he has at least a right to exact
from him a good reason for so doing."
Danglars was a coward, but did not wish
to appear so; he was piqued at the tone
which Morcerf had just assumed. "I am
not without a good reason for my
conduct," replied the banker.

"What do you mean to say?"

"I mean to say that I have a good
reason, but that it is difficult to
explain."

"You must be aware, at all events, that
it is impossible for me to understand
motives before they are explained to me;
but one thing at least is clear, which
is, that you decline allying yourself
with my family."

"No, sir," said Danglars; "I merely
suspend my decision, that is all."

"And do you really flatter yourself that
I shall yield to all your caprices, and
quietly and humbly await the time of
again being received into your good
graces?"

"Then, count, if you will not wait, we
must look upon these projects as if they
had never been entertained." The count
bit his lips till the blood almost
started, to prevent the ebullition of
anger which his proud and irritable
temper scarcely allowed him to restrain;
understanding, however, that in the
present state of things the laugh would
decidedly be against him, he turned from
the door, towards which he had been
directing his steps, and again
confronted the banker. A cloud settled
on his brow, evincing decided anxiety
and uneasiness, instead of the
expression of offended pride which had
lately reigned there. "My dear
Danglars," said Morcerf, "we have been
acquainted for many years, and
consequently we ought to make some
allowance for each other's failings. You
owe me an explanation, and really it is
but fair that I should know what
circumstance has occurred to deprive my
son of your favor."

"It is from no personal ill-feeling
towards the viscount, that is all I can
say, sir," replied Danglars, who resumed
his insolent manner as soon as he
perceived that Morcerf was a little
softened and calmed down. "And towards
whom do you bear this personal
ill-feeling, then?" said Morcerf,
turning pale with anger. The expression
of the count's face had not remained
unperceived by the banker; he fixed on
him a look of greater assurance than
before, and said: "You may, perhaps, be
better satisfied that I should not go
farther into particulars."

A tremor of suppressed rage shook the
whole frame of the count, and making a
violent effort over himself, he said: "I
have a right to insist on your giving me
an explanation. Is it Madame de Morcerf
who has displeased you? Is it my fortune
which you find insufficient? Is it
because my opinions differ from yours?"

"Nothing of the kind, sir," replied
Danglars: "if such had been the case, I
only should have been to blame, inasmuch
as I was aware of all these things when
I made the engagement. No, do not seek
any longer to discover the reason. I
really am quite ashamed to have been the
cause of your undergoing such severe
self-examination; let us drop the
subject, and adopt the middle course of
delay, which implies neither a rupture
nor an engagement. Ma foi, there is no
hurry. My daughter is only seventeen
years old, and your son twenty-one.
While we wait, time will be progressing,
events will succeed each other; things
which in the evening look dark and
obscure, appear but too clearly in the
light of morning, and sometimes the
utterance of one word, or the lapse of a
single day, will reveal the most cruel
calumnies."

"Calumnies, did you say, sir?" cried
Morcerf, turning livid with rage. "Does
any one dare to slander me?"

"Monsieur, I told you that I considered
it best to avoid all explanation."

"Then, sir, I am patiently to submit to
your refusal?"

"Yes, sir, although I assure you the
refusal is as painful for me to give as
it is for you to receive, for I had
reckoned on the honor of your alliance,
and the breaking off of a marriage
contract always injures the lady more
than the gentleman."

"Enough, sir," said Morcerf, "we will
speak no more on the subject." And
clutching his gloves in anger, he left
the apartment. Danglars observed that
during the whole conversation Morcerf
had never once dared to ask if it was on
his own account that Danglars recalled
his word. That evening he had a long
conference with several friends; and M.
Cavalcanti, who had remained in the
drawing-room with the ladies, was the
last to leave the banker's house.

The next morning, as soon as he awoke,
Danglars asked for the newspapers; they
were brought to him; he laid aside three
or four, and at last fixed on the
Impartial, the paper of which Beauchamp
was the chief editor. He hastily tore
off the cover, opened the journal with
nervous precipitation, passed
contemptuously over the Paris jottings,
and arriving at the miscellaneous
intelligence, stopped with a malicious
smile, at a paragraph headed "We hear
from Yanina." "Very good," observed
Danglars, after having read the
paragraph; "here is a little article on
Colonel Fernand, which, if I am not
mistaken, would render the explanation
which the Comte de Morcerf required of
me perfectly unnecessary."

At the same moment, that is, at nine
o'clock in the morning, Albert de
Morcerf, dressed in a black coat
buttoned up to his chin, might have been
seen walking with a quick and agitated
step in the direction of Monte Cristo's
house in the Champs Elysees. When he
presented himself at the gate the porter
informed him that the Count had gone out
about half an hour previously. "Did he
take Baptistin with him?"

"No, my lord."

"Call him, then; I wish to speak to
him." The concierge went to seek the
valet de chambre, and returned with him
in an instant.

"My good friend," said Albert, "I beg
pardon for my intrusion, but I was
anxious to know from your own mouth if
your master was really out or not."

"He is really out, sir," replied
Baptistin.

"Out, even to me?"

"I know how happy my master always is to
receive the vicomte," said Baptistin;
"and I should therefore never think of
including him in any general order."

"You are right; and now I wish to see
him on an affair of great importance. Do
you think it will be long before he
comes in?"

"No, I think not, for he ordered his
breakfast at ten o'clock."

"Well, I will go and take a turn in the
Champs Elysees, and at ten o'clock I
will return here; meanwhile, if the
count should come in, will you beg him
not to go out again without seeing me?"

"You may depend on my doing so, sir,"
said Baptistin.

Albert left the cab in which he had come
at the count's door, intending to take a
turn on foot. As he was passing the
Allee des Veuves, he thought he saw the
count's horses standing at Gosset's
shooting-gallery; he approached, and
soon recognized the coachman. "Is the
count shooting in the gallery?" said
Morcerf.

"Yes, sir," replied the coachman. While
he was speaking, Albert had heard the
report of two or three pistol-shots. He
entered, and on his way met the waiter.
"Excuse me, my lord," said the lad; "but
will you have the kindness to wait a
moment?"

"What for, Philip?" asked Albert, who,
being a constant visitor there, did not
understand this opposition to his
entrance.

"Because the person who is now in the
gallery prefers being alone, and never
practices in the presence of any one."

"Not even before you, Philip? Then who
loads his pistol?"

"His servant."

"A Nubian?"

"A negro."

"It is he, then."

"Do you know this gentleman?"

"Yes, and I am come to look for him; he
is a friend of mine."

"Oh, that is quite another thing, then.
I will go immediately and inform him of
your arrival." And Philip, urged by his
own curiosity, entered the gallery; a
second afterwards, Monte Cristo appeared
on the threshold. "I ask your pardon, my
dear count," said Albert, "for following
you here, and I must first tell you that
it was not the fault of your servants
that I did so; I alone am to blame for
the indiscretion. I went to your house,
and they told me you were out, but that
they expected you home at ten o'clock to
breakfast. I was walking about in order
to pass away the time till ten o'clock,
when I caught sight of your carriage and
horses."

"What you have just said induces me to
hope that you intend breakfasting with
me."

"No, thank you, I am thinking of other
things besides breakfast just now;
perhaps we may take that meal at a later
hour and in worse company."

"What on earth are you talking of?"

"I am to fight to-day."

"For what?"

"I am going to fight" --

"Yes, I understand that, but what is the
quarrel? People fight for all sorts of
reasons, you know."-

"I fight in the cause of honor."

"Ah, that is something serious."

"So serious, that I come to beg you to
render me a service."

"What is it?"

"To be my second."

"That is a serious matter, and we will
not discuss it here; let us speak of
nothing till we get home. Ali, bring me
some water." The count turned up his
sleeves, and passed into the little
vestibule where the gentlemen were
accustomed to wash their hands after
shooting. "Come in, my lord," said
Philip in a low tone, "and I will show
you something droll." Morcerf entered,
and in place of the usual target, he saw
some playing-cards fixed against the
wall. At a distance Albert thought it
was a complete suit, for he counted from
the ace to the ten. "Ah, ha," said
Albert, "I see you were preparing for a
game of cards."

"No," said the count, "I was making a
suit."

"How?" said Albert.

"Those are really aces and twos which
you see, but my shots have turned them
into threes, fives, sevens, eights,
nines, and tens." Albert approached. In
fact, the bullets had actually pierced
the cards in the exact places which the
painted signs would otherwise have
occupied, the lines and distances being
as regularly kept as if they had been
ruled with pencil. "Diable," said
Morcerf.

"What would you have, my dear viscount?"
said Monte Cristo, wiping his hands on
the towel which Ali had brought him; "I
must occupy my leisure moments in some
way or other. But come, I am waiting for
you." Both men entered Monte Cristo's
carriage, which in the course of a few
minutes deposited them safely at No. 30.
Monte Cristo took Albert into his study,
and pointing to a seat, placed another
for himself. "Now let us talk the matter
over quietly," said the count.

"You see I am perfectly composed," said
Albert.

"With whom are you going to fight?"

"With Beauchamp."

"One of your friends!"

"Of course; it is always with friends
that one fights."

"I suppose you have some cause of
quarrel?"

"I have."

"What has he done to you?"

"There appeared in his journal last
night -- but wait, and read for
yourself." And Albert handed over the
paper to the count, who read as
follows: --

"A correspondent at Yanina informs us of
a fact of which until now we had
remained in ignorance. The castle which
formed the protection of the town was
given up to the Turks by a French
officer named Fernand, in whom the grand
vizier, Ali Tepelini, had reposed the
greatest confidence."

"Well," said Monte Cristo, "what do you
see in that to annoy you?"

"What do I see in it?"

"Yes; what does it signify to you if the
castle of Yanina was given up by a
French officer?"

"It signifies to my father, the Count of
Morcerf, whose Christian name is
Fernand!"

"Did your father serve under Ali Pasha?"

"Yes; that is to say, he fought for the
independence of the Greeks, and hence
arises the calumny."

"Oh, my dear viscount, do talk reason!"

"I do not desire to do otherwise."

"Now, just tell me who the devil should
know in France that the officer Fernand
and the Count of Morcerf are one and the
same person? and who cares now about
Yanina, which was taken as long ago as
the year 1822 or 1823?"

"That just shows the meanness of this
slander. They have allowed all this time
to elapse, and then all of a sudden rake
up events which have been forgotten to
furnish materials for scandal, in order
to tarnish the lustre of our high
position. I inherit my father's name,
and I do not choose that the shadow of
disgrace should darken it. I am going to
Beauchamp, in whose journal this
paragraph appears, and I shall insist on
his retracting the assertion before two
witnesses."

"Beauchamp will never retract."

"Then he must fight."

"No he will not, for he will tell you,
what is very true, that perhaps there
were fifty officers in the Greek army
bearing the same name."

"We will fight, nevertheless. I will
efface that blot on my father's
character. My father, who was such a
brave soldier, whose career was so
brilliant" --

"Oh, well, he will add, `We are
warranted in believing that this Fernand
is not the illustrious Count of Morcerf,
who also bears the same Christian
name.'"

"I am determined not to be content with
anything short of an entire
retractation."

"And you intend to make him do it in the
presence of two witnesses, do you?"

"Yes."

"You do wrong."

"Which means, I suppose, that you refuse
the service which I asked of you?"

"You know my theory regarding duels; I
told you my opinion on that subject, if
you remember, when we were at Rome."

"Nevertheless, my dear count, I found
you this morning engaged in an
occupation but little consistent with
the notions you profess to entertain."

"Because, my dear fellow, you understand
one must never be eccentric. If one's
lot is cast among fools, it is necessary
to study folly. I shall perhaps find
myself one day called out by some
harebrained scamp, who has no more real
cause of quarrel with me than you have
with Beauchamp; he may take me to task
for some foolish trifle or other, he
will bring his witnesses, or will insult
me in some public place, and I am
expected to kill him for all that."

"You admit that you would fight, then?
Well, if so, why do you object to my
doing so?"

"I do not say that you ought not to
fight, I only say that a duel is a
serious thing, and ought not to be
undertaken without due reflection."

"Did he reflect before he insulted my
father?"

"If he spoke hastily, and owns that he
did so, you ought to be satisfied."

"Ah, my dear count, you are far too
indulgent."

"And you are far too exacting.
Supposing, for instance, and do not be
angry at what I am going to say" --

"Well."

"Supposing the assertion to be really
true?"

"A son ought not to submit to such a
stain on his father's honor."

"Ma foi, we live in times when there is
much to which we must submit."

"That is precisely the fault of the
age."

"And do you undertake to reform it?"

"Yes, as far as I am personally
concerned."

"Well, you the indeed exacting, my dear
fellow!"

"Yes, I own it."

"Are you quite impervious to good
advice?"

"Not when it comes from a friend."

"And do you account me that title?"

"Certainly I do."

"Well, then, before going to Beauchamp
with your witnesses, seek further
information on the subject."

"From whom?"

"From Haidee."

"Why, what can be the use of mixing a
woman up in the affair? -- what can she
do in it?"

"She can declare to you, for example,
that your father had no hand whatever in
the defeat and death of the vizier; or
if by chance he had, indeed, the
misfortune to" --

"I have told you, my dear count, that I
would not for one moment admit of such a
proposition."

"You reject this means of information,
then?"

"I do -- most decidedly."

"Then let me offer one more word of
advice."

"Do so, then, but let it be the last."

"You do not wish to hear it, perhaps?"

"On the contrary, I request it."

"Do not take any witnesses with you when
you go to Beauchamp -- visit him alone."

"That would be contrary to all custom."

"Your case is not an ordinary one."

"And what is your reason for advising me
to go alone?"

"Because then the affair will rest
between you and Beauchamp."

"Explain yourself."

"I will do so. If Beauchamp be disposed
to retract, you ought at least to give
him the opportunity of doing it of his
own free will, -- the satisfaction to
you will be the same. If, on the
contrary, he refuses to do so, it will
then be quite time enough to admit two
strangers into your secret."

"They will not be strangers, they will
be friends."

"Ah, but the friends of to-day are the
enemies of to-morrow; Beauchamp, for
instance."

"So you recommend" --

"I recommend you to be prudent."

"Then you advise me to go alone to
Beauchamp?"

"I do, and I will tell you why. When you
wish to obtain some concession from a
man's self-love, you must avoid even the
appearance of wishing to wound it."

"I believe you are right."

"I am glad of it."

"Then I will go alone."

"Go; but you would do better still by
not going at all."

"That is impossible."

"Do so, then; it will be a wiser plan
than the first which you proposed."

"But if, in spite of all my precautions,
I am at last obliged to fight, will you
not be my second?"

"My dear viscount," said Monte Cristo
gravely, "you must have seen before
to-day that at all times and in all
places I have been at your disposal, but
the service which you have just demanded
of me is one which it is out of my power
to render you."

"Why?"

"Perhaps you may know at some future
period, and in the mean time I request
you to excuse my declining to put you in
possession of my reasons."

"Well, I will have Franz and
Chateau-Renaud; they will be the very
men for it."

"Do so, then."

"But if I do fight, you will surely not
object to giving me a lesson or two in
shooting and fencing?"

"That, too, is impossible."

"What a singular being you are! -- you
will not interfere in anything."

"You are right -- that is the principle
on which I wish to act."

"We will say no more about it, then.
Good-by, count." Morcerf took his hat,
and left the room. He found his carriage
at the door, and doing his utmost to
restrain his anger he went at once to
find Beauchamp, who was in his office.
It was a gloomy, dusty-looking
apartment, such as journalists' offices
have always been from time immemorial.
The servant announced M. Albert de
Morcerf. Beauchamp repeated the name to
himself, as though he could scarcely
believe that he had heard aright, and
then gave orders for him to be admitted.
Albert entered. Beauchamp uttered an
exclamation of surprise on seeing his
friend leap over and trample under foot
all the newspapers which were strewed
about the room. "This way, this way, my
dear Albert!" said he, holding out his
hand to the young man. "Are you out of
your senses, or do you come peaceably to
take breakfast with me? Try and find a
seat -- there is one by that geranium,
which is the only thing in the room to
remind me that there are other leaves in
the world besides leaves of paper."

"Beauchamp," said Albert, "it is of your
journal that I come to speak."

"Indeed? What do you wish to say about
it?"

"I desire that a statement contained in
it should be rectified."

"To what do you refer? But pray sit
down."

"Thank you," said Albert, with a cold
and formal bow.

"Will you now have the kindness to
explain the nature of the statement
which has displeased you?"

"An announcement has been made which
implicates the honor of a member of my
family."

"What is it?" said Beauchamp, much
surprised; "surely you must be
mistaken."

"The story sent you from Yanina."

"Yanina?"

"Yes; really you appear to be totally
ignorant of the cause which brings me
here."

"Such is really the case, I assure you,
upon my honor! Baptiste, give me
yesterday's paper," cried Beauchamp.

"Here, I have brought mine with me,"
replied Albert.

Beauchamp took the paper, and read the
article to which Albert pointed in an
undertone. "You see it is a serious
annoyance," said Morcerf, when Beauchamp
had finished the perusal of the
paragraph. "Is the officer referred to a
relation of yours, then?" demanded the
journalist.

"Yes," said Albert, blushing.

"Well, what do you wish me to do for
you?" said Beauchamp mildly.

"My dear Beauchamp, I wish you to
contradict this statement." Beauchamp
looked at Albert with a benevolent
expression.

"Come," said he, "this matter will want
a good deal of talking over; a
retractation is always a serious thing,
you know. Sit down, and I will read it
again." Albert resumed his seat, and
Beauchamp read, with more attention than
at first, the lines denounced by his
friend. "Well," said Albert in a
determined tone, "you see that your
paper his insulted a member of my
family, and I insist on a retractation
being made."

"You insist?"

"Yes, I insist."

"Permit me to remind you that you are
not in the Chamber, my dear Viscount."

"Nor do I wish to be there," replied the
young man, rising. "I repeat that I am
determined to have the announcement of
yesterday contradicted. You have known
me long enough," continued Albert,
biting his lips convulsively, for he saw
that Beauchamp's anger was beginning to
rise, -- "you have been my friend, and
therefore sufficiently intimate with me
to be aware that I am likely to maintain
my resolution on this point."

"If I have been your friend, Morcerf,
your present manner of speaking would
almost lead me to forget that I ever
bore that title. But wait a moment, do
not let us get angry, or at least not
yet. You are irritated and vexed -- tell
me how this Fernand is related to you?"

"He is merely my father," said Albert --
"M. Fernand Mondego, Count of Morcerf,
an old soldier who has fought in twenty
battles and whose honorable scars they
would denounce as badges of disgrace."

"Is it your father?" said Beauchamp;
"that is quite another thing. Then can
well understand your indignation, my
dear Albert. I will look at it again;"
and he read the paragraph for the third
time, laying a stress on each word as he
proceeded. "But the paper nowhere
identifies this Fernand with your
father."

"No; but the connection will be seen by
others, and therefore I will have the
article contradicted." At the words "I
will," Beauchamp steadily raised his
eyes to Albert's countenance, and then
as gradually lowering them, he remained
thoughtful for a few moments. "You will
retract this assertion, will you not,
Beauchamp?" said Albert with increased
though stifled anger.

"Yes," replied Beauchamp.

"Immediately?" said Albert.

"When I am convinced that the statement
is false."

"What?"

"The thing is worth looking into, and I
will take pains to investigate the
matter thoroughly."

"But what is there to investigate, sir?"
said Albert, enraged beyond measure at
Beauchamp's last remark. "If you do not
believe that it is my father, say so
immediately; and if, on the contrary,
you believe it to be him, state your
reasons for doing so." Beauchamp looked
at Albert with the smile which was so
peculiar to him, and which in its
numerous modifications served to express
every varied emotion of his mind. "Sir,"
replied he, "if you came to me with the
idea of demanding satisfaction, you
should have gone at once to the point,
and not have entertained me with the
idle conversation to which I have been
patiently listening for the last half
hour. Am I to put this construction on
your visit?"

"Yes, if you will not consent to retract
that infamous calumny."

"Wait a moment -- no threats, if you
please, M. Fernand Mondego, Vicomte de
Morcerf; I never allow them from my
enemies, and therefore shall not put up
with them from my friends. You insist on
my contradicting the article relating to
General Fernand, an article with which,
I assure you on my word of honor, I had
nothing whatever to do?"

"Yes, I insist on it," said Albert,
whose mind was beginning to get
bewildered with the excitement of his
feelings.

"And if I refuse to retract, you wish to
fight, do you?" said Beauchamp in a calm
tone.

"Yes," replied Albert, raising his
voice.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "here is my
answer, my dear sir. The article was not
inserted by me -- I was not even aware
of it; but you have, by the step you
have taken, called my attention to the
paragraph in question, and it will
remain until it shall be either
contradicted or confirmed by some one
who has a right to do so."

"Sir," said Albert, rising, "I will do
myself the honor of sending my seconds
to you, and you will be kind enough to
arrange with them the place of meeting
and the weapons."

"Certainly, my dear sir."

"And this evening, if you please, or
to-morrow at the latest, we will meet."

"No, no, I will be on the ground at the
proper time; but in my opinion (and I
have a right to dictate the
preliminaries, as it is I who have
received the provocation) -- in my
opinion the time ought not to be yet. I
know you to be well skilled in the
management of the sword, while I am only
moderately so; I know, too, that you are
a good marksman -- there we are about
equal. I know that a duel between us two
would be a serious affair, because you
are brave, and I am brave also. I do not
therefore wish either to kill you, or to
be killed myself without a cause. Now, I
am going to put a question to you, and
one very much to the purpose too. Do you
insist on this retractation so far as to
kill me if I do not make it, although I
have repeated more than once, and
affirmed on my honor, that I was
ignorant of the thing with which you
charge me, and although I still declare
that it is impossible for any one but
you to recognize the Count of Morcerf
under the name of Fernand?"

"I maintain my original resolution."

"Very well, my dear sir; then I consent
to cut throats with you. But I require
three weeks' preparation; at the end of
that time I shall come and say to you,
`The assertion is false, and I retract
it,' or `The assertion is true,' when I
shall immediately draw the sword from
its sheath, or the pistols from the
case, whichever you please."

"Three weeks!" cried Albert; "they will
pass as slowly as three centuries when I
am all the time suffering dishonor."

"Had you continued to remain on amicable
terms with me, I should have said,
`Patience, my friend;' but you have
constituted yourself my enemy, therefore
I say, `What does that signify to me,
sir?'"

"Well, let it be three weeks then," said
Morcerf; "but remember, at the
expiration of that time no delay or
subterfuge will justify you in" --

"M. Albert de Morcerf," said Beauchamp,
rising in his turn, "I cannot throw you
out of window for three weeks -- that is
to say, for twenty-four days to come --
nor have you any right to split my skull
open till that time has elapsed. To-day
is the 29th of August; the 21st of
September will, therefore, be the
conclusion of the term agreed on, and
till that time arrives -- and it is the
advice of a gentleman which I am about
to give you -- till then we will refrain
from growling and barking like two dogs
chained within sight of each other."
When he had concluded his speech,
Beauchamp bowed coldly to Albert, turned
his back upon him, and went to the
press-room.

Albert vented his anger on a pile of
newspapers, which he sent flying all
over the office by switching them
violently with his stick; after which
ebullition he departed -- not, however,
without walking several times to the
door of the press-room, as if he had
half a mind to enter. While Albert was
lashing the front of his carriage in the
same manner that he had the newspapers
which were the innocent agents of his
discomfiture, as he was crossing the
barrier he perceived Morrel, who was
walking with a quick step and a bright
eye. He was passing the Chinese Baths,
and appeared to have come from the
direction of the Porte Saint-Martin, and
to be going towards the Madeleine. "Ah,"
said Morcerf, "there goes a happy man!"
And it so happened Albert was not
mistaken in his opinion.



Chapter 79 The Lemonade.

Morrel was, in fact, very happy. M.
Noirtier had just sent for him, and he
was in such haste to know the reason of
his doing so that he had not stopped to
take a cab, placing infinitely more
dependence on his own two legs than on
the four legs of a cab-horse. He had
therefore set off at a furious rate from
the Rue Meslay, and was hastening with
rapid strides in the direction of the
Faubourg Saint-Honore. Morrel advanced
with a firm, manly tread, and poor
Barrois followed him as he best might.
Morrel was only thirty-one, Barrois was
sixty years of age; Morrel was deeply in
love, and Barrois was dying with heat
and exertion. These two men, thus
opposed in age and interests, resembled
two parts of a triangle, presenting the
extremes of separation, yet nevertheless
possessing their point of union. This
point of union was Noirtier, and it was
he who had just sent for Morrel, with
the request that the latter would lose
no time in coming to him -- a command
which Morrel obeyed to the letter, to
the great discomfiture of Barrois. On
arriving at the house, Morrel was not
even out of breath, for love lends wings
to our desires; but Barrois, who had
long forgotten what it was to love, was
sorely fatigued by the expedition he had
been constrained to use.

The old servant introduced Morrel by a
private entrance, closed the door of the
study, and soon the rustling of a dress
announced the arrival of Valentine. She
looked marvellously beautiful in her
deep mourning dress, and Morrel
experienced such intense delight in
gazing upon her that he felt as if he
could almost have dispensed with the
conversation of her grandfather. But the
easy-chair of the old man was heard
rolling along the floor, and he soon
made his appearance in the room.
Noirtier acknowledged by a look of
extreme kindness and benevolence the
thanks which Morrel lavished on him for
his timely intervention on behalf of
Valentine and himself -- an intervention
which had saved them from despair.
Morrel then cast on the invalid an
interrogative look as to the new favor
which he designed to bestow on him.
Valentine was sitting at a little
distance from them, timidly awaiting the
moment when she should be obliged to
speak. Noirtier fixed his eyes on her.
"Am I to say what you told me?" asked
Valentine. Noirtier made a sign that she
was to do so.

"Monsieur Morrel," said Valentine to the
young man, who was regarding her with
the most intense interest, "my
grandfather, M. Noirtier, had a thousand
things to say, which he told me three
days ago; and now, he has sent for you,
that I may repeat them to you. I will
repeat them, then; and since he has
chosen me as his interpreter, I will be
faithful to the trust, and will not
alter a word of his intentions."

"Oh, I am listening with the greatest
impatience," replied the young man;
"speak, I beg of you." Valentine cast
down her eyes; this was a good omen for
Morrel, for he knew that nothing but
happiness could have the power of thus
overcoming Valentine. "My grandfather
intends leaving this house," said she,
"and Barrois is looking out suitable
apartments for him in another."

"But you, Mademoiselle de Villefort, --
you, who are necessary to M. Noirtier's
happiness" --

"I?" interrupted Valentine; "I shall not
leave my grandfather, -- that is an
understood thing between us. My
apartment will be close to his. Now, M.
de Villefort must either give his
consent to this plan or his refusal; in
the first case, I shall leave directly,
and in the second, I shall wait till I
am of age, which will be in about ten
months. Then I shall be free, I shall
have an independent fortune, and" --

"And what?" demanded Morrel.

"And with my grandfather's consent I
shall fulfil the promise which I have
made you." Valentine pronounced these
last few words in such a low tone, that
nothing but Morrel's intense interest in
what she was saying could have enabled
him to hear them. "Have I not explained
your wishes, grandpapa?" said Valentine,
addressing Noirtier. "Yes," looked the
old man. -- "Once under my grandfather's
roof, M. Morrel can visit me in the
presence of my good and worthy
protector, if we still feel that the
union we contemplated will be likely to
insure our future comfort and happiness;
in that case I shall expect M. Morrel to
come and claim me at my own hands. But,
alas, I have heard it said that hearts
inflamed by obstacles to their desire
grew cold in time of security; I trust
we shall never find it so in our
experience!"

"Oh," cried Morrel, almost tempted to
throw himself on his knees before
Noirtier and Valentine, and to adore
them as two superior beings, "what have
I ever done in my life to merit such
unbounded happiness?"

"Until that time," continued the young
girl in a calm and self-possessed tone
of voice, "we will conform to
circumstances, and be guided by the
wishes of our friends, so long as those
wishes do not tend finally to separate
us; in a word, and I repeat it, because
it expresses all I wish to convey, -- we
will wait."

"And I swear to make all the sacrifices
which this word imposes, sir," said
Morrel, "not only with resignation, but
with cheerfulness."

"Therefore," continued Valentine,
looking playfully at Maximilian, "no
more inconsiderate actions -- no more
rash projects; for you surely would not
wish to compromise one who from this day
regards herself as destined, honorably
and happily, to bear your name?"

Morrel looked obedience to her commands.
Noirtier regarded the lovers with a look
of ineffable tenderness, while Barrois,
who had remained in the room in the
character of a man privileged to know
everything that passed, smiled on the
youthful couple as he wiped the
perspiration from his bald forehead.
"How hot you look, my good Barrois,"
said Valentine.

"Ah, I have been running very fast,
mademoiselle, but I must do M. Morrel
the justice to say that he ran still
faster." Noirtier directed their
attention to a waiter, on which was
placed a decanter containing lemonade
and a glass. The decanter was nearly
full, with the exception of a little,
which had been already drunk by M.
Noirtier.

"Come, Barrois," said the young girl,
"take some of this lemonade; I see you
are coveting a good draught of it."

"The fact is, mademoiselle," said
Barrois, "I am dying with thirst, and
since you are so kind as to offer it me,
I cannot say I should at all object to
drinking your health in a glass of it."

"Take some, then, and come back
immediately." Barrois took away the
waiter, and hardly was he outside the
door, which in his haste he forgot to
shut, than they saw him throw back his
head and empty to the very dregs the
glass which Valentine had filled.
Valentine and Morrel were exchanging
their adieux in the presence of Noirtier
when a ring was heard at the door-bell.
It was the signal of a visit. Valentine
looked at her watch.

"It is past noon," said she, "and to-day
is Saturday; I dare say it is the
doctor, grandpapa." Noirtier looked his
conviction that she was right in her
supposition. "He will come in here, and
M. Morrel had better go, -- do you not
think so, grandpapa?"

"Yes," signed the old man.

"Barrois," cried Valentine, "Barrois!"

"I am coming, mademoiselle," replied he.
"Barrois will open the door for you,"
said Valentine, addressing Morrel. "And
now remember one thing, Monsieur
Officer, that my grandfather commands
you not to take any rash or ill-advised
step which would be likely to compromise
our happiness."

"I promised him to wait," replied
Morrel; "and I will wait."

At this moment Barrois entered. "Who
rang?" asked Valentine.

"Doctor d'Avrigny," said Barrois,
staggering as if he would fall.

"What is the matter, Barrois?" said
Valentine. The old man did not answer,
but looked at his master with wild
staring eyes, while with his cramped
hand he grasped a piece of furniture to
enable him to stand upright. "He is
going to fall!" cried Morrel. The rigors
which had attacked Barrois gradually
increased, the features of the face
became quite altered, and the convulsive
movement of the muscles appeared to
indicate the approach of a most serious
nervous disorder. Noirtier, seeing
Barrois in this pitiable condition,
showed by his looks all the various
emotions of sorrow and sympathy which
can animate the heart of man. Barrois
made some steps towards his master.

"Ah, sir," said he, "tell me what is the
matter with me. I am suffering -- I
cannot see. A thousand fiery darts are
piercing my brain. Ah, don't touch me,
pray don't." By this time his haggard
eyes had the appearance of being ready
to start from their sockets; his head
fell back, and the lower extremities of
the body began to stiffen. Valentine
uttered a cry of horror; Morrel took her
in his arms, as if to defend her from
some unknown danger. "M. d'Avrigny, M.
d'Avrigny," cried she, in a stifled
voice. "Help, help!" Barrois turned
round and with a great effort stumbled a
few steps, then fell at the feet of
Noirtier, and resting his hand on the
knee of the invalid, exclaimed, "My
master, my good master!" At this moment
M. de Villefort, attracted by the noise,
appeared on the threshold. Morrel
relaxed his hold of Valentine, and
retreating to a distant corner of the
room remained half hidden behind a
curtain. Pale as if he had been gazing
on a serpent, he fixed his terrified eye
on the agonized sufferer.

Noirtier, burning with impatience and
terror, was in despair at his utter
inability to help his old domestic, whom
he regarded more in the light of a
friend than a servant. One might by the
fearful swelling of the veins of his
forehead and the contraction of the
muscles round the eye, trace the
terrible conflict which was going on
between the living energetic mind and
the inanimate and helpless body.
Barrois, his features convulsed, his
eyes suffused with blood, and his head
thrown back, was lying at full length,
beating the floor with his hands, while
his legs had become so stiff, that they
looked as if they would break rather
than bend. A slight appearance of foam
was visible around the mouth, and he
breathed painfully, and with extreme
difficulty.

Villefort seemed stupefied with
astonishment, and remained gazing
intently on the scene before him without
uttering a word. He had not seen Morrel.
After a moment of dumb contemplation,
during which his face became pale and
his hair seemed to stand on end, he
sprang towards the door, crying out,
"Doctor, doctor! come instantly, pray
come!"

"Madame, madame!" cried Valentine,
calling her step-mother, and running
up-stairs to meet her; "come quick,
quick! -- and bring your bottle of
smelling-salts with you."

"What is the matter?" said Madame de
Villefort in a harsh and constrained
tone.

"Oh, come, come!"

"But where is the doctor?" exclaimed
Villefort; "where is he?" Madame de
Villefort now deliberately descended the
staircase. In one hand she held her
handkerchief, with which she appeared to
be wiping her face, and in the other a
bottle of English smelling-salts. Her
first look on entering the room was at
Noirtier, whose face, independent of the
emotion which such a scene could not
fail of producing, proclaimed him to be
in possession of his usual health; her
second glance was at the dying man. She
turned pale, and her eye passed quickly
from the servant and rested on the
master.

"In the name of heaven, madame," said
Villefort, "where is the doctor? He was
with you just now. You see this is a fit
of apoplexy, and he might be saved if he
could but be bled!"

"Has he eaten anything lately?" asked
Madame de Villefort, eluding her
husband's question. "Madame," replied
Valentine, "he has not even breakfasted.
He has been running very fast on an
errand with which my grandfather charged
him, and when he returned, took nothing
but a glass of lemonade."

"Ah," said Madame de Villefort, "why did
he not take wine? Lemonade was a very
bad thing for him."

"Grandpapa's bottle of lemonade was
standing just by his side; poor Barrois
was very thirsty, and was thankful to
drink anything he could find." Madame de
Villefort started. Noirtier looked at
her with a glance of the most profound
scrutiny. "He has such a short neck,"
said she. "Madame," said Villefort, "I
ask where is M. d'Avrigny? In God's name
answer me!"

"He is with Edward, who is not quite
well," replied Madame de Villefort, no
longer being able to avoid answering.

Villefort rushed up-stairs to fetch him.
"Take this," said Madame de Villefort,
giving her smelling-bottle to Valentine.
"They will, no doubt, bleed him;
therefore I will retire, for I cannot
endure the sight of blood;" and she
followed her husband up-stairs. Morrel
now emerged from his hiding-place, where
he had remained quite unperceived, so
great had been the general confusion.
"Go away as quick as you can,
Maximilian," said Valentine, "and stay
till I send for you. Go."

Morrel looked towards Noirtier for
permission to retire. The old man, who
had preserved all his usual coolness,
made a sign to him to do so. The young
man pressed Valentine's hand to his
lips, and then left the house by a back
staircase. At the same moment that he
quitted the room, Villefort and the
doctor entered by an opposite door.
Barrois was now showing signs of
returning consciousness. The crisis
seemed past, a low moaning was heard,
and he raised himself on one knee.
D'Avrigny and Villefort laid him on a
couch. "What do you prescribe, doctor?"
demanded Villefort. "Give me some water
and ether. You have some in the house,
have you not?"

"Yes."

"Send for some oil of turpentine and
tartar emetic."

Villefort immediately despatched a
messenger. "And now let every one
retire."

"Must I go too?" asked Valentine
timidly.

"Yes, mademoiselle, you especially,"
replied the doctor abruptly.

Valentine looked at M. d'Avrigny with
astonishment, kissed her grandfather on
the forehead, and left the room. The
doctor closed the door after her with a
gloomy air. "Look, look, doctor," said
Villefort, "he is quite coming round
again; I really do not think, after all,
it is anything of consequence." M.
d'Avrigny answered by a melancholy
smile. "How do you feel, Barrois?" asked
he. "A little better, sir."

"Will you drink some of this ether and
water?"

"I will try; but don't touch me."

"Why not?"

"Because I feel that if you were only to
touch me with the tip of your finger the
fit would return."

"Drink."

Barrois took the glass, and, raising it
to his purple lips, took about half of
the liquid offered him. "Where do you
suffer?" asked the doctor.

"Everywhere. I feel cramps over my whole
body."

"Do you find any dazzling sensation
before the eyes?"

"Yes."

"Any noise in the ears?"

"Frightful."

"When did you first feel that?"

"Just now."

"Suddenly?"

"Yes, like a clap of thunder."

"Did you feel nothing of it yesterday or
the day before?"

"Nothing."

"No drowsiness?"

"None."

"What have you eaten to-day?"

"I have eaten nothing; I only drank a
glass of my master's lemonade -- that's
all;" and Barrois turned towards
Noirtier, who, immovably fixed in his
arm-chair, was contemplating this
terrible scene without allowing a word
or a movement to escape him.

"Where is this lemonade?" asked the
doctor eagerly.

"Down-stairs in the decanter."

"Whereabouts downstairs?"

"In the kitchen."

"Shall I go and fetch it, doctor?"
inquired Villefort.

"No, stay here and try to make Barrois
drink the rest of this glass of ether
and water. I will go myself and fetch
the lemonade." D'Avrigny bounded towards
the door, flew down the back staircase,
and almost knocked down Madame de
Villefort, in his haste, who was herself
going down to the kitchen. She cried
out, but d'Avrigny paid no attention to
her; possessed with but one idea, he
cleared the last four steps with a
bound, and rushed into the kitchen,
where he saw the decanter about three
parts empty still standing on the
waiter, where it had been left. He
darted upon it as an eagle would seize
upon its prey. Panting with loss of
breath, he returned to the room he had
just left. Madame de Villefort was
slowly ascending the steps which led to
her room. "Is this the decanter you
spoke of?" asked d'Avrigny.

"Yes, doctor."

"Is this the same lemonade of which you
partook?"

"I believe so."

"What did it taste like?"

"It had a bitter taste."

The doctor poured some drops of the
lemonade into the palm of his hand, put
his lips to it, and after having rinsed
his mouth as a man does when he is
tasting wine, he spat the liquor into
the fireplace.

"It is no doubt the same," said he. "Did
you drink some too, M. Noirtier?"

"Yes."

"And did you also discover a bitter
taste?"

"Yes."

"Oh, doctor," cried Barrois, "the fit is
coming on again. Oh, do something for
me." The doctor flew to his patient.
"That emetic, Villefort -- see if it is
coming." Villefort sprang into the
passage, exclaiming, "The emetic! the
emetic! -- is it come yet?" No one
answered. The most profound terror
reigned throughout the house. "If I had
anything by means of which I could
inflate the lungs," said d'Avrigny,
looking around him, "perhaps I might
prevent suffocation. But there is
nothing which would do -- nothing!" "Oh,
sir," cried Barrois, "are you going to
let me die without help? Oh, I am dying!
Oh, save me!"

"A pen, a pen!" said the doctor. There
was one lying on the table; he
endeavored to introduce it into the
mouth of the patient, who, in the midst
of his convulsions, was making vain
attempts to vomit; but the jaws were so
clinched that the pen could not pass
them. This second attack was much more
violent than the first, and he had
slipped from the couch to the ground,
where he was writhing in agony. The
doctor left him in this paroxysm,
knowing that he could do nothing to
alleviate it, and, going up to Noirtier,
said abruptly, "How do you find
yourself? -- well?"

"Yes."

"Have you any weight on the chest; or
does your stomach feel light and
comfortable -- eh?"

"Yes."

"Then you feel pretty much as you
generally do after you have had the dose
which I am accustomed to give you every
Sunday?"

"Yes."

"Did Barrois make your lemonade?"

"Yes."

"Was it you who asked him to drink some
of it?"

"No."

"Was it M. de Villefort?"

"No."

"Madame?"

"No."

"It was your granddaughter, then, was it
not?"

"Yes." A groan from Barrois, accompanied
by a yawn which seemed to crack the very
jawbones, attracted the attention of M.
d'Avrigny; he left M. Noirtier, and
returned to the sick man. "Barrois,"
said the doctor, "can you speak?"
Barrois muttered a few unintelligible
words. "Try and make an effort to do so,
my good man." said d'Avrigny. Barrois
reopened his bloodshot eyes. "Who made
the lemonade?"

"I did."

"Did you bring it to your master
directly it was made?"

"No."

"You left it somewhere, then, in the
meantime?"

"Yes; I left it in the pantry, because I
was called away."

"Who brought it into this room, then?"

"Mademoiselle Valentine." D'Avrigny
struck his forehead with his hand.
"Gracious heaven," exclaimed he.
"Doctor, doctor!" cried Barrois, who
felt another fit coming.

"Will they never bring that emetic?"
asked the doctor.

"Here is a glass with one already
prepared," said Villefort, entering the
room.

"Who prepared it?"

"The chemist who came here with me."

"Drink it," said the doctor to Barrois.
"Impossible, doctor; it is too late; my
throat is closing up. I am choking! Oh,
my heart! Ah, my head! -- Oh, what
agony! -- Shall I suffer like this
long?"

"No, no, friend," replied the doctor,
"you will soon cease to suffer."

"Ah, I understand you," said the unhappy
man. "My God, have mercy upon me!" and,
uttering a fearful cry, Barrois fell
back as if he had been struck by
lightning. D'Avrigny put his hand to his
heart, and placed a glass before his
lips.

"Well?" said Villefort. "Go to the
kitchen and get me some syrup of
violets." Villefort went immediately.
"Do not be alarmed, M. Noirtier," said
d'Avrigny; "I am going to take my
patient into the next room to bleed him;
this sort of attack is very frightful to
witness."

And taking Barrois under the arms, he
dragged him into an adjoining room; but
almost immediately he returned to fetch
the lemonade. Noirtier closed lids right
eye. "You want Valentine, do you not? I
will tell them to send her to you."
Villefort returned, and d'Avrigny met
him in the passage. "Well, how is he
now?" asked he. "Come in here," said
d'Avrigny, and he took him into the
chamber where the sick man lay. "Is he
still in a fit?" said the procureur.

"He is dead."

Villefort drew back a few steps, and,
clasping his hands, exclaimed, with real
amazement and sympathy, "Dead? -- and so
soon too!"

"Yes, it is very soon," said the doctor,
looking at the corpse before him; "but
that ought not to astonish you; Monsieur
and Madame de Saint-Meran died as soon.
People die very suddenly in your house,
M. de Villefort."

"What?" cried the magistrate, with an
accent of horror and consternation, "are
you still harping on that terrible
idea?"

"Still, sir; and I shall always do so,"
replied d'Avrigny, "for it has never for
one instant ceased to retain possession
of my mind; and that you may be quite
sure I am not mistaken this time, listen
well to what I am going to say, M. de
Villefort." The magistrate trembled
convulsively. "There is a poison which
destroys life almost without leaving any
perceptible traces. I know it well; I
have studied it in all its forms and in
the effects which it produces. I
recognized the presence of this poison
in the case of poor Barrois as well as
in that of Madame de Saint-Meran. There
is a way of detecting its presence. It
restores the blue color of litmus-paper
reddened by an acid, and it turns syrup
of violets green. We have no
litmus-paper, but, see, here they come
with the syrup of violets."

The doctor was right; steps were heard
in the passage. M. d'Avrigny opened the
door, and took from the hands of the
chambermaid a cup which contained two or
three spoonfuls of the syrup, he then
carefully closed the door. "Look," said
he to the procureur, whose heart beat so
loudly that it might almost be heard,
"here is in this cup some syrup of
violets, and this decanter contains the
remainder of the lemonade of which M.
Noirtier and Barrois partook. If the
lemonade be pure and inoffensive, the
syrup will retain its color; if, on the
contrary, the lemonade be drugged with
poison, the syrup will become green.
Look closely!"

The doctor then slowly poured some drops
of the lemonade from the decanter into
the cup, and in an instant a light
cloudy sediment began to form at the
bottom of the cup; this sediment first
took a blue shade, then from the color
of sapphire it passed to that of opal,
and from opal to emerald. Arrived at
this last hue, it changed no more. The
result of the experiment left no doubt
whatever on the mind.

"The unfortunate Barrois has been
poisoned," said d'Avrigny, "and I will
maintain this assertion before God and
man." Villefort said nothing, but he
clasped his hands, opened his haggard
eyes, and, overcome with his emotion,
sank into a chair.



Chapter 80 The Accusation.

M. D'Avrigny soon restored the
magistrate to consciousness, who had
looked like a second corpse in that
chamber of death. "Oh, death is in my
house!" cried Villefort.

"Say, rather, crime!" replied the
doctor.

"M. d'Avrigny," cried Villefort, "I
cannot tell you all I feel at this
moment, -- terror, grief, madness."

"Yes," said M. d'Avrigny, with an
imposing calmness, "but I think it is
now time to act. I think it is time to
stop this torrent of mortality. I can no
longer bear to be in possession of these
secrets without the hope of seeing the
victims and society generally revenged."
Villefort cast a gloomy look around him.
"In my house," murmured he, "in my
house!"

"Come, magistrate," said M. d'Avrigny,
"show yourself a man; as an interpreter
of the law, do honor to your profession
by sacrificing your selfish interests to
it."

"You make me shudder, doctor. Do you
talk of a sacrifice?"

"I do."

"Do you then suspect any one?"

"I suspect no one; death raps at your
door -- it enters -- it goes, not
blindfolded, but circumspectly, from
room to room. Well, I follow its course,
I track its passage; I adopt the wisdom
of the ancients, and feel my way, for my
friendship for your family and my
respect for you are as a twofold bandage
over my eyes; well" --

"Oh, speak, speak, doctor; I shall have
courage."

"Well, sir, you have in your
establishment, or in your family,
perhaps, one of the frightful
monstrosities of which each century
produces only one. Locusta and
Agrippina, living at the same time, were
an exception, and proved the
determination of providence to effect
the entire ruin of the Roman empire,
sullied by so many crimes. Brunehilde
and Fredegonde were the results of the
painful struggle of civilization in its
infancy, when man was learning to
control mind, were it even by an
emissary from the realms of darkness.
All these women had been, or were,
beautiful. The same flower of innocence
had flourished, or was still
flourishing, on their brow, that is seen
on the brow of the culprit in your
house." Villefort shrieked, clasped his
hands, and looked at the doctor with a
supplicating air. But the latter went on
without pity: --

"`Seek whom the crime will profit,' says
an axiom of jurisprudence."

"Doctor," cried Villefort, "alas,
doctor, how often has man's justice been
deceived by those fatal words. I know
not why, but I feel that this crime" --

"You acknowledge, then, the existence of
the crime?"

"Yes, I see too plainly that it does
exist. But it seems that it is intended
to affect me personally. I fear an
attack myself, after all these
disasters."

"Oh, man," murmured d'Avrigny, "the most
selfish of all animals, the most
personal of all creatures, who believes
the earth turns, the sun shines, and
death strikes for him alone, -- an ant
cursing God from the top of a blade of
grass! And have those who have lost
their lives lost nothing? -- M. de
Saint-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran, M.
Noirtier" --

"How? M. Noirtier?"

"Yes; think you it was the poor
servant's life was coveted? No, no; like
Shakespeare's `Polonius,' he died for
another. It was Noirtier the lemonade
was intended for -- it is Noirtier,
logically speaking, who drank it. The
other drank it only by accident, and,
although Barrois is dead, it was
Noirtier whose death was wished for."

"But why did it not kill my father?"

"I told you one evening in the garden
after Madame de Saint-Meran's death --
because his system is accustomed to that
very poison, and the dose was trifling
to him, which would be fatal to another;
because no one knows, not even the
assassin, that, for the last twelve
months, I have given M. Noirtier brucine
for his paralytic affection, while the
assassin is not ignorant, for he has
proved that brucine is a violent
poison."

"Oh, have pity -- have pity!" murmured
Villefort, wringing his hands.

"Follow the culprit's steps; he first
kills M. de Saint-Meran" --

"O doctor!"

"I would swear to it; what I heard of
his symptoms agrees too well with what I
have seen in the other cases." Villefort
ceased to contend; he only groaned. "He
first kills M. de Saint-Meran," repeated
the doctor, "then Madame de
Saint-Meran, -- a double fortune to
inherit." Villefort wiped the
perspiration from his forehead. "Listen
attentively."

"Alas," stammered Villefort, "I do not
lose a single word."

"M. Noirtier," resumed M. d'Avrigny in
the same pitiless tone, -- "M. Noirtier
had once made a will against you --
against your family -- in favor of the
poor, in fact; M. Noirtier is spared,
because nothing is expected from him.
But he has no sooner destroyed his first
will and made a second, than, for fear
he should make a third, he is struck
down. The will was made the day before
yesterday, I believe; you see there has
been no time lost."

"Oh, mercy, M. d'Avrigny!"

"No mercy, sir! The physician has a
sacred mission on earth; and to fulfil
it he begins at the source of life, and
goes down to the mysterious darkness of
the tomb. When crime has been committed,
and God, doubtless in anger, turns away
his face, it is for the physician to
bring the culprit to justice."

"Have mercy on my child, sir," murmured
Villefort.

"You see it is yourself who have first
named her -- you, her father."

"Have pity on Valentine! Listen -- it is
impossible! I would as willingly accuse
myself! Valentine, whose heart is pure
as a diamond or a lily."

"No pity, procureur; the crime is
fragrant. Mademoiselle herself packed
all the medicines which were sent to M.
de Saint-Meran; and M. de Saint-Meran is
dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort prepared
all the cooling draughts which Madame de
Saint-Meran took, and Madame de
Saint-Meran is dead. Mademoiselle de
Villefort took from the hands of
Barrois, who was sent out, the lemonade
which M. Noirtier had every morning, and
he has escaped by a miracle.
Mademoiselle de Villefort is the
culprit -- she is the poisoner! To you,
as the king's attorney, I denounce
Mademoiselle de Villefort, do your
duty."

"Doctor, I resist no longer -- I can no
longer defend myself -- I believe you;
but, for pity's sake, spare my life, my
honor!"

"M. de Villefort," replied the doctor,
with increased vehemence, "there are
occasions when I dispense with all
foolish human circumspection. If your
daughter had committed only one crime,
and I saw her meditating another, I
would say `Warn her, punish her, let her
pass the remainder of her life in a
convent, weeping and praying.' If she
had committed two crimes, I would say,
`Here, M. de Villefort, is a poison that
the prisoner is not acquainted with, --
one that has no known antidote, quick as
thought, rapid as lightning, mortal as
the thunderbolt; give her that poison,
recommending her soul to God, and save
your honor and your life, for it is
yours she aims at; and I can picture her
approaching your pillow with her
hypocritical smiles and her sweet
exhortations. Woe to you, M. de
Villefort, if you do not strike first!'
This is what I would say had she only
killed two persons but she has seen
three deaths, -- has contemplated three
murdered persons, -- has knelt by three
corpses! To the scaffold with the
poisoner -- to the scaffold! Do you talk
of your honor? Do what I tell you, and
immortality awaits you!"

Villefort fell on his knees. "Listen,"
said he; "I have not the strength of
mind you have, or rather that which you
would not have, if instead of my
daughter Valentine your daughter
Madeleine were concerned." The doctor
turned pale. "Doctor, every son of woman
is born to suffer and to die; I am
content to suffer and to await death."

"Beware," said M. d'Avrigny, "it may
come slowly; you will see it approach
after having struck your father, your
wife, perhaps your son."

Villefort, suffocating, pressed the
doctor's arm. "Listen," cried he; "pity
me -- help me! No, my daughter is not
guilty. If you drag us both before a
tribunal I will still say, `No, my
daughter is not guilty; -- there is no
crime in my house. I will not
acknowledge a crime in my house; for
when crime enters a dwelling, it is like
death -- it does not come alone.'
Listen. What does it signify to you if I
am murdered? Are you my friend? Are you
a man? Have you a heart? No, you are a
physician! Well, I tell you I will not
drag my daughter before a tribunal, and
give her up to the executioner! The bare
idea would kill me -- would drive me
like a madman to dig my heart out with
my finger-nails! And if you were
mistaken, doctor -- if it were not my
daughter -- if I should come one day,
pale as a spectre, and say to you,
`Assassin, you have killed my child!' --
hold -- if that should happen, although
I am a Christian, M. d'Avrigny, I should
kill myself."

"Well," said the doctor, after a
moment's silence, "I will wait."
Villefort looked at him as if he had
doubted his words. "Only," continued M.
d'Avrigny, with a slow and solemn tone,
"if any one falls ill in your house, if
you feel yourself attacked, do not send
for me, for I will come no more. I will
consent to share this dreadful secret
with you, but I will not allow shame and
remorse to grow and increase in my
conscience, as crime and misery will in
your house."

"Then you abandon me, doctor?"

"Yes, for I can follow you no farther,
and I only stop at the foot of the
scaffold. Some further discovery will be
made, which will bring this dreadful
tragedy to a close. Adieu."

"I entreat you, doctor!"

"All the horrors that disturb my
thoughts make your house odious and
fatal. Adieu, sir."

"One word -- one single word more,
doctor! You go, leaving me in all the
horror of my situation, after increasing
it by what you have revealed to me. But
what will be reported of the sudden
death of the poor old servant?"

"True," said M. d'Avrigny; "we will
return." The doctor went out first,
followed by M. de Villefort. The
terrified servants were on the stairs
and in the passage where the doctor
would pass. "Sir," said d'Avrigny to
Villefort, so loud that all might hear,
"poor Barrois has led too sedentary a
life of late; accustomed formerly to
ride on horseback, or in the carriage,
to the four corners of Europe, the
monotonous walk around that arm-chair
has killed him -- his blood has
thickened. He was stout, had a short,
thick neck; he was attacked with
apoplexy, and I was called in too late.
By the way," added he in a low tone,
"take care to throw away that cup of
syrup of violets in the ashes."

The doctor, without shaking hands with
Villefort, without adding a word to what
he had said, went out, amid the tears
and lamentations of the whole household.
The same evening all Villefort's
servants, who had assembled in the
kitchen, and had a long consultation,
came to tell Madame de Villefort that
they wished to leave. No entreaty, no
proposition of increased wages, could
induce them to remain; to every argument
they replied, "We must go, for death is
in this house." They all left, in spite
of prayers and entreaties, testifying
their regret at leaving so good a master
and mistress, and especially
Mademoiselle Valentine, so good, so
kind, and so gentle. Villefort looked at
Valentine as they said this. She was in
tears, and, strange as it was, in spite
of the emotions he felt at the sight of
these tears, he looked also at Madame de
Villefort, and it appeared to him as if
a slight gloomy smile had passed over
her thin lips, like a meteor seen
passing inauspiciously between two
clouds in a stormy sky.



Chapter 81 The Room of the Retired
Baker.

The evening of the day on which the
Count of Morcerf had left Danglars'
house with feelings of shame and anger
at the rejection of the projected
alliance, M. Andrea Cavalcanti, with
curled hair, mustaches in perfect order,
and white gloves which fitted admirably,
had entered the courtyard of the
banker's house in La Chaussee d'Antin.
He had not been more than ten minutes in
the drawing-room before he drew Danglars
aside into the recess of a bow-window,
and, after an ingenious preamble,
related to him all his anxieties and
cares since his noble father's
departure. He acknowledged the extreme
kindness which had been shown him by the
banker's family, in which he had been
received as a son, and where, besides,
his warmest affections had found an
object on which to centre in
Mademoiselle Danglars. Danglars listened
with the most profound attention; he had
expected this declaration for the last
two or three days, and when at last it
came his eyes glistened as much as they
had lowered on listening to Morcerf. He
would not, however, yield immediately to
the young man's request, but made a few
conscientious objections. "Are you not
rather young, M. Andrea, to think of
marrying?"

"I think not, sir," replied M.
Cavalcanti; "in Italy the nobility
generally marry young. Life is so
uncertain, that we ought to secure
happiness while it is within our reach."

"Well, sir," said Danglars, "in case
your proposals, which do me honor, are
accepted by my wife and daughter, by
whom shall the preliminary arrangements
be settled? So important a negotiation
should, I think, be conducted by the
respective fathers of the young people."

"Sir, my father is a man of great
foresight and prudence. Thinking that I
might wish to settle in France, he left
me at his departure, together with the
papers establishing my identity, a
letter promising, if he approved of my
choice, 150,000 livres per annum from
the day I was married. So far as I can
judge, I suppose this to be a quarter of
my father's revenue."

"I," said Danglars, "have always
intended giving my daughter 500,000
francs as her dowry; she is, besides, my
sole heiress."

"All would then be easily arranged if
the baroness and her daughter are
willing. We should command an annuity of
175,000 livres. Supposing, also, I
should persuade the marquis to give me
my capital, which is not likely, but
still is possible, we would place these
two or three millions in your hands,
whose talent might make it realize ten
per cent."

"I never give more than four per cent,
and generally only three and a half; but
to my son-in-law I would give five, and
we would share the profit."

"Very good, father-in-law," said
Cavalcanti, yielding to his low-born
nature, which would escape sometimes
through the aristocratic gloss with
which he sought to conceal it.
Correcting himself immediately, he said,
"Excuse me, sir; hope alone makes me
almost mad, -- what will not reality
do?"

"But," said Danglars, -- who, on his
part, did not perceive how soon the
conversation, which was at first
disinterested, was turning to a business
transaction, -- "there is, doubtless, a
part of your fortune your father could
not refuse you?"

"Which?" asked the young man.

"That you inherit from your mother."

"Truly, from my mother, Leonora
Corsinari."

"How much may it amount to?"

"Indeed, sir," said Andrea, "I assure
you I have never given the subject a
thought, but I suppose it must have been
at least two millions." Danglars felt as
much overcome with joy as the miser who
finds a lost treasure, or as the
shipwrecked mariner who feels himself on
solid ground instead of in the abyss
which he expected would swallow him up.

"Well, sir," said Andrea, bowing to the
banker respectfully, "may I hope?"

"You may not only hope," said Danglars,
"but consider it a settled thing, if no
obstacle arises on your part."

"I am, indeed, rejoiced," said Andrea.

"But," said Danglars thoughtfully, "how
is it that your patron, M. de Monte
Cristo, did not make his proposal for
you?" Andrea blushed imperceptibly. "I
have just left the count, sir," said he;
"he is, doubtless, a delightful man but
inconceivably peculiar in his ideas. He
esteems me highly. He even told me he
had not the slightest doubt that my
father would give me the capital instead
of the interest of my property. He has
promised to use his influence to obtain
it for me; but he also declared that he
never had taken on himself the
responsibility of making proposals for
another, and he never would. I must,
however, do him the justice to add that
he assured me if ever he had regretted
the repugnance he felt to such a step it
was on this occasion, because he thought
the projected union would be a happy and
suitable one. Besides, if he will do
nothing officially, he will answer any
questions you propose to him. And now,"
continued he, with one of his most
charming smiles, "having finished
talking to the father-in-law, I must
address myself to the banker."

"And what may you have to say to him?"
said Danglars, laughing in his turn.

"That the day after to-morrow I shall
have to draw upon you for about four
thousand francs; but the count,
expecting my bachelor's revenue could
not suffice for the coming month's
outlay, has offered me a draft for
twenty thousand francs. It bears his
signature, as you see, which is
all-sufficient."

"Bring me a million such as that," said
Danglars, "I shall be well pleased,"
putting the draft in his pocket. "Fix
your own hour for to-morrow, and my
cashier shall call on you with a check
for eighty thousand francs."

"At ten o'clock then, if you please; I
should like it early, as I am going into
the country to-morrow."

"Very well, at ten o'clock;, you are
still at the Hotel des Princes?"

"Yes."

The following morning, with the banker's
usual punctuality, the eighty thousand
francs were placed in the young man's
hands as he was on the point of
starting, after having left two hundred
francs for Caderousse. He went out
chiefly to avoid this dangerous enemy,
and returned as late as possible in the
evening. But scarcely had be stepped out
of his carriage when the porter met him
with a parcel in his hand. "Sir," said
he, "that man has been here."

"What man?" said Andrea carelessly,
apparently forgetting him whom he but
too well recollected.

"Him to whom your excellency pays that
little annuity."

"Oh," said Andrea, "my father's old
servant. Well, you gave him the two
hundred francs I had left for him?"

"Yes, your excellency." Andrea had
expressed a wish to be thus addressed.
"But," continued the porter, "he would
not take them." Andrea turned pale, but
as it was dark his pallor was not
perceptible. "What? he would not take
them?" said he with slight emotion.

"No, he wished to speak to your
excellency; I told him you were gone
out, and after some dispute he believed
me and gave me this letter, which he had
brought with him already sealed."

"Give it me," said Andrea, and he read
by the light of his carriage-lamp, --
"You know where I live; I expect you
tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."

Andrea examined it carefully, to
ascertain if the letter had been opened,
or if any indiscreet eyes had seen its
contents; but it was so carefully
folded, that no one could have read it,
and the seal was perfect. "Very well,"
said he. "Poor man, he is a worthy
creature." He left the porter to ponder
on these words, not knowing which most
to admire, the master or the servant.
"Take out the horses quickly, and come
up to me," said Andrea to his groom. In
two seconds the young man had reached
his room and burnt Caderousse's letter.
The servant entered just as he had
finished. "You are about my height,
Pierre," said he.

"I have that honor, your excellency."

"You had a new livery yesterday?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have an engagement with a pretty
little girl for this evening, and do not
wish to be known; lend me your livery
till to-morrow. I may sleep, perhaps, at
an inn." Pierre obeyed. Five minutes
after, Andrea left the hotel, completely
disguised, took a cabriolet, and ordered
the driver to take him to the Cheval
Rouge, at Picpus. The next morning he
left that inn as he had left the Hotel
des Princes, without being noticed,
walked down the Faubourg St. Antoine,
along the boulevard to Rue Menilmontant,
and stopping at the door of the third
house on the left looked for some one of
whom to make inquiry in the porter's
absence. "For whom are you looking, my
fine fellow?" asked the fruiteress on
the opposite side.

"Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, my
good woman," replied Andrea.

"A retired baker?" asked the fruiteress.

"Exactly."

"He lives at the end of the yard, on the
left, on the third story." Andrea went
as she directed him, and on the third
floor he found a hare's paw, which, by
the hasty ringing of the bell, it was
evident he pulled with considerable
ill-temper. A moment after Caderousse's
face appeared at the grating in the
door. "Ah, you are punctual," said he,
as he drew back the door.

"Confound you and your punctuality!"
said Andrea, throwing himself into a
chair in a manner which implied that he
would rather have flung it at the head
of his host.

"Come, come, my little fellow, don't be
angry. See, I have thought about you --
look at the good breakfast we are going
to have; nothing but what you are fond
of." Andrea, indeed, inhaled the scent
of something cooking which was not
unwelcome to him, hungry as he was; it
was that mixture of fat and garlic
peculiar to provincial kitchens of an
inferior order, added to that of dried
fish, and above all, the pungent smell
of musk and cloves. These odors escaped
from two deep dishes which were covered
and placed on a stove, and from a copper
pan placed in an old iron pot. In an
adjoining room Andrea saw also a
tolerably clean table prepared for two,
two bottles of wine sealed, the one with
green, the other with yellow, a supply
of brandy in a decanter, and a measure
of fruit in a cabbage-leaf, cleverly
arranged on an earthenware plate.

"What do you think of it, my little
fellow?" said Caderousse. "Ay, that
smells good! You know I used to be a
famous cook; do you recollect how you
used to lick your fingers? You were
among the first who tasted any of my
dishes, and I think you relished them
tolerably." While speaking, Caderousse
went on peeling a fresh supply of
onions.

"But," said Andrea, ill-temperedly, "by
my faith, if it was only to breakfast
with you, that you disturbed me, I wish
the devil had taken you!"

"My boy," said Caderousse sententiously,
"one can talk while eating. And then,
you ungrateful being, you are not
pleased to see an old friend? I am
weeping with joy." He was truly crying,
but it would have been difficult to say
whether joy or the onions produced the
greatest effect on the lachrymal glands
of the old inn-keeper of the
Pont-du-Gard. "Hold your tongue,
hypocrite," said Andrea; "you love me!"

"Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I
know it is a weakness," said Caderousse,
"but it overpowers me."

"And yet it has not prevented your
sending for me to play me some trick."

"Come," said Caderousse, wiping his
large knife on his apron, "if I did not
like you, do you think I should endure
the wretched life you lead me? Think for
a moment. You have your servant's
clothes on -- you therefore keep a
servant; I have none, and am obliged to
prepare my own meals. You abuse my
cookery because you dine at the table
d'hote of the Hotel des Princes, or the
Cafe de Paris. Well, I too could keep a
servant; I too could have a tilbury; I
too could dine where I like; but why do
I not? Because I would not annoy my
little Benedetto. Come, just acknowledge
that I could, eh?" This address was
accompanied by a look which was by no
means difficult to understand. "Well,"
said Andrea, "admitting your love, why
do you want me to breakfast with you?"

"That I may have the pleasure of seeing
you, my little fellow."

"What is the use of seeing me after we
have made all our arrangements?"

"Eh, dear friend," said Caderousse, "are
wills ever made without codicils? But
you first came to breakfast, did you
not? Well, sit down, and let us begin
with these pilchards, and this fresh
butter; which I have put on some
vine-leaves to please you, wicked one.
Ah, yes; you look at my room, my four
straw chairs, my images, three francs
each. But what do you expect? This is
not the Hotel des Princes."

"Come, you are growing discontented, you
are no longer happy; you, who only wish
to live like a retired baker."
Caderousse sighed. "Well, what have you
to say? you have seen your dream
realized."

"I can still say it is a dream; a
retired baker, my poor Benedetto, is
rich -- he has an annuity."

"Well, you have an annuity."

"I have?"

"Yes, since I bring you your two hundred
francs." Caderousse shrugged his
shoulders. "It is humiliating," said he,
"thus to receive money given
grudgingly, ---an uncertain supply which
may soon fail. You see I am obliged to
economize, in case your prosperity
should cease. Well, my friend, fortune
is inconstant, as the chaplain of the
regiment said. I know your prosperity is
great, you rascal; you are to marry the
daughter of Danglars."

"What? of Danglars?"

"Yes, to be sure; must I say Baron
Danglars? I might as well say Count
Benedetto. He was an old friend of mine
and if he had not so bad a memory he
ought to invite me to your wedding,
seeing he came to mine. Yes, yes, to
mine; gad, he was not so proud then, --
he was an under-clerk to the good M.
Morrel. I have dined many times with him
and the Count of Morcerf, so you see I
have some high connections and were I to
cultivate them a little, we might meet
in the same drawing-rooms."

"Come, your jealousy represents
everything to you in the wrong light."

"That is all very fine, Benedetto mio,
but I know what I am saying. Perhaps I
may one day put on my best coat, and
presenting myself at the great gate,
introduce myself. Meanwhile let us sit
down and eat." Caderousse set the
example and attacked the breakfast with
good appetite, praising each dish he set
before his visitor. The latter seemed to
have resigned himself; he drew the
corks, and partook largely of the fish
with the garlic and fat. "Ah, mate,"
said Caderousse, "you are getting on
better terms with your old landlord!"

"Faith, yes," replied Andrea, whose
hunger prevailed over every other
feeling.

"So you like it, you rogue?"

"So much that I wonder how a man who can
cook thus can complain of hard living."

"Do you see," said Caderousse, "all my
happiness is marred by one thought?"

"What is that?"

"That I am dependent on another, I who
have always gained my own livelihood
honestly."

"Do not let that disturb you, I have
enough for two."

"No, truly; you may believe me if you
will; at the end of every month I am
tormented by remorse."

"Good Caderousse!"

"So much so, that yesterday I would not
take the two hundred francs."

"Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was
it indeed remorse, tell me?"

"True remorse; and, besides, an idea had
struck me." Andrea shuddered; he always
did so at Caderousse's ideas. "It is
miserable -- do you see? -- always to
wait till the end of the month. -- "Oh,"
said Andrea philosophically, determined
to watch his companion narrowly, "does
not life pass in waiting? Do I, for
instance, fare better? Well, I wait
patiently, do I not?"

"Yes; because instead of expecting two
hundred wretched francs, you expect five
or six thousand, perhaps ten, perhaps
even twelve, for you take care not to
let any one know the utmost. Down there,
you always had little presents and
Christmas-boxes which you tried to hide
from your poor friend Caderousse.
Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that
friend Caderousse."

"There you are beginning again to
ramble, to talk again and again of the
past! But what is the use of teasing me
with going all over that again?"

"Ah, you are only one and twenty, and
can forget the past; I am fifty, and am
obliged to recollect it. But let us
return to business."

"Yes."

"I was going to say, if I were in your
place" --

"Well."

"I would realize" --

"How would you realize?"

"I would ask for six months' in advance,
under pretence of being able to purchase
a farm, then with my six months I would
decamp."

"Well, well," said Andrea, "that isn't a
bad idea."

"My dear friend," said Caderousse, "eat
of my bread, and take my advice; you
will be none the worse off, physically
or morally."

"But," said Andrea, "why do you not act
on the advice you gave me? Why do you
not realize a six months', a year's
advance even, and retire to Brussels?
Instead of living the retired baker, you
might live as a bankrupt, using his
privileges; that would be very good."

"But how the devil would you have me
retire on twelve hundred francs?"

"Ah, Caderousse," said Andrea, "how
covetous you are! Two months ago you
were dying with hunger."

"The appetite grows by what it feeds
on," said Caderousse, grinning and
showing his teeth, like a monkey
laughing or a tiger growling. "And,"
added he, biting off with his large
white teeth an enormous mouthful of
bread, "I have formed a plan."
Caderousse's plans alarmed Andrea still
more than his ideas; ideas were but the
germ, the plan was reality. "Let me see
your plan; I dare say it is a pretty
one."

"Why not? Who formed the plan by which
we left the establishment of M ---- !
eh? was it not I? and it was no bad one
I believe, since here we are!"

"I do not say," replied Andrea, "that
you never make a good one; but let us
see your plan."

"Well," pursued Caderousse, "can you
without expending one sou, put me in the
way of getting fifteen thousand francs?
No, fifteen thousand are not enough, --
I cannot again become an honest man with
less than thirty thousand francs."

"No," replied Andrea, dryly, "no, I
cannot."

"I do not think you understand me,"
replied Caderousse, calmly; "I said
without your laying out a sou."

"Do you want me to commit a robbery, to
spoil all my good fortune -- and yours
with mine -- and both of us to be
dragged down there again?"

"It would make very little difference to
me," said Caderousse, "if I were
retaken, I am a poor creature to live
alone, and sometimes pine for my old
comrades; not like you, heartless
creature, who would be glad never to see
them again." Andrea did more than
tremble this time, he turned pale.

"Come, Caderousse, no nonsense!" said
he.

"Don't alarm yourself, my little
Benedetto, but just point out to me some
means of gaining those thirty thousand
francs without your assistance, and I
will contrive it."

"Well, I'll see -- I'll try to contrive
some way," said Andrea.

"Meanwhile you will raise my monthly
allowance to five hundred francs, my
little fellow? I have a fancy, and mean
to get a housekeeper."

"Well, you shall have your five hundred
francs," said Andrea; "but it is very
hard for me, my poor Caderousse -- you
take advantage" --

"Bah," said Caderousse, "when you have
access to countless stores." One would
have said Andrea anticipated his
companion's words, so did his eye flash
like lightning, but it was but for a
moment. "True," he replied, "and my
protector is very kind."

"That dear protector," said Caderousse;
"and how much does he give you monthly?"

"Five thousand francs."

"As many thousands as you give me
hundreds! Truly, it is only bastards who
are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs
per month! What the devil can you do
with all that?"

"Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and
I am like you, I want capital."

"Capital? -- yes -- I understand --
every one would like capital."

"Well, and I shall get it."

"Who will give it to you -- your
prince?"

"Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I
must wait."

"You must wait for what?" asked
Caderousse.

"For his death "

"The death of your prince?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

"Because he has made his will in my
favor."

"Indeed?"

"On my honor."

"For how much?"

"For five hundred thousand."

"Only that? It's little enough "

"But so it is."

"No it cannot be!"

"Are you my friend, Caderousse?"

"Yes, in life or death."

"Well, I will tell you a secret."

"What is it?"

"But remember" --

"Ah, pardieu, mute as a carp."

"Well, I think" -- Andrea stopped and
looked around.

"You think? Do not fear; pardieu, we are
alone."

"I think I have discovered my father."

"Your true father?"

"Yes."

"Not old Cavalcanti?"

"No, for he has gone again; the true
one, as you say."

"And that father is" --

"Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo."

"Bah!"

"Yes, you understand, that explains all.
He cannot acknowledge me openly, it
appears, but he does it through M.
Cavalcanti, and gives him fifty thousand
francs for it."

"Fifty thousand francs for being your
father? I would have done it for half
that, for twenty thousand, for fifteen
thousand; why did you not think of me,
ungrateful man?"

"Did I know anything about it, when it
was all done when I was down there?"

"Ah, truly? And you say that by his
will" --

"He leaves me five hundred thousand
livres."

"Are you sure of it?"

"He showed it me; but that is not all --
there is a codicil, as I said just now."

"Probably."

"And in that codicil he acknowledges
me."

"Oh, the good father, the brave father,
the very honest father!" said
Caderousse, twirling a plate in the air
between his two hands.

"Now say if I conceal anything from
you?"

"No, and your confidence makes you
honorable in my opinion; and your
princely father, is he rich, very rich?"

"Yes, he is that; he does not himself
know the amount of his fortune."

"Is it possible?"

"It is evident enough to me, who am
always at his house. The other day a
banker's clerk brought him fifty
thousand francs in a portfolio about the
size of your plate; yesterday his banker
brought him a hundred thousand francs in
gold." Caderousse was filled with
wonder; the young man's words sounded to
him like metal, and he thought he could
hear the rushing of cascades of louis.
"And you go into that house?" cried he
briskly.

"When I like."

Caderousse was thoughtful for a moment.
It was easy to perceive he was revolving
some unfortunate idea in his mind. Then
suddenly, -- "How I should like to see
all that," cried he; "how beautiful it
must be!"

"It is, in fact, magnificent," said
Andrea.

"And does he not live in the
Champs-Elysees?"

"Yes, No. 30."

"Ah," said Caderousse, "No. 30."

"Yes, a fine house standing alone,
between a court-yard and a garden, --
you must know it."

"Possibly; but it is not the exterior I
care for, it is the interior. What
beautiful furniture there must be in
it!"

"Have you ever seen the Tuileries?"

"No."

"Well, it surpasses that."

"It must be worth one's while to stoop,
Andrea, when that good M. Monte Cristo
lets fall his purse."

"It is not worth while to wait for
that," said Andrea; "money is as
plentiful in that house as fruit in an
orchard."

"But you should take me there one day
with you."

"How can I? On what plea?"

"You are right; but you have made my
mouth water. I must absolutely see it; I
shall find a way."

"No nonsense, Caderousse!"

"I will offer myself as floor-polisher."

"The rooms are all carpeted."

"Well, then, I must be contented to
imagine it."

"That is the best plan, believe me."

"Try, at least, to give me an idea of
what it is."

"How can I?"

"Nothing is easier. Is it large?"

"Middling."

"How is it arranged?"

"Faith, I should require pen, ink, and
paper to make a plan."

"They are all here," said Caderousse,
briskly. He fetched from an old
secretary a sheet of white paper and pen
and ink. "Here," said Caderousse, "draw
me all that on the paper, my boy."
Andrea took the pen with an
imperceptible smile and began. "The
house, as I said, is between the court
and the garden; in this way, do you
see?" Andrea drew the garden, the court
and the house.

"High walls?"

"Not more than eight or ten feet."

"That is not prudent," said Caderousse.

"In the court are orange-trees in pots,
turf, and clumps of flowers."

"And no steel-traps?"

"No."

"The stables?"

"Are on either side of the gate, which
you see there." And Andrea continued his
plan.

"Let us see the ground floor," said
Caderousse.

"On the ground-floor, dining-room, two
drawing-rooms, billiard-room, staircase
in the hall, and a little back
staircase."

"Windows?"

"Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so
large, that I believe a man of your size
should pass through each frame."

"Why the devil have they any stairs with
such windows?"

"Luxury has everything."

"But shutters?"

"Yes, but they are never used. That
Count of Monte Cristo is an original,
who loves to look at the sky even at
night."

"And where do the servants sleep?"

"Oh, they have a house to themselves.
Picture to yourself a pretty coach-house
at the right-hand side where the ladders
are kept. Well, over that coach-house
are the servants' rooms, with bells
corresponding with the different
apartments."

"Ah, diable -- bells did you say?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh. nothing! I only say they cost a
load of money to hang, and what is the
use of them, I should like to know?"

"There used to be a dog let loose in the
yard at night, but it has been taken to
the house at Auteuil, to that you went
to, you know."

"Yes."

"I was saying to him only yesterday,
`You are imprudent, Monsieur Count; for
when you go to Auteuil and take your
servants the house is left unprotected.'
Well,' said he, `what next?' `Well,
next, some day you will be robbed.'"

"What did he answer?"

"He quietly said, `What do I care if I
am?'"

"Andrea, he has some secretary with a
spring."

"How do you know?"

"Yes, which catches the thief in a trap
and plays a tune. I was told there were
such at the last exhibition."

"He has simply a mahogany secretary, in
which the key is always kept."

"And he is not robbed?"

"No; his servants are all devoted to
him."

"There ought to be some money in that
secretary?"

"There may be. No one knows what there
is."

"And where is it?"

"On the first floor."

"Sketch me the plan of that floor, as
you have done of the ground floor, my
boy."

"That is very simple." Andrea took the
pen. "On the first story, do you see,
there is the anteroom and the
drawing-room; to the right of the
drawing-room, a library and a study; to
the left, a bedroom and a dressing-room.
The famous secretary is in the
dressing-room."

"Is there a window in the
dressing-room?"

"Two, -- one here and one there." Andrea
sketched two windows in the room, which
formed an angle on the plan, and
appeared as a small square added to the
rectangle of the bedroom. Caderousse
became thoughtful. "Does he often go to
Auteuil?" added he.

"Two or three times a week. To-morrow,
for instance, he is going to spend the
day and night there."

"Are you sure of it?"

"He has invited me to dine there."

"There's a life for you," said
Caderousse; "a town house and a country
house."

"That is what it is to be rich."

"And shall you dine there?"

"Probably."

"When you dine there, do you sleep
there?"

"If I like; I am at home there."
Caderousse looked at the young man, as
if to get at the truth from the bottom
of his heart. But Andrea drew a
cigar-case from his pocket, took a
havana, quietly lit it, and began
smoking. "When do you want your twelve
hundred francs?" said he to Caderousse.

"Now, if you have them." Andrea took
five and twenty louis from his pocket.

"Yellow boys?" said Caderousse; "no, I
thank you."

"Oh, you despise them."

"On the contrary, I esteem them, but
will not have them."

"You can change them, idiot; gold is
worth five sous."

"Exactly; and he who changes them will
follow friend Caderousse, lay hands on
him, and demand what farmers pay him
their rent in gold. No nonsense, my good
fellow; silver simply, round coins with
the head of some monarch or other on
them. Anybody may possess a five-franc
piece."

"But do you suppose I carry five hundred
francs about with me? I should want a
porter."

"Well, leave them with your porter; he
is to be trusted. I will call for them."

"To-day?"

"No, to-morrow; I shall not have time to
day."

"Well, to-morrow I will leave them when
I go to Auteuil."

"May I depend on it?"

"Certainly."

"Because I shall secure my housekeeper
on the strength of it."

"Now see here, will that be all? Eh? And
will you not torment me any more?"

"Never." Caderousse had become so gloomy
that Andrea feared he should be obliged
to notice the change. He redoubled his
gayety and carelessness. "How sprightly
you are," said Caderousse; "One would
say you were already in possession of
your property."

"No, unfortunately; but when I do obtain
it" --

"Well?"

"I shall remember old friends, I can
tell you that."

"Yes, since you have such a good
memory."

"What do you want? It looks as if you
were trying to fleece me?"

"I? What an idea! I, who am going to
give you another piece of good advice."

"What is it?"

"To leave behind you the diamond you
have on your finger. We shall both get
into trouble. You will ruin both
yourself and me by your folly."

"How so?" said Andrea.

"How? You put on a livery, you disguise
yourself as a servant, and yet keep a
diamond on your finger worth four or
five thousand francs."

"You guess well."

"I know something of diamonds; I have
had some."

"You do well to boast of it," said
Andrea, who, without becoming angry, as
Caderousse feared, at this new
extortion, quietly resigned the ring.
Caderousse looked so closely at it that
Andrea well knew that he was examining
to see if all the edges were perfect.

"It is a false diamond," said
Caderousse.

"You are joking now," replied Andrea.

"Do not be angry, we can try it."
Caderousse went to the window, touched
the glass with it, and found it would
cut.

"Confiteor," said Caderousse, putting
the diamond on his little finger; "I was
mistaken; but those thieves of jewellers
imitate so well that it is no longer
worth while to rob a jeweller's shop --
it is another branch of industry
paralyzed."

"Have you finished?" said Andrea, -- "do
you want anything more? -- will you have
my waistcoat or my hat? Make free, now
you have begun."

"No; you are, after all, a good
companion; I will not detain you, and
will try to cure myself of my ambition."

"But take care the same thing does not
happen to you in selling the diamond you
feared with the gold."

"I shall not sell it -- do not fear."

"Not at least till the day after
to-morrow," thought the young man.

"Happy rogue," said Caderousse; "you are
going to find your servants, your
horses, your carriage, and your
betrothed!"

"Yes," said Andrea.

"Well, I hope you will make a handsome
wedding-present the day you marry
Mademoiselle Danglars."

"I have already told you it is a fancy
you have taken in your head."

"What fortune has she?"

"But I tell you" --

"A million?" Andrea shrugged his
shoulders.

"Let it be a million," said Caderousse;
"you can never have so much as I wish
you."

"Thank you," said the young man.

"Oh, I wish it you with all my heart!"
added Caderousse with his hoarse laugh.
"Stop, let me show you the way."

"It is not worth while."

"Yes, it is."

"Why?"

"Because there is a little secret, a
precaution I thought it desirable to
take, one of Huret & Fitchet's locks,
revised and improved by Gaspard
Caderousse; I will manufacture you a
similar one when you are a capitalist."

"Thank you," said Andrea; "I will let
you know a week beforehand." They
parted. Caderousse remained on the
landing until he had not only seen
Andrea go down the three stories, but
also cross the court. Then he returned
hastily, shut his door carefully, and
began to study, like a clever architect,
the plan Andrea had left him.

"Dear Benedetto," said he, "I think he
will not be sorry to inherit his
fortune, and he who hastens the day when
he can touch his five hundred thousand
will not be his worst friend."



Chapter 82 The Burglary.

The day following that on which the
conversation we have related took place,
the Count of Monte Cristo set out for
Auteuil, accompanied by Ali and several
attendants, and also taking with him
some horses whose qualities he was
desirous of ascertaining. He was induced
to undertake this journey, of which the
day before he had not even thought and
which had not occurred to Andrea either,
by the arrival of Bertuccio from
Normandy with intelligence respecting
the house and sloop. The house was
ready, and the sloop which had arrived a
week before lay at anchor in a small
creek with her crew of six men, who had
observed all the requisite formalities
and were ready again to put to sea.

The count praised Bertuccio's zeal, and
ordered him to prepare for a speedy
departure, as his stay in France would
not be prolonged more than a mouth.
"Now," said he, "I may require to go in
one night from Paris to Treport; let
eight fresh horses be in readiness on
the road, which will enable me to go
fifty leagues in ten hours."

"Your highness had already expressed
that wish," said Bertuccio, "and the
horses are ready. I have bought them,
and stationed them myself at the most
desirable posts, that is, in villages,
where no one generally stops."

"That's well," said Monte Cristo; "I
remain here a day or two -- arrange
accordingly." As Bertuccio was leaving
the room to give the requisite orders,
Baptistin opened the door: he held a
letter on a silver waiter.

"What are you doing here?" asked the
count, seeing him covered with dust; "I
did not send for you, I think?"

Baptistin, without answering, approached
the count, and presented the letter.
"Important and urgent," said he. The
count opened the letter, and read: --

"M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that
this night a man will enter his house in
the Champs-Elysees with the intention of
carrying off some papers supposed to be
in the secretary in the dressing-room.
The count's well-known courage will
render unnecessary the aid of the
police, whose interference might
seriously affect him who sends this
advice. The count, by any opening from
the bedroom, or by concealing himself in
the dressing-room, would be able to
defend his property himself. Many
attendents or apparent precautions would
prevent the villain from the attempt,
and M. de Monte Cristo would lose the
opportunity of discovering an enemy whom
chance has revealed to him who now sends
this warning to the count, -- a warning
he might not be able to send another
time, if this first attempt should fail
and another be made."

The count's first idea was that this was
an artifice -- a gross deception, to
draw his attention from a minor danger
in order to expose him to a greater. He
was on the point of sending the letter
to the commissary of police,
notwithstanding the advice of his
anonymous friend, or perhaps because of
that advice, when suddenly the idea
occurred to him that it might be some
personal enemy, whom he alone should
recognize and over whom, if such were
the case, he alone would gain any
advantage, as Fiesco* had done over the
Moor who would have killed him. We know
the Count's vigorous and daring mind,
denying anything to be impossible, with
that energy which marks the great man.
From his past life, from his resolution
to shrink from nothing, the count had
acquired an inconceivable relish for the
contests in which he had engaged,
sometimes against nature, that is to
say, against God, and sometimes against
the world, that is, against the devil.

* The Genoese conspirator.

"They do not want my papers," said Monte
Cristo, "they want to kill me; they are
no robbers, but assassins. I will not
allow the prefect of police to interfere
with my private affairs. I am rich
enough, forsooth, to distribute his
authority on this occasion." The count
recalled Baptistin, who had left the
room after delivering the letter.
"Return to Paris," said he; "assemble
the servants who remain there. I want
all my household at Auteuil."

"But will no one remain in the house, my
lord?" asked Baptistin.

"Yes, the porter."

"My lord will remember that the lodge is
at a distance from the house."

"Well?"

"The house might be stripped without his
hearing the least noise."

"By whom?"

"By thieves."

"You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves
might strip the house -- it would annoy
me less than to be disobeyed." Baptistin
bowed.

"You understand me?" said the count.
"Bring your comrades here, one and all;
but let everything remain as usual, only
close the shutters of the ground floor."

"And those of the second floor?"

"You know they are never closed. Go!"

The count signified his intention of
dining alone, and that no one but Ali
should attend him. Having dined with his
usual tranquillity and moderation, the
count, making a signal to Ali to follow
him, went out by the side-gate and on
reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned,
apparently without design towards Paris
and at twilight; found himself opposite
his house in the Champs-Elysees. All was
dark; one solitary, feeble light was
burning in the porter's lodge, about
forty paces distant from the house, as
Baptistin had said. Monte Cristo leaned
against a tree, and with that
scrutinizing glance which was so rarely
deceived, looked up and down the avenue,
examined the passers-by, and carefully
looked down the neighboring streets, to
see that no one was concealed. Ten
minutes passed thus, and he was
convinced that no one was watching him.
He hastened to the side-door with Ali,
entered hurriedly, and by the servants'
staircase, of which he had the key,
gained his bedroom without opening or
disarranging a single curtain, without
even the porter having the slightest
suspicion that the house, which he
supposed empty, contained its chief
occupant.

Arrived in his bedroom, the count
motioned to Ali to stop; then he passed
into the dressing-room, which he
examined. Everything appeared as
usual -- the precious secretary in its
place, and the key in the secretary. He
double locked it, took the key, returned
to the bedroom door, removed the double
staple of the bolt, and went in.
Meanwhile Ali had procured the arms the
count required -- namely, a short
carbine and a pair of double-barrelled
pistols, with which as sure an aim might
be taken as with a single-barrelled one.
Thus armed, the count held the lives of
five men in his hands. It was about
half-past nine. The count and Ali ate in
haste a crust of bread and drank a glass
of Spanish wine; then Monte Cristo
slipped aside one of the movable panels,
which enabled him to see into the
adjoining room. He had within his reach
his pistols and carbine, and Ali,
standing near him, held one of the small
Arabian hatchets, whose form has not
varied since the Crusades. Through one
of the windows of the bedroom, on a line
with that in the dressing-room, the
count could see into the street.

Two hours passed thus. It was intensely
dark; still Ali, thanks to his wild
nature, and the count, thanks doubtless
to his long confinement, could
distinguish in the darkness the
slightest movement of the trees. The
little light in the lodge had long been
extinct. It might be expected that the
attack, if indeed an attack was
projected, would be made from the
staircase of the ground floor, and not
from a window; in Monte Cristo's
opinion, the villains sought his life,
not his money. It would be his bedroom
they would attack, and they must reach
it by the back staircase, or by the
window in the dressing-room. The clock
of the Invalides struck a quarter to
twelve; the west wind bore on its
moistened gusts the doleful vibration of
the three strokes.

As the last stroke died away, the count
thought he heard a slight noise in the
dressing-room; this first sound, or
rather this first grinding, was followed
by a second, then a third; at the
fourth, the count knew what to expect. A
firm and well-practised hand was engaged
in cutting the four sides of a pane of
glass with a diamond. The count felt his
heart beat more rapidly. Inured as men
may be to danger, forewarned as they may
be of peril, they understand, by the
fluttering of the heart and the
shuddering of the frame, the enormous
difference between a dream and a
reality, between the project and the
execution. However, Monte Cristo only
made a sign to apprise Ali, who,
understanding that danger was
approaching from the other side, drew
nearer to his master. Monte Cristo was
eager to ascertain the strength and
number of his enemies.

The window whence the noise proceeded
was opposite the opening by which the
count could see into the dressing-room.
He fixed his eyes on that window -- he
distinguished a shadow in the darkness;
then one of the panes became quite
opaque, as if a sheet of paper were
stuck on the outside, then the square
cracked without falling. Through the
opening an arm was passed to find the
fastening, then a second; the window
turned on its hinges, and a man entered.
He was alone.

"That's a daring rascal," whispered the
count.

At that moment Ali touched him slightly
on the shoulder. He turned; Ali pointed
to the window of the room in which they
were, facing the street. "I see!" said
he, "there are two of them; one does the
work while the other stands guard." He
made a sign to Ali not to lose sight of
the man in the street, and turned to the
one in the dressing-room.

The glass-cutter had entered, and was
feeling his way, his arms stretched out
before him. At last he appeared to have
made himself familiar with his
surroundings. There were two doors; he
bolted them both.

When he drew near to the bedroom door,
Monte Cristo expected that he was coming
in, and raised one of his pistols; but
he simply heard the sound of the bolts
sliding in their copper rings. It was
only a precaution. The nocturnal
visitor, ignorant of the fact that the
count had removed the staples, might now
think himself at home, and pursue his
purpose with full security. Alone and
free to act as he wished, the man then
drew from his pocket something which the
count could not discern, placed it on a
stand, then went straight to the
secretary, felt the lock, and contrary
to his expectation found that the key
was missing. But the glass-cutter was a
prudent man who had provided for all
emergencies. The count soon heard the
rattling of a bunch of skeleton keys,
such as the locksmith brings when called
to force a lock, and which thieves call
nightingales, doubtless from the music
of their nightly song when they grind
against the bolt. "Ah, ha," whispered
Monte Cristo with a smile of
disappointment, "he is only a thief."

But the man in the dark could not find
the right key. He reached the instrument
he had placed on the stand, touched a
spring, and immediately a pale light,
just bright enough to render objects
distinct, was reflected on his hands and
countenance. "By heavens," exclaimed
Monte Cristo, starting back, "it is" --

Ali raised his hatchet. "Don't stir,"
whispered Monte Cristo, "and put down
your hatchet; we shall require no arms."
Then he added some words in a low tone,
for the exclamation which surprise had
drawn from the count, faint as it had
been, had startled the man who remained
in the pose of the old knife-grinder. It
was an order the count had just given,
for immediately Ali went noiselessly,
and returned, bearing a black dress and
a three-cornered hat. Meanwhile Monte
Cristo had rapidly taken off his
great-coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and
one might distinguish by the glimmering
through the open panel that he wore a
pliant tunic of steel mail, of which the
last in France, where daggers are no
longer dreaded, was worn by King Louis
XVI., who feared the dagger at his
breast, and whose head was cleft with a
hatchet. The tunic soon disappeared
under a long cassock, as did his hair
under a priest's wig; the three-cornered
hat over this effectually transformed
the count into an abbe.

The man, hearing nothing more, stood
erect, and while Monte Cristo was
completing his disguise had advanced
straight to the secretary, whose lock
was beginning to crack under his
nightingale.

"Try again," whispered the count, who
depended on the secret spring, which was
unknown to the picklock, clever as he
might be -- "try again, you have a few
minutes' work there." And he advanced to
the window. The man whom he had seen
seated on a fence had got down, and was
still pacing the street; but, strange as
it appeared, he cared not for those who
might pass from the avenue of the
Champs-Elysees or by the Faubourg St.
Honore; his attention was engrossed with
what was passing at the count's, and his
only aim appeared to be to discern every
movement in the dressing-room.

Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger
on his forehead and a smile passed over
his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he
whispered, --

"Remain here, concealed in the dark, and
whatever noise you hear, whatever
passes, only come in or show yourself if
I call you." Ali bowed in token of
strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew
a lighted taper from a closet, and when
the thief was deeply engaged with his
lock, silently opened the door, taking
care that the light should shine
directly on his face. The door opened so
quietly that the thief heard no sound;
but, to his astonishment, the room was
suddenly illuminated. He turned.

"Ah, good-evening, my dear M.
Caderousse," said Monte Cristo; "what
are you doing here, at such an hour?"

"The Abbe Busoni!" exclaimed Caderousse;
and, not knowing how this strange
apparition could have entered when he
had bolted the doors, he let fall his
bunch of keys, and remained motionless
and stupefied. The count placed himself
between Caderousse and the window, thus
cutting off from the thief his only
chance of retreat. "The Abbe Busoni!"
repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard
gaze on the count.

"Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbe Busoni
himself," replied Monte Cristo. "And I
am very glad you recognize me, dear M.
Caderousse; it proves you have a good
memory, for it must be about ten years
since we last met." This calmness of
Busoni, combined with his irony and
boldness, staggered Caderousse.

"The abbe, the abbe!" murmured he,
clinching his fists, and his teeth
chattering.

"So you would rob the Count of Monte
Cristo?" continued the false abbe.

"Reverend sir," murmured Caderousse,
seeking to regain the window, which the
count pitilessly blocked -- "reverend
sir, I don't know -- believe me -- I
take my oath" --

"A pane of glass out," continued the
count, "a dark lantern, a bunch of false
keys, a secretary half forced -- it is
tolerably evident" --

Caderousse was choking; he looked around
for some corner to hide in, some way of
escape.

"Come, come," continued the count, "I
see you are still the same, -- an
assassin."

"Reverend sir, since you know
everything, you know it was not I -- it
was La Carconte; that was proved at the
trial, since I was only condemned to the
galleys."

"Is your time, then, expired, since I
find you in a fair way to return there?"

"No, reverend sir; I have been liberated
by some one."

"That some one has done society a great
kindness."

"Ah," said Caderousse, "I had
promised" --

"And you are breaking your promise!"
interrupted Monte Cristo.

"Alas, yes!" said Caderousse very
uneasily.

"A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I
mistake not, to the Place de Greve. So
much the worse, so much the worse --
diavolo, as they say in my country."

"Reverend sir, I am impelled" --

"Every criminal says the same thing."

"Poverty" --

"Pshaw!" said Busoni disdainfully;
"poverty may make a man beg, steal a
loaf of bread at a baker's door, but not
cause him to open a secretary in a house
supposed to be inhabited. And when the
jeweller Johannes had just paid you
40,000 francs for the diamond I had
given you, and you killed him to get the
diamond and the money both, was that
also poverty?"

"Pardon, reverend sir," said Caderousse;
"you have saved my life once, save me
again!"

"That is but poor encouragement."

"Are you alone, reverend sir, or have
you there soldiers ready to seize me?"

"I am alone," said the abbe, "and I will
again have pity on you, and will let you
escape, at the risk of the fresh
miseries my weakness may lead to, if you
tell me the truth."

"Ah, reverend sir," cried Caderousse,
clasping his hands, and drawing nearer
to Monte Cristo, "I may indeed say you
are my deliverer!"

"You mean to say you have been freed
from confinement?"

"Yes, that is true, reverend sir."

"Who was your liberator?"

"An Englishman."

"What was his name?"

"Lord Wilmore."

"I know him; I shall know if you lie."

"Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple
truth."

"Was this Englishman protecting you?"

"No, not me, but a young Corsican, my
companion."

"What was this young Corsican's name?"

"Benedetto."

"Is that his Christian name?"

"He had no other; he was a foundling."

"Then this young man escaped with you?"

"He did."

"In what way?"

"We were working at St. Mandrier, near
Toulon. Do you know St. Mandrier?"

"I do."

"In the hour of rest, between noon and
one o'clock" --

"Galley-slaves having a nap after
dinner! We may well pity the poor
fellows!" said the abbe.

"Nay," said Caderousse, "one can't
always work -- one is not a dog."

"So much the better for the dogs," said
Monte Cristo.

"While the rest slept, then, we went
away a short distance; we severed our
fetters with a file the Englishman had
given us, and swam away."

"And what is become of this Benedetto?"

"I don't know."

"You ought to know."

"No, in truth; we parted at Hyeres."
And, to give more weight to his
protestation, Caderousse advanced
another step towards the abbe, who
remained motionless in his place, as
calm as ever, and pursuing his
interrogation. "You lie," said the Abbe
Busoni, with a tone of irresistible
authority.

"Reverend sir!"

"You lie! This man is still your friend,
and you, perhaps, make use of him as
your accomplice."

"Oh, reverend sir!"

"Since you left Toulon what have you
lived on? Answer me!"

"On what I could get."

"You lie," repeated the abbe a third
time, with a still more imperative tone.
Caderousse, terrified, looked at the
count. "You have lived on the money he
has given you."

"True," said Caderousse; "Benedetto has
become the son of a great lord."

"How can he be the son of a great lord?"

"A natural son."

"And what is that great lord's name?"

"The Count of Monte Cristo, the very
same in whose house we are."

"Benedetto the count's son?" replied
Monte Cristo, astonished in his turn.

"Well, I should think so, since the
count has found him a false father --
since the count gives him four thousand
francs a month, and leaves him 500,000
francs in his will."

"Ah, yes," said the factitious abbe, who
began to understand; "and what name does
the young man bear meanwhile?"

"Andrea Cavalcanti."

"Is it, then, that young man whom my
friend the Count of Monte Cristo has
received into his house, and who is
going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Exactly."

"And you suffer that, you wretch -- you,
who know his life and his crime?"

"Why should I stand in a comrade's way?"
said Caderousse.

"You are right; it is not you who should
apprise M. Danglars, it is I."

"Do not do so, reverend sir."

"Why not?"

"Because you would bring us to ruin."

"And you think that to save such
villains as you I will become an abettor
of their plot, an accomplice in their
crimes?"

"Reverend sir," said Caderousse, drawing
still nearer.

"I will expose all."

"To whom?"

"To M. Danglars."

"By heaven!" cried Caderousse, drawing
from his waistcoat an open knife, and
striking the count in the breast, "you
shall disclose nothing, reverend sir!"
To Caderousse's great astonishment, the
knife, instead of piercing the count's
breast, flew back blunted. At the same
moment the count seized with his left
hand the assassin's wrist, and wrung it
with such strength that the knife fell
from his stiffened fingers, and
Caderousse uttered a cry of pain. But
the count, disregarding his cry,
continued to wring the bandit's wrist,
until, his arm being dislocated, he fell
first on his knees, then flat on the
floor. The count then placed his foot on
his head, saying, "I know not what
restrains me from crushing thy skull,
rascal."

"Ah, mercy -- mercy!" cried Caderousse.
The count withdrew his foot. "Rise!"
said he. Caderousse rose.

"What a wrist you have, reverend sir!"
said Caderousse. stroking his arm, all
bruised by the fleshy pincers which had
held it; "what a wrist!"

"Silence! God gives me strength to
overcome a wild beast like you; in the
name of that God I act, -- remember
that, wretch, -- and to spare thee at
this moment is still serving him."

"Oh!" said Caderousse, groaning with
pain.

"Take this pen and paper, and write what
I dictate."

"I don't know how to write, reverend
sir."

"You lie! Take this pen, and write!"
Caderousse, awed by the superior power
of the abbe, sat down and wrote: --

Sir, -- The man whom you are receiving
at your house, and to whom you intend to
marry your daughter, is a felon who
escaped with me from confinement at
Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He
was called Benedetto, but he is ignorant
of his real name, having never known his
parents.

"Sign it!" continued the count.

"But would you ruin me?"

"If I sought your ruin, fool, I should
drag you to the first guard-house;
besides, when that note is delivered, in
all probability you will have no more to
fear. Sign it, then!"

Caderousse signed it. "The address, `To
monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, Rue
de la Chaussee d'Antin.'" Caderousse
wrote the address. The abbe took the
note. "Now," said he, "that suffices --
begone!"

"Which way?"

"The way you came."

"You wish me to get out at that window?"

"You got in very well."

"Oh, you have some design against me,
reverend sir."

"Idiot! what design can I have?"

"Why, then, not let me out by the door?"

"What would be the advantage of waking
the porter?" --

"Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish
me dead?"

"I wish what God wills."

"But swear that you will not strike me
as I go down."

"Cowardly fool!"

"What do you intend doing with me?"

"I ask you what can I do? I have tried
to make you a happy man, and you have
turned out a murderer."

"Oh, monsieur," said Caderousse, "make
one more attempt -- try me once more!"

"I will," said the count. "Listen -- you
know if I may be relied on."

"Yes," said Caderousse.

"If you arrive safely at home" --

"What have I to fear, except from you?"

"If you reach your home safely, leave
Paris, leave France, and wherever you
may be, so long as you conduct yourself
well, I will send you a small annuity;
for, if you return home safely, then" --

"Then?" asked Caderousse, shuddering.

"Then I shall believe God has forgiven
you, and I will forgive you too."

"As true as I am a Christian," stammered
Caderousse, "you will make me die of
fright!"

"Now begone," said the count, pointing
to the window.

Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on this
promise, put his legs out of the window
and stood on the ladder. "Now go down,"
said the abbe, folding his arms.
Understanding he had nothing more to
fear from him, Caderousse began to go
down. Then the count brought the taper
to the window, that it might be seen in
the Champs-Elysees that a man was
getting out of the window while another
held a light.

"What are you doing, reverend sir?
Suppose a watchman should pass?" And he
blew out the light. He then descended,
but it was only when he felt his foot
touch the ground that he was satisfied
of his safety.

Monte Cristo returned to his bedroom,
and, glancing rapidly from the garden to
the street, he saw first Caderousse, who
after walking to the end of the garden,
fixed his ladder against the wall at a
different part from where he came in.
The count then looking over into the
street, saw the man who appeared to be
waiting run in the same direction, and
place himself against the angle of the
wall where Caderousse would come over.
Caderousse climbed the ladder slowly,
and looked over the coping to see if the
street was quiet. No one could be seen
or heard. The clock of the Invalides
struck one. Then Caderousse sat astride
the coping, and drawing up his ladder
passed it over the wall; then he began
to descend, or rather to slide down by
the two stanchions, which he did with an
ease which proved how accustomed he was
to the exercise. But, once started, he
could not stop. In vain did he see a man
start from the shadow when he was
halfway down -- in vain did he see an
arm raised as he touched the ground.
Before he could defend himself that arm
struck him so violently in the back that
he let go the ladder, crying, "Help!" A
second blow struck him almost
immediately in the side, and he fell,
calling, "Help, murder!" Then, as he
rolled on the ground, his adversary
seized him by the hair, and struck him a
third blow in the chest. This time
Caderousse endeavored to call again, but
he could only utter a groan, and he
shuddered as the blood flowed from his
three wounds. The assassin, finding that
he no longer cried out, lifted his head
up by the hair; his eyes were closed,
and the mouth was distorted. The
murderer, supposing him dead, let fall
his head and disappeared. Then
Caderousse, feeling that he was leaving
him, raised himself on his elbow, and
with a dying voice cried with great
effort, "Murder! I am dying! Help,
reverend sir, -- help!"

This mournful appeal pierced the
darkness. The door of the back-staircase
opened, then the side-gate of the
garden, and Ali and his master were on
the spot with lights.



Chapter 83 The Hand of God.

Caderousse continued to call piteously,
"Help, reverend sir, help!"

"What is the matter?" asked Monte
Cristo.

"Help," cried Caderousse; "I am
murdered!"

"We are here; -- take courage."

"Ah, it's all over! You are come too
late -- you are come to see me die. What
blows, what blood!" He fainted. Ali and
his master conveyed the wounded man into
a room. Monte Cristo motioned to Ali to
undress him, and he then examined his
dreadful wounds. "My God!" he exclaimed,
"thy vengeance is sometimes delayed, but
only that it may fall the more
effectually." Ali looked at his master
for further instructions. "Bring here
immediately the king's attorney, M. de
Villefort, who lives in the Faubourg St.
Honore. As you pass the lodge, wake the
porter, and send him for a surgeon." Ali
obeyed, leaving the abbe alone with
Caderousse, who had not yet revived.

When the wretched man again opened his
eyes, the count looked at him with a
mournful expression of pity, and his
lips moved as if in prayer. "A surgeon,
reverend sir -- a surgeon!" said
Caderousse.

"I have sent for one," replied the abbe.

"I know he cannot save my life, but he
may strengthen me to give my evidence."

"Against whom?"

"Against my murderer."

"Did you recognize him?"

"Yes; it was Benedetto."

"The young Corsican?"

"Himself."

"Your comrade?"

"Yes. After giving me the plan of this
house, doubtless hoping I should kill
the count and he thus become his heir,
or that the count would kill me and I
should be out of his way, he waylaid me,
and has murdered me."

"I have also sent for the procureur."

"He will not come in time; I feel my
life fast ebbing."

"Wait a moment," said Monte Cristo. He
left the room, and returned in five
minutes with a phial. The dying man's
eyes were all the time riveted on the
door, through which he hoped succor
would arrive. "Hasten, reverend sir,
hasten! I shall faint again!" Monte
Cristo approached, and dropped on his
purple lips three or four drops of the
contents of the phial. Caderousse drew a
deep breath. "Oh," said he, "that is
life to me; more, more!"

"Two drops more would kill you," replied
the abbe.

"Oh, send for some one to whom I can
denounce the wretch!"

"Shall I write your deposition? You can
sign it."

"Yes yes," said Caderousse; and his eyes
glistened at the thought of this
posthumous revenge. Monte Cristo
wrote: --

"I die, murdered by the Corsican
Benedetto, my comrade in the galleys at
Toulouse, No. 59."

"Quick, quick!" said Caderousse, "or I
shall be unable to sign it."

Monte Cristo gave the pen to Caderousse,
who collected all his strength, signed
it, and fell back on his bed, saying:
"You will relate all the rest, reverend
sir; you will say he calls himself
Andrea Cavalcanti. He lodges at the
Hotel des Princes. Oh, I am dying!" He
again fainted. The abbe made him smell
the contents of the phial, and he again
opened his eyes. His desire for revenge
had not forsaken him.

"Ah, you will tell all I have said, will
you not, reverend sir?"

"Yes, and much more."

"What more will you say?"

"I will say he had doubtless given you
the plan of this house, in the hope the
count would kill you. I will say,
likewise, he had apprised the count, by
a note, of your intention, and, the
count being absent, I read the note and
sat up to await you."

"And he will be guillotined, will be
not?" said Caderousse. "Promise me that,
and I will die with that hope."

"I will say," continued the count, "that
he followed and watched you the whole
time, and when he saw you leave the
house, ran to the angle of the wall to
conceal himself."

"Did you see all that?"

"Remember my words: `If you return home
safely, I shall believe God has forgiven
you, and I will forgive you also.'"

"And you did not warn me!" cried
Caderousse, raising himself on his
elbows. "You knew I should be killed on
leaving this house, and did not warn
me!"

"No; for I saw God's justice placed in
the hands of Benedetto, and should have
thought it sacrilege to oppose the
designs of providence."

"God's justice! Speak not of it,
reverend sir. If God were just, you know
how many would be punished who now
escape."

"Patience," said the abbe, in a tone
which made the dying man shudder; "have
patience!" Caderousse looked at him with
amazement. "Besides," said the abbe,
"God is merciful to all, as he has been
to you; he is first a father, then a
judge."

"Do you then believe in God?" said
Caderousse.

"Had I been so unhappy as not to believe
in him until now," said Monte Cristo, "I
must believe on seeing you." Caderousse
raised his clinched hands towards
heaven.

"Listen," said the abbe, extending his
hand over the wounded man, as if to
command him to believe; "this is what
the God in whom, on your death-bed, you
refuse to believe, has done for you --
he gave you health, strength, regular
employment, even friends -- a life, in
fact, which a man might enjoy with a
calm conscience. Instead of improving
these gifts, rarely granted so
abundantly, this has been your course --
you have given yourself up to sloth and
drunkenness, and in a fit of
intoxication have ruined your best
friend."

"Help!" cried Caderousse; "I require a
surgeon, not a priest; perhaps I am not
mortally wounded -- I may not die;
perhaps they can yet save my life."

"Your wounds are so far mortal that,
without the three drops I gave you, you
would now be dead. Listen, then."

"Ah," murmured Caderousse, "what a
strange priest you are; you drive the
dying to despair, instead of consoling
them."

"Listen," continued the abbe. "When you
had betrayed your friend God began not
to strike, but to warn you. Poverty
overtook you. You had already passed
half your life in coveting that which
you might have honorably acquired; and
already you contemplated crime under the
excuse of want, when God worked a
miracle in your behalf, sending you, by
my hands, a fortune -- brilliant,
indeed, for you, who had never possessed
any. But this unexpected, unhoped-for,
unheard-of fortune sufficed you no
longer when you once possessed it; you
wished to double it, and how? -- by a
murder! You succeeded, and then God
snatched it from you, and brought you to
justice."

"It was not I who wished to kill the
Jew," said Caderousse; "it was La
Carconte."

"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "and God, -- I
cannot say in justice, for his justice
would have slain you, -- but God, in his
mercy, spared your life."

"Pardieu, to transport me for life, how
merciful!"

"You thought it a mercy then, miserable
wretch! The coward who feared death
rejoiced at perpetual disgrace; for like
all galley-slaves, you said, `I may
escape from prison, I cannot from the
grave.' And you said truly; the way was
opened for you unexpectedly. An
Englishman visited Toulon, who had vowed
to rescue two men from infamy, and his
choice fell on you and your companion.
You received a second fortune, money and
tranquillity were restored to you, and
you, who had been condemned to a felon's
life, might live as other men. Then,
wretched creature, then you tempted God
a third time. `I have not enough,' you
said, when you had more than you before
possessed, and you committed a third
crime, without reason, without excuse.
God is wearied; he has punished you."
Caderousse was fast sinking. "Give me
drink," said he: "I thirst -- I burn!"
Monte Cristo gave him a glass of water.
"And yet that villain, Benedetto, will
escape!"

"No one, I tell you, will escape;
Benedetto will be punished."

"Then, you, too, will be punished, for
you did not do your duty as a priest --
you should have prevented Benedetto from
killing me."

"I?" said the count, with a smile which
petrified the dying man, "when you had
just broken your knife against the coat
of mail which protected my breast! Yet
perhaps if I had found you humble and
penitent, I might have prevented
Benedetto from killing you; but I found
you proud and blood-thirsty, and I left
you in the hands of God."

"I do not believe there is a God,"
howled Caderousse; "you do not believe
it; you lie -- you lie!"

"Silence," said the abbe; "you will
force the last drop of blood from your
veins. What! you do not believe in God
when he is striking you dead? you will
not believe in him, who requires but a
prayer, a word, a tear, and he will
forgive? God, who might have directed
the assassin's dagger so as to end your
career in a moment, has given you this
quarter of an hour for repentance.
Reflect, then, wretched man, and
repent."

"No," said Caderousse, "no; I will not
repent. There is no God; there is no
providence -- all comes by chance." --

"There is a providence; there is a God,"
said Monte Cristo, "of whom you are a
striking proof, as you lie in utter
despair, denying him, while I stand
before you, rich, happy, safe and
entreating that God in whom you endeavor
not to believe, while in your heart you
still believe in him."

"But who are you, then?" asked
Caderousse, fixing his dying eyes on the
count. "Look well at me!" said Monte
Cristo, putting the light near his face.
"Well, the abbe -- the Abbe Busoni."
Monte Cristo took off the wig which
disfigured him, and let fall his black
hair, which added so much to the beauty
of his pallid features. "Oh?" said
Caderousse, thunderstruck, "but for that
black hair, I should say you were the
Englishman, Lord Wilmore."

"I am neither the Abbe Busoni nor Lord
Wilmore," said Monte Cristo; "think
again, -- do you not recollect me?"
Those was a magic effect in the count's
words, which once more revived the
exhausted powers of the miserable man.
"Yes, indeed," said he; "I think I have
seen you and known you formerly."

"Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you
knew me once."

"Who, then, are you? and why, if you
knew me, do you let me die?"

"Because nothing can save you; your
wounds are mortal. Had it been possible
to save you, I should have considered it
another proof of God's mercy, and I
would again have endeavored to restore
you, I swear by my father's tomb."

"By your father's tomb!" said
Caderousse, supported by a supernatural
power, and half-raising himself to see
more distinctly the man who had just
taken the oath which all men hold
sacred; "who, then, are you?" The count
had watched the approach of death. He
knew this was the last struggle. He
approached the dying man, and, leaning
over him with a calm and melancholy
look, he whispered, "I am -- I am" --
And his almost closed lips uttered a
name so low that the count himself
appeared afraid to hear it. Caderousse,
who had raised himself on his knees, and
stretched out his arm, tried to draw
back, then clasping his hands, and
raising them with a desperate effort, "O
my God, my God!" said he, "pardon me for
having denied thee; thou dost exist,
thou art indeed man's father in heaven,
and his judge on earth. My God, my Lord,
I have long despised thee! Pardon me, my
God; receive me, O my Lord!" Caderousse
sighed deeply, and fell back with a
groan. The blood no longer flowed from
his wounds. He was dead.

"One!" said the count mysteriously, his
eyes fixed on the corpse, disfigured by
so awful a death. Ten minutes afterwards
the surgeon and the procureur arrived,
the one accompanied by the porter, the
other by Ali, and were received by the
Abbe Busoni, who was praying by the side
of the corpse.



Chapter 84 Beauchamp.

The daring attempt to rob the count was
the topic of conversation throughout
Paris for the next fortnight. The dying
man had signed a deposition declaring
Benedetto to be the assassin. The police
had orders to make the strictest search
for the murderer. Caderousse's knife,
dark lantern, bunch of keys, and
clothing, excepting the waistcoat, which
could not be found, were deposited at
the registry; the corpse was conveyed to
the morgue. The count told every one
that this adventure had happened during
his absence at Auteuil, and that he only
knew what was related by the Abbe
Busoni, who that evening, by mere
chance, had requested to pass the night
in his house, to examine some valuable
books in his library. Bertuccio alone
turned pale whenever Benedetto's name
was mentioned in his presence, but there
was no reason why any one should notice
his doing so. Villefort, being called on
to prove the crime, was preparing his
brief with the same ardor that he was
accustomed to exercise when required to
speak in criminal cases.

But three weeks had already passed, and
the most diligent search had been
unsuccessful; the attempted robbery and
the murder of the robber by his comrade
were almost forgotten in anticipation of
the approaching marriage of Mademoiselle
Danglars to the Count Andrea Cavalcanti.
It was expected that this wedding would
shortly take place, as the young man was
received at the banker's as the
betrothed. Letters had been despatched
to M. Cavalcanti, as the count's father,
who highly approved of the union,
regretted his inability to leave Parma
at that time, and promised a wedding
gift of a hundred and fifty thousand
livres. It was agreed that the three
millions should be intrusted to Danglars
to invest; some persons had warned the
young man of the circumstances of his
future father-in-law, who had of late
sustained repeated losses; but with
sublime disinterestedness and confidence
the young man refused to listen, or to
express a single doubt to the baron. The
baron adored Count Andrea Cavalcanti:
not so Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars.
With an instinctive hatred of matrimony,
she suffered Andrea's attentions in
order to get rid of Morcerf; but when
Andrea urged his suit, she betrayed an
entire dislike to him. The baron might
possibly have perceived it, but,
attributing it to a caprice, feigned
ignorance.

The delay demanded by Beauchamp had
nearly expired. Morcerf appreciated the
advice of Monte Cristo to let things die
away of their own accord. No one had
taken up the remark about the general,
and no one had recognized in the officer
who betrayed the castle of Yanina the
noble count in the House of Peers.
Albert, however felt no less insulted;
the few lines which had irritated him
were certainly intended as an insult.
Besides, the manner in which Beauchamp
had closed the conference left a bitter
recollection in his heart. He cherished
the thought of the duel, hoping to
conceal its true cause even from his
seconds. Beauchamp had not been seen
since the day he visited Albert, and
those of whom the latter inquired always
told him he was out on a journey which
would detain him some days. Where he was
no one knew.

One morning Albert was awakened by his
valet de chambre, who announced
Beauchamp. Albert rubbed his eyes,
ordered his servant to introduce him
into the small smoking-room on the
ground-floor, dressed himself quickly,
and went down. He found Beauchamp pacing
the room; on perceiving him Beauchamp
stopped. "Your arrival here, without
waiting my visit at your house to-day,
looks well, sir," said Albert. "Tell me,
may I shake hands with you, saying,
`Beauchamp, acknowledge you have injured
me, and retain my friendship,' or must I
simply propose to you a choice of arms?"

"Albert," said Beauchamp, with a look of
sorrow which stupefied the young man,
"let us first sit down and talk."

"Rather, sir, before we sit down, I must
demand your answer."

"Albert," said the journalist, "these
are questions which it is difficult to
answer."

"I will facilitate it by repeating the
question, `Will you, or will you not,
retract?'"

"Morcerf, it is not enough to answer
`yes' or `no' to questions which concern
the honor, the social interest, and the
life of such a man as Lieutenant-general
the Count of Morcerf, peer of France."

"What must then be done?"

"What I have done, Albert. I reasoned
thus -- money, time, and fatigue are
nothing compared with the reputation and
interests of a whole family;
probabilities will not suffice, only
facts will justify a deadly combat with
a friend. If I strike with the sword, or
discharge the contents of a pistol at
man with whom, for three years, I have
been on terms of intimacy, I must, at
least, know why I do so; I must meet him
with a heart at ease, and that quiet
conscience which a man needs when his
own arm must save his life."

"Well," said Morcerf, impatiently, "what
does all this mean?"

"It means that I have just returned from
Yanina."

"From Yanina?"

"Yes."

"Impossible!"

"Here is my passport; examine the
visa -- Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste,
Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the
government of a republic, a kingdom, and
an empire?" Albert cast his eyes on the
passport, then raised them in
astonishment to Beauchamp. "You have
been to Yanina?" said he.

"Albert, had you been a stranger, a
foreigner, a simple lord, like that
Englishman who came to demand
satisfaction three or four months since,
and whom I killed to get rid of, I
should not have taken this trouble; but
I thought this mark of consideration due
to you. I took a week to go, another to
return, four days of quarantine, and
forty-eight hours to stay there; that
makes three weeks. I returned last
night, and here I am."

"What circumlocution! How long you are
before you tell me what I most wish to
know?"

"Because, in truth, Albert" --

"You hesitate?"

"Yes, -- I fear."

"You fear to acknowledge that your
correspondent his deceived you? Oh, no
self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it,
Beauchamp; your courage cannot be
doubted."

"Not so," murmured the journalist; "on
the contrary" --

Albert turned frightfully pale; he
endeavored to speak, but the words died
on his lips. "My friend," said
Beauchamp, in the most affectionate
tone, "I should gladly make an apology;
but, alas," --

"But what?"

"The paragraph was correct, my friend."

"What? That French officer" --

"Yes."

"Fernand?"

"Yes."

"The traitor who surrendered the castle
of the man in whose service he was" --

"Pardon me, my friend, that man was your
father!" Albert advanced furiously
towards Beauchamp, but the latter
restrained him more by a mild look than
by his extended hand.

"My friend," said he, "here is a proof
of it."

Albert opened the paper, it was an
attestation of four notable inhabitants
of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand
Mondego, in the service of Ali Tepelini,
had surrendered the castle for two
million crowns. The signatures were
perfectly legal. Albert tottered and
fell overpowered in a chair. It could no
longer be doubted; the family name was
fully given. After a moment's mournful
silence, his heart overflowed, and he
gave way to a flood of tears. Beauchamp,
who had watched with sincere pity the
young man's paroxysm of grief,
approached him. "Now, Albert," said he,
"you understand me -- do you not? I
wished to see all, and to judge of
everything for myself, hoping the
explanation would be in your father's
favor, and that I might do him justice.
But, on the contrary, the particulars
which are given prove that Fernand
Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank
of governor-general, is no other than
Count Fernand of Morcerf; then,
recollecting the honor you had done me,
in admitting me to your friendship, I
hastened to you."

Albert, still extended on the chair,
covered his face with both hands, as if
to prevent the light from reaching him.
"I hastened to you," continued
Beauchamp, "to tell you, Albert, that in
this changing age, the faults of a
father cannot revert upon his children.
Few have passed through this
revolutionary period, in the midst of
which we were born, without some stain
of infamy or blood to soil the uniform
of the soldier, or the gown of the
magistrate. Now I have these proofs,
Albert, and I am in your confidence, no
human power can force me to a duel which
your own conscience would reproach you
with as criminal, but I come to offer
you what you can no longer demand of me.
Do you wish these proofs, these
attestations, which I alone possess, to
be destroyed? Do you wish this frightful
secret to remain with us? Confided to
me, it shall never escape my lips; say,
Albert, my friend, do you wish it?"

Albert threw himself on Beauchamp's
neck. "Ah, noble fellow!" cried he.

"Take these," said Beauchamp, presenting
the papers to Albert.

Albert seized them with a convulsive
hand, tore them in pieces, and trembling
lest the least vestige should escape and
one day appear to confront him, he
approached the wax-light, always kept
burning for cigars, and burned every
fragment. "Dear, excellent friend,"
murmured Albert, still burning the
papers.

"Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful
dream," said Beauchamp; "let it vanish
as the last sparks from the blackened
paper, and disappear as the smoke from
those silent ashes."

"Yes, yes," said Albert, "and may there
remain only the eternal friendship which
I promised to my deliverer, which shall
be transmitted to our children's
children, and shall always remind me
that I owe my life and the honor of my
name to you, -- for had this been known,
oh, Beauchamp, I should have destroyed
myself; or, -- no, my poor mother! I
could not have killed her by the same
blow, -- I should have fled from my
country."

"Dear Albert," said Beauchamp. But this
sudden and factitious joy soon forsook
the young man, and was succeeded by a
still greater grief.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "what still
oppresses you, my friend?"

"I am broken-hearted," said Albert.
"Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus, in a
moment relinquish the respect, the
confidence, and pride with which a
father's untarnished name inspires a
son. Oh, Beauchamp, Beauchamp, how shall
I now approach mine? Shall I draw back
my forehead from his embrace, or
withhold my hand from his? I am the most
wretched of men. Ah, my mother, my poor
mother!" said Albert, gazing through his
tears at his mother's portrait; "if you
know this, how much must you suffer!"

"Come," said Beauchamp, taking both his
hands, "take courage, my friend."

"But how came that first note to be
inserted in your journal? Some unknown
enemy -- an invisible foe -- has done
this."

"The more must you fortify yourself,
Albert. Let no trace of emotion be
visible on your countenance, bear your
grief as the cloud bears within it ruin
and death -- a fatal secret, known only
when the storm bursts. Go, my friend,
reserve your strength for the moment
when the crash shall come."

"You think, then, all is not over yet?"
said Albert, horror-stricken.

"I think nothing, my friend; but all
things are possible. By the way" --

"What?" said Albert, seeing that
Beauchamp hesitated.

"Are you going to marry Mademoiselle
Danglars?"

"Why do you ask me now?"

"Because the rupture or fulfilment of
this engagement is connected with the
person of whom we were speaking."

"How?" said Albert, whose brow reddened;
"you think M. Danglars" --

"I ask you only how your engagement
stands? Pray put no construction on my
words I do not mean they should convey,
and give them no undue weight."

"No." said Albert, "the engagement is
broken off."

"Well," said Beauchamp. Then, seeing the
young man was about to relapse into
melancholy, "Let us go out, Albert,"
said he; "a ride in the wood in the
phaeton, or on horseback, will refresh
you; we will then return to breakfast,
and you shall attend to your affairs,
and I to mine."

"Willingly," said Albert; "but let us
walk. I think a little exertion would do
me good." The two friends walked out on
the fortress. When arrived at the
Madeleine, -- "Since we are out," said
Beauchamp, "let us call on M. de Monte
Cristo; he is admirably adapted to
revive one's spirits, because he never
interrogates, and in my opinion those
who ask no questions are the best
comforters."

"Gladly," said Albert; "I love him --
let us call."



Chapter 85 The Journey.

Monte Cristo uttered a joyful
exclamation on seeing the young men
together. "Ah, ha!" said he, "I hope all
is over, explained and settled."

"Yes," said Beauchamp; "the absurd
reports have died away, and should they
be renewed, I would be the first to
oppose them; so let us speak no more of
it."

"Albert will tell you," replied the
count "that I gave him the same advice.
Look," added he. "I am finishing the
most execrable morning's work."

"What is it?" said Albert; "arranging
your papers, apparently."

"My papers, thank God, no, -- my papers
are all in capital order, because I have
none; but M. Cavalcanti's."

"M. Cavalcanti's?" asked Beauchamp.

"Yes; do you not know that this is a
young man whom the count is
introducing?" said Morcerf.

"Let us not misunderstand each other,"
replied Monte Cristo; "I introduce my
one, and certainly not M. Cavalcanti."

"And who," said Albert with a forced
smile, "is to marry Mademoiselle
Danglars instead of me, which grieves me
cruelly."

"What? Cavalcanti is going to marry
Mademoiselle Danglars?" asked Beauchamp.

"Certainly; do you come from the end of
the world?" said Monte Cristo; "you, a
journalist, the husband of renown? It is
the talk of all Paris."

"And you, count, have made this match?"
asked Beauchamp.

"I? Silence, purveyor of gossip, do not
spread that report. I make a match? No,
you do not know me; I have done all in
my power to oppose it."

"Ah, I understand," said Beauchamp, "on
our friend Albert's account."

"On my account?" said the young man;
"oh, no, indeed, the count will do me
the justice to assert that I have, on
the contrary, always entreated him to
break off my engagement, and happily it
is ended. The count pretends I have not
him to thank; -- so be it -- I will
erect an altar Deo ignoto."

"Listen," said Monte Cristo; "I have had
little to do with it, for I am at
variance both with the father-in-law and
the young man; there is only
Mademoiselle Eugenie, who appears but
little charmed with the thoughts of
matrimony, and who, seeing how little I
was disposed to persuade her to renounce
her dear liberty, retains any affection
for me."

"And do you say this wedding is at
hand?"

"Oh, yes, in spite of all I could say. I
do not know the young man; he is said to
be of good family and rich, but I never
trust to vague assertions. I have warned
M. Danglars of it till I am tired, but
he is fascinated with his Luccanese. I
have even informed him of a circumstance
I consider very serious; the young man
was either charmed by his nurse, stolen
by gypsies, or lost by his tutor, I
scarcely know which. But I do know his
father lost sight of him for more than
ten years; what he did during these ten
years, God only knows. Well, all that
was useless. They have commissioned me
to write to the major to demand papers,
and here they are. I send them, but like
Pilate -- washing my hands."

"And what does Mademoiselle d'Armilly
say to you for robbing her of her
pupil?"

"Oh, well, I don't know; but I
understand that she is going to Italy.
Madame Danglars asked me for letters of
recommendation for the impresari; I gave
her a few lines for the director of the
Valle Theatre, who is under some
obligation to me. But what is the
matter, Albert? you look dull; are you,
after all, unconsciously in love with
Mademoiselle Eugenie?"

"I am not aware of it," said Albert,
smiling sorrowfully. Beauchamp turned to
look at some paintings. "But," continued
Monte Cristo, "you are not in your usual
spirits?"

"I have a dreadful headache," said
Albert.

"Well, my dear viscount," said Monte
Cristo, "I have an infallible remedy to
propose to you."

"What is that?" asked the young man.

"A change."

"Indeed?" said Albert.

"Yes; and as I am just now excessively
annoyed, I shall go from home. Shall we
go together?"

"You annoyed, count?" said Beauchamp;
"and by what?"

"Ah, you think very lightly of it; I
should like to see you with a brief
preparing in your house."

"What brief?"

"The one M. de Villefort is preparing
against my amiable assassin -- some
brigand escaped from the gallows
apparently."

"True," said Beauchamp; "I saw it in the
paper. Who is this Caderousse?"

"Some provincial, it appears. M. de
Villefort heard of him at Marseilles,
and M. Danglars recollects having seen
him. Consequently, the procureur is very
active in the affair, and the prefect of
police very much interested; and, thanks
to that interest, for which I am very
grateful, they send me all the robbers
of Paris and the neighborhood, under
pretence of their being Caderousse's
murderers, so that in three months, if
this continue, every robber and assassin
in France will have the plan of my house
at his fingers' end. I am resolved to
desert them and go to some remote corner
of the earth, and shall be happy if you
will accompany me, viscount."

"Willingly."

"Then it is settled?"

"Yes, but where?"

"I have told you, where the air is pure,
where every sound soothes, where one is
sure to be humbled, however proud may be
his nature. I love that humiliation, I,
who am master of the universe, as was
Augustus."

"But where are you really going?"

"To sea, viscount; you know I am a
sailor. I was rocked when an infant in
the arms of old ocean, and on the bosom
of the beautiful Amphitrite; I have
sported with the green mantle of the one
and the azure robe of the other; I love
the sea as a mistress, and pine if I do
not often see her."

"Let us go, count."

"To sea?"

"Yes."

"You accept my proposal?"

"I do."

"Well, Viscount, there will be in my
court-yard this evening a good
travelling britzka, with four
post-horses, in which one may rest as in
a bed. M. Beauchamp, it holds four very
well, will you accompany us?"

"Thank you, I have just returned from
sea."

"What? you have been to sea?"

"Yes; I have just made a little
excursion to the Borromean Islands."*

* Lake Maggiore.

"What of that? come with us," said
Albert.

"No, dear Morcerf; you know I only
refuse when the thing is impossible.
Besides, it is important," added he in a
low tone, "that I should remain in Paris
just now to watch the paper."

"Ah, you are a good and an excellent
friend," said Albert; "yes, you are
right; watch, watch, Beauchamp, and try
to discover the enemy who made this
disclosure." Albert and Beauchamp
parted, the last pressure of their hands
expressing what their tongues could not
before a stranger.

"Beauchamp is a worthy fellow," said
Monte Cristo, when the journalist was
gone; "is he not, Albert?"

"Yes, and a sincere friend; I love him
devotedly. But now we are alone, --
although it is immaterial to me, --
where are we going?"

"Into Normandy, if you like."

"Delightful; shall we be quite retired?
have no society, no neighbors?"

"Our companions will be riding-horses,
dogs to hunt with, and a fishing-boat."

"Exactly what I wish for; I will apprise
my mother of my intention, and return to
you."

"But shall you be allowed to go into
Normandy?"

"I may go where I please."

"Yes, I am aware you may go alone, since
I once met you in Italy -- but to
accompany the mysterious Monte Cristo?"

"You forget, count, that I have often
told you of the deep interest my mother
takes in you."

"`Woman is fickle.' said Francis I.;
`woman is like a wave of the sea,' said
Shakespeare; both the great king and the
great poet ought to have known woman's
nature well."

"Woman's, yes; my mother is not woman,
but a woman."

"As I am only a humble foreigner, you
must pardon me if I do not understand
all the subtle refinements of your
language."

"What I mean to say is, that my mother
is not quick to give her confidence, but
when she does she never changes."

"Ah, yes, indeed," said Monte Cristo
with a sigh; "and do you think she is in
the least interested in me?"

"I repeat it, you must really be a very
strange and superior man, for my mother
is so absorbed by the interest you have
excited, that when I am with her she
speaks of no one else."

"And does she try to make you dislike
me?"

"On the contrary, she often says,
`Morcerf, I believe the count has a
noble nature; try to gain his esteem.'"

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo, sighing.

"You see, then," said Albert, "that
instead of opposing, she will encourage
me."

"Adieu, then, until five o'clock; be
punctual, and we shall arrive at twelve
or one."

"At Treport?"

"Yes; or in the neighborhood."

"But can we travel forty-eight leagues
in eight hours?"

"Easily," said Monte Cristo.

"You are certainly a prodigy; you will
soon not only surpass the railway, which
would not be very difficult in France,
but even the telegraph."

"But, viscount, since we cannot perform
the journey in less than seven or eight
hours, do not keep me waiting."

"Do not fear, I have little to prepare."
Monte Cristo smiled as he nodded to
Albert, then remained a moment absorbed
in deep meditation. But passing his hand
across his forehead as if to dispel his
revery, he rang the bell twice and
Bertuccio entered. "Bertuccio," said he,
"I intend going this evening to
Normandy, instead of to-morrow or the
next day. You will have sufficient time
before five o'clock; despatch a
messenger to apprise the grooms at the
first station. M. de Morcerf will
accompany me." Bertuccio obeyed and
despatched a courier to Pontoise to say
the travelling-carriage would arrive at
six o'clock. From Pontoise another
express was sent to the next stage, and
in six hours all the horses stationed on
the road were ready. Before his
departure, the count went to Haidee's
apartments, told her his intention, and
resigned everything to her care. Albert
was punctual. The journey soon became
interesting from its rapidity, of which
Morcerf had formed no previous idea.
"Truly," said Monte Cristo, "with your
posthorses going at the rate of two
leagues an hour, and that absurd law
that one traveller shall not pass
another without permission, so that an
invalid or ill-tempered traveller may
detain those who are well and active, it
is impossible to move; I escape this
annoyance by travelling with my own
postilion and horses; do I not, Ali?"

The count put his head out of the window
and whistled, and the horses appeared to
fly. The carriage rolled with a
thundering noise over the pavement, and
every one turned to notice the dazzling
meteor. Ali, smiling, repeated the
sound, grasped the reins with a firm
hand, and spurred his horses, whose
beautiful manes floated in the breeze.
This child of the desert was in his
element, and with his black face and
sparkling eyes appeared, in the cloud of
dust he raised, like the genius of the
simoom and the god of the hurricane. "I
never knew till now the delight of
speed," said Morcerf, and the last cloud
disappeared from his brow; "but where
the devil do you get such horses? Are
they made to order?"

"Precisely," said the count; "six years
since I bought a horse in Hungary
remarkable for its swiftness. The
thirty-two that we shall use to-night
are its progeny; they are all entirely
black, with the exception of a star upon
the forehead."

"That is perfectly admirable; but what
do you do, count, with all these
horses?"

"You see, I travel with them."

"But you are not always travelling."

"When I no longer require them,
Bertuccio will sell them, and he expects
to realize thirty or forty thousand
francs by the sale."

"But no monarch in Europe will be
wealthy enough to purchase them."

"Then he will sell them to some Eastern
vizier, who will empty his coffers to
purchase them, and refill them by
applying the bastinado to his subjects."

"Count, may I suggest one idea to you?"

"Certainly."

"It is that, next to you, Bertuccio must
be the richest gentleman in Europe."

"You are mistaken, viscount; I believe
he has not a franc in his possession."

"Then he must be a wonder. My dear
count, if you tell me many more
marvellous things, I warn you I shall
not believe them."

"I countenance nothing that is
marvellous, M. Albert. Tell me, why does
a steward rob his master?"

"Because, I suppose, it is his nature to
do so, for the love of robbing."

"You are mistaken; it is because he has
a wife and family, and ambitious desires
for himself and them. Also because he is
not sure of always retaining his
situation, and wishes to provide for the
future. Now, M. Bertuccio is alone in
the world; he uses my property without
accounting for the use he makes of it;
he is sure never to leave my service."

"Why?"

"Because I should never get a better."

"Probabilities are deceptive."

"But I deal in certainties; he is the
best servant over whom one has the power
of life and death."

"Do you possess that right over
Bertuccio?"

"Yes."

There are words which close a
conversation with an iron door; such was
the count's "yes." The whole journey was
performed with equal rapidity; the
thirty-two horses, dispersed over seven
stages, brought them to their
destination in eight hours. At midnight
they arrived at the gate of a beautiful
park. The porter was in attendance; he
had been apprised by the groom of the
last stage of the count's approach. At
half past two in the morning Morcerf was
conducted to his apartments, where a
bath and supper were prepared. The
servant who had travelled at the back of
the carriage waited on him; Baptistin,
who rode in front, attended the count.
Albert bathed, took his supper, and went
to bed. All night he was lulled by the
melancholy noise of the surf. On rising,
he went to his window, which opened on a
terrace, having the sea in front, and at
the back a pretty park bounded by a
small forest. In a creek lay a little
sloop, with a narrow keel and high
masts, bearing on its flag the Monte
Cristo arms which were a mountain on a
sea azure, with a cross gules on the
shield. Around the schooner lay a number
of small fishing-boats belonging to the
fishermen of the neighboring village,
like humble subjects awaiting orders
from their queen. There, as in every
spot where Monte Cristo stopped, if but
for two days, luxury abounded and life
went on with the utmost ease.

Albert found in his anteroom two guns,
with all the accoutrements for hunting;
a lofty room on the ground-floor
containing all the ingenious instruments
the English -- eminent in piscatory
pursuits, since they are patient and
sluggish -- have invented for fishing.
The day passed in pursuing those
exercises in which Monte Cristo
excelled. They killed a dozen pheasants
in the park, as many trout in the
stream, dined in a summer-house
overlooking the ocean, and took tea in
the library.

Towards the evening of the third day.
Albert, completely exhausted with the
exercise which invigorated Monte Cristo,
was sleeping in an arm-chair near the
window, while the count was designing
with his architect the plan of a
conservatory in his house, when the
sound of a horse at full speed on the
high road made Albert look up. He was
disagreeably surprised to see his own
valet de chambre, whom he had not
brought, that he might not inconvenience
Monte Cristo.

"Florentin here!" cried he, starting up;
"is my mother ill?" And he hastened to
the door. Monte Cristo watched and saw
him approach the valet, who drew a small
sealed parcel from his pocket,
containing a newspaper and a letter.
"From whom is this?" said he eagerly.
"From M. Beauchamp," replied Florentin.

"Did he send you?"

"Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house,
gave me money for my journey, procured a
horse, and made me promise not to stop
till I had reached you, I have come in
fifteen hours."

Albert opened the letter with fear,
uttered a shriek on reading the first
line, and seized the paper. His sight
was dimmed, his legs sank under him, and
he would have fallen had not Florentin
supported him.

"Poor young man," said Monte Cristo in a
low voice; "it is then true that the sin
of the father shall fall on the children
to the third and fourth generation."
Meanwhile Albert had revived, and,
continuing to read, he threw back his
head, saying, "Florentin, is your horse
fit to return immediately?"

"It is a poor lame post-horse."

"In what state was the house when you
left?"

"All was quiet, but on returning from M.
Beauchamp's, I found madame in tears:
she had sent for me to know when you
would return. I told her my orders from
M. Beauchamp; she first extended her
arms to prevent me, but after a moment's
reflection, `Yes, go, Florentin,' said
she, `and may he come quickly.'"

"Yes, my mother," said Albert, "I will
return, and woe to the infamous wretch!
But first of all I must get there."

He went back to the room where he had
left Monte Cristo. Five minutes had
sufficed to make a complete
transformation in his appearance. His
voice had become rough and hoarse; his
face was furrowed with wrinkles; his
eyes burned under the blue-veined lids,
and he tottered like a drunken man.
"Count," said he, "I thank you for your
hospitality, which I would gladly have
enjoyed longer; but I must return to
Paris."

"What has happened?"

"A great misfortune, more important to
me than life. Don't question me, I beg
of you, but lend me a horse."

"My stables are at your command,
viscount; but you will kill yourself by
riding on horseback. Take a post-chaise
or a carriage."

"No, it would delay me, and I need the
fatigue you warn me of; it will do me
good." Albert reeled as if he had been
shot, and fell on a chair near the door.
Monte Cristo did not see this second
manifestation of physical exhaustion; he
was at the window, calling, "Ali, a
horse for M. de Morcerf -- quick! he is
in a hurry!" These words restored
Albert; he darted from the room,
followed by the count. "Thank you!"
cried he, throwing himself on his horse.
"Return as soon as you can, Florentin.
Must I use any password to procure a
horse?"

"Only dismount; another will be
immediately saddled." Albert hesitated a
moment. "You may think my departure
strange and foolish," said the young
man; "you do not know how a paragraph in
a newspaper may exasperate one. Read
that," said he, "when I am gone, that
you may not be witness of my anger."

While the count picked up the paper he
put spurs to his horse, which leaped in
astonishment at such an unusual
stimulus, and shot away with the
rapidity of an arrow. The count watched
him with a feeling of compassion, and
when he had completely disappeared, read
as follows: --

"The French officer in the service of
Ali Pasha of Yanina alluded to three
weeks since in the Impartial, who not
only surrendered the castle of Yanina,
but sold his benefactor to the Turks,
styled himself truly at that time
Fernand, as our esteemed contemporary
states; but he has since added to his
Christian name a title of nobility and a
family name. He now calls himself the
Count of Morcerf, and ranks among the
peers."

Thus the terrible secret, which
Beauchamp had so generously destroyed,
appeared again like an armed phantom;
and another paper, deriving its
information from some malicious source,
had published two days after Albert's
departure for Normandy the few lines
which had rendered the unfortunate young
man almost crazy.



Chapter 86 The Trial.

At eight o'clock in the morning Albert
had arrived at Beauchamp's door. The
valet de chambre had received orders to
usher him in at once. Beauchamp was in
his bath. "Here I am," said Albert.

"Well, my poor friend," replied
Beauchamp, "I expected you."

"I need not say I think you are too
faithful and too kind to have spoken of
that painful circumstance. Your having
sent for me is another proof of your
affection. So, without losing time, tell
me, have you the slightest idea whence
this terrible blow proceeds?"

"I think I have some clew."

"But first tell me all the particulars
of this shameful plot." Beauchamp
proceeded to relate to the young man,
who was overwhelmed with shame and
grief, the following facts. Two days
previously, the article had appeared in
another paper besides the Impartial,
and, what was more serious, one that was
well known as a government paper.
Beauchamp was breakfasting when he read
the paragraph. He sent immediately for a
cabriolet, and hastened to the
publisher's office. Although professing
diametrically opposite principles from
those of the editor of the other paper,
Beauchamp -- as it sometimes, we may say
often, happens -- was his intimate
friend. The editor was reading, with
apparent delight, a leading article in
the same paper on beet-sugar, probably a
composition of his own.

"Ah, pardieu," said Beauchamp, "with the
paper in your hand, my friend, I need
not tell you the cause of my visit."

"Are you interested in the sugar
question?" asked the editor of the
ministerial paper.

"No," replied Beauchamp, "I have not
considered the question; a totally
different subject interests me."

"What is it?"

"The article relative to Morcerf."

"Indeed? Is it not a curious affair?"

"So curious, that I think you are
running a great risk of a prosecution
for defamation of character."

"Not at all; we have received with the
information all the requisite proofs,
and we are quite sure M. de Morcerf will
not raise his voice against us; besides,
it is rendering a service to one's
country to denounce these wretched
criminals who are unworthy of the honor
bestowed on them." Beauchamp was
thunderstruck. "Who, then, has so
correctly informed you?" asked he; "for
my paper, which gave the first
information on the subject, has been
obliged to stop for want of proof; and
yet we are more interested than you in
exposing M. de Morcerf, as he is a peer
of France, and we are of the
opposition."

"Oh, that is very simple; we have not
sought to scandalize. This news was
brought to us. A man arrived yesterday
from Yanina, bringing a formidable array
of documents; and when we hesitated to
publish the accusatory article, he told
us it should be inserted in some other
paper."

Beauchamp understood that nothing
remained but to submit, and left the
office to despatch a courier to Morcerf.
But he had been unable to send to Albert
the following particulars, as the events
had transpired after the messenger's
departure; namely, that the same day a
great agitation was manifest in the
House of Peers among the usually calm
members of that dignified assembly.
Every one had arrived almost before the
usual hour, and was conversing on the
melancholy event which was to attract
the attention of the public towards one
of their most illustrious colleagues.
Some were perusing the article, others
making comments and recalling
circumstances which substantiated the
charges still more. The Count of Morcerf
was no favorite with his colleagues.
Like all upstarts, he had had recourse
to a great deal of haughtiness to
maintain his position. The true nobility
laughed at him, the talented repelled
him, and the honorable instinctively
despised him. He was, in fact, in the
unhappy position of the victim marked
for sacrifice; the finger of God once
pointed at him, every one was prepared
to raise the hue and cry.

The Count of Morcerf alone was ignorant
of the news. He did not take in the
paper containing the defamatory article,
and had passed the morning in writing
letters and in trying a horse. He
arrived at his usual hour, with a proud
look and insolent demeanor; he alighted,
passed through the corridors, and
entered the house without observing the
hesitation of the door-keepers or the
coolness of his colleagues. Business had
already been going on for half an hour
when he entered. Every one held the
accusing paper, but, as usual, no one
liked to take upon himself the
responsibility of the attack. At length
an honorable peer, Morcerf's
acknowledged enemy, ascended the tribune
with that solemnity which announced that
the expected moment had arrived. There
was an impressive silence; Morcerf alone
knew not why such profound attention was
given to an orator who was not always
listened to with so much complacency.
The count did not notice the
introduction, in which the speaker
announced that his communication would
be of that vital importance that it
demanded the undivided attention of the
House; but at the mention of Yanina and
Colonel Fernand, he turned so
frightfully pale that every member
shuddered and fixed his eyes upon him.
Moral wounds have this peculiarity, --
they may be hidden, but they never
close; always painful, always ready to
bleed when touched, they remain fresh
and open in the heart.

The article having been read during the
painful hush that followed, a universal
shudder pervaded the assembly. and
immediately the closest attention was
given to the orator as he resumed his
remarks. He stated his scruples and the
difficulties of the case; it was the
honor of M. de Morcerf, and that of the
whole House, he proposed to defend, by
provoking a debate on personal
questions, which are always such painful
themes of discussion. He concluded by
calling for an investigation, which
might dispose of the calumnious report
before it had time to spread, and
restore M. de Morcerf to the position he
had long held in public opinion. Morcerf
was so completely overwhelmed by this
great and unexpected calamity that he
could scarcely stammer a few words as he
looked around on the assembly. This
timidity, which might proceed from the
astonishment of innocence as well as the
shame of guilt, conciliated some in his
favor; for men who are truly generous
are always ready to compassionate when
the misfortune of their enemy surpasses
the limits of their hatred.

The president put it to the vote, and it
was decided that the investigation
should take place. The count was asked
what time he required to prepare his
defence. Morcerf's courage had revived
when he found himself alive after this
horrible blow. "My lords," answered he,
"it is not by time I could repel the
attack made on me by enemies unknown to
me, and, doubtless, hidden in obscurity;
it is immediately, and by a thunderbolt,
that I must repel the flash of lightning
which, for a moment, startled me. Oh,
that I could, instead of taking up this
defence, shed my last drop of blood to
prove to my noble colleagues that I am
their equal in worth." These words made
a favorable impression on behalf of the
accused. "I demand, then, that the
examination shall take place as soon as
possible, and I will furnish the house
with all necessary information."

"What day do you fix?" asked the
president.

"To-day I am at your service," replied
the count. The president rang the bell.
"Does the House approve that the
examination should take place to-day?"

"Yes," was the unanimous answer.

A committee of twelve members was chosen
to examine the proofs brought forward by
Morcerf. The investigation would begin
at eight o'clock that evening in the
committee-room, and if postponement were
necessary, the proceedings would be
resumed each evening at the same hour.
Morcerf asked leave to retire; he had to
collect the documents he had long been
preparing against this storm, which his
sagacity had foreseen.

Albert listened, trembling now with
hope, then with anger, and then again
with shame, for from Beauchamp's
confidence he knew his father was
guilty, and he asked himself how, since
he was guilty, he could prove his
innocence. Beauchamp hesitated to
continue his narrative. "What next?"
asked Albert.

"What next? My friend, you impose a
painful task on me. Must you know all?"

"Absolutely; and rather from your lips
than another's."

"Muster up all your courage, then, for
never have you required it more." Albert
passed his hand over his forehead, as if
to try his strength, as a man who is
preparing to defend his life proves his
shield and bends his sword. He thought
himself strong enough, for he mistook
fever for energy. "Go on," said he.

"The evening arrived; all Paris was in
expectation. Many said your father had
only to show himself to crush the charge
against him; many others said he would
not appear; while some asserted that
they had seen him start for Brussels;
and others went to the police-office to
inquire if he had taken out a passport.
I used all my influence with one of the
committee, a young peer of my
acquaintance, to get admission to one of
the galleries. He called for me at seven
o'clock, and, before any one had
arrived, asked one of the door-keepers
to place me in a box. I was concealed by
a column, and might witness the whole of
the terrible scene which was about to
take place. At eight o'clock all were in
their places, and M. de Morcerf entered
at the last stroke. He held some papers
in his hand; his countenance was calm,
and his step firm, and he was dressed
with great care in his military uniform,
which was buttoned completely up to the
chin. His presence produced a good
effect. The committee was made up of
Liberals, several of whom came forward
to shake hands with him."

Albert felt his heart bursting at these
particulars, but gratitude mingled with
his sorrow: he would gladly have
embraced those who had given his father
this proof of esteem at a moment when
his honor was so powerfully attacked.
"At this moment one of the door-keepers
brought in a letter for the president.
`You are at liberty to speak, M. de
Morcerf,' said the president, as he
unsealed the letter; and the count began
his defence, I assure you, Albert, in a
most eloquent and skilful manner. He
produced documents proving that the
Vizier of Yanina had up to the last
moment honored him with his entire
confidence, since he had interested him
with a negotiation of life and death
with the emperor. He produced the ring,
his mark of authority, with which Ali
Pasha generally sealed his letters, and
which the latter had given him, that he
might, on his return at any hour of the
day or night, gain access to the
presence, even in the harem.
Unfortunately, the negotiation failed,
and when he returned to defend his
benefactor, he was dead. `But,' said the
count, `so great was Ali Pasha's
confidence, that on his death-bed he
resigned his favorite mistress and her
daughter to my care.'" Albert started on
hearing these words; the history of
Haidee recurred to him, and he
remembered what she had said of that
message and the ring, and the manner in
which she had been sold and made a
slave. "And what effect did this
discourse produce?" anxiously inquired
Albert. "I acknowledge it affected me,
and, indeed, all the committee also,"
said Beauchamp.

"Meanwhile, the president carelessly
opened the letter which had been brought
to him; but the first lines aroused his
attention; he read them again and again,
and fixing his eyes on M. de Morcerf,
`Count,' said he, `you have said that
the Vizier of Yanina confided his wife
and daughter to your care?' -- `Yes,
sir,' replied Morcerf; `but in that,
like all the rest, misfortune pursued
me. On my return, Vasiliki and her
daughter Haidee had disappeared.' --
`Did you know them?' -- `My intimacy
with the pasha and his unlimited
confidence had gained me an introduction
to them, and I had seen them above
twenty times.'

"`Have you any idea what became of
them?' -- `Yes, sir; I heard they had
fallen victims to their sorrow, and,
perhaps, to their poverty. I was not
rich; my life was in constant danger; I
could not seek them, to my great
regret.' The president frowned
imperceptibly. `Gentlemen,' said he,
`you have heard the Comte de Morcerf's
defence. Can you, sir, produce any
witnesses to the truth of what you have
asserted?' -- `Alas, no, monsieur,'
replied the count; `all those who
surrounded the vizier, or who knew me at
his court, are either dead or gone away,
I know not where. I believe that I
alone, of all my countrymen, survived
that dreadful war. I have only the
letters of Ali Tepelini, which I have
placed before you; the ring, a token of
his good-will, which is here; and,
lastly, the most convincing proof I can
offer, after an anonymous attack, and
that is the absence of any witness
against my veracity and the purity of my
military life.' A murmur of approbation
ran through the assembly; and at this
moment, Albert, had nothing more
transpired, your father's cause had been
gained. It only remained to put it to
the vote, when the president resumed:
`Gentlemen and you, monsieur, -- you
will not be displeased, I presume, to
listen to one who calls himself a very
important witness, and who has just
presented himself. He is, doubtless,
come to prove the perfect innocence of
our colleague. Here is a letter I have
just received on the subject; shall it
be read, or shall it be passed over? and
shall we take no notice of this
incident?' M. de Morcerf turned pale,
and clinched his hands on the papers he
held. The committee decided to hear the
letter; the count was thoughtful and
silent. The president read: --

"`Mr. President, -- I can furnish the
committee of inquiry into the conduct of
the Lieutenant-General the Count of
Morcerf in Epirus and in Macedonia with
important particulars.'

"The president paused, and the count
turned pale. The president looked at his
auditors. `Proceed,' was heard on all
sides. The president resumed: --

"`I was on the spot at the death of Ali
Pasha. I was present during his last
moments. I know what is become of
Vasiliki and Haidee. I am at the command
of the committee, and even claim the
honor of being heard. I shall be in the
lobby when this note is delivered to
you.'

"`And who is this witness, or rather
this enemy?' asked the count, in a tone
in which there was a visible alteration.
`We shall know, sir,' replied the
president. `Is the committee willing to
hear this witness?' -- `Yes, yes,' they
all said at once. The door-keeper was
called. `Is there any one in the lobby?'
said the president.

"`Yes, sir.' -- `Who is it?' -- `A
woman, accompanied by a servant.' Every
one looked at his neighbor. `Bring her
in,' said the president. Five minutes
after the door-keeper again appeared;
all eyes were fixed on the door, and I,"
said Beauchamp, "shared the general
expectation and anxiety. Behind the
door-keeper walked a woman enveloped in
a large veil, which completely concealed
her. It was evident, from her figure and
the perfumes she had about her, that she
was young and fastidious in her tastes,
but that was all. The president
requested her to throw aside her veil,
and it was then seen that she was
dressed in the Grecian costume, and was
remarkably beautiful."

"Ah," said Albert, "it was she."

"Who?"

"Haidee."

"Who told you that?"

"Alas, I guess it. But go on, Beauchamp.
You see I am calm and strong. And yet we
must be drawing near the disclosure."

"M. de Morcerf," continued Beauchamp,
"looked at this woman with surprise and
terror. Her lips were about to pass his
sentence of life or death. To the
committee the adventure was so
extraordinary and curious, that the
interest they had felt for the count's
safety became now quite a secondary
matter. The president himself advanced
to place a seat for the young lady; but
she declined availing herself of it. As
for the count, he had fallen on his
chair; it was evident that his legs
refused to support him.

"`Madame,' said the president, `you have
engaged to furnish the committee with
some important particulars respecting
the affair at Yanina, and you have
stated that you were an eyewitness of
the event.' -- `I was, indeed,' said the
stranger, with a tone of sweet
melancholy, and with the sonorous voice
peculiar to the East.

"`But allow me to say that you must have
been very young then.' -- `I was four
years old; but as those events deeply
concerned me, not a single detail has
escaped my memory.' -- `In what manner
could these events concern you? and who
are you, that they should have made so
deep an impression on you?' -- `On them
depended my father's life,' replied she.
`I am Haidee, the daughter of Ali
Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of
Vasiliki, his beloved wife.'

"The blush of mingled pride and modesty
which suddenly suffused the cheeks of
the young woman, the brilliancy of her
eye, and her highly important
communication, produced an indescribable
effect on the assembly. As for the
count, he could not have been more
overwhelmed if a thunderbolt had fallen
at his feet and opened an immense gulf
before him. `Madame,' replied the
president, bowing with profound respect,
`allow me to ask one question; it shall
be the last: Can you prove the
authenticity of what you have now
stated?' -- `I can, sir,' said Haidee,
drawing from under her veil a satin
satchel highly perfumed; `for here is
the register of my birth, signed by my
father and his principal officers, and
that of my baptism, my father having
consented to my being brought up in my
mother's faith, -- this latter has been
sealed by the grand primate of Macedonia
and Epirus; and lastly (and perhaps the
most important), the record of the sale
of my person and that of my mother to
the Armenian merchant El-Kobbir, by the
French officer, who, in his infamous
bargain with the Porte, had reserved as
his part of the booty the wife and
daughter of his benefactor, whom he sold
for the sum of four hundred thousand
francs.' A greenish pallor spread over
the count's cheeks, and his eyes became
bloodshot at these terrible imputations,
which were listened to by the assembly
with ominous silence.

"Haidee, still calm, but with a calmness
more dreadful than the anger of another
would have been, handed to the president
the record of her sale, written in
Arabic. It had been supposed some of the
papers might be in the Arabian, Romaic,
or Turkish language, and the interpreter
of the House was in attendance. One of
the noble peers, who was familiar with
the Arabic language, having studied it
during the famous Egyptian campaign,
followed with his eye as the translator
read aloud: --

"`I, El-Kobbir, a slave-merchant, and
purveyor of the harem of his highness,
acknowledge having received for
transmission to the sublime emperor,
from the French lord, the Count of Monte
Cristo, an emerald valued at eight
hundred thousand francs; as the ransom
of a young Christian slave of eleven
years of age, named Haidee, the
acknowledged daughter of the late lord
Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of
Vasiliki, his favorite; she having been
sold to me seven years previously, with
her mother, who had died on arriving at
Constantinople, by a French colonel in
the service of the Vizier Ali Tepelini,
named Fernand Mondego. The
above-mentioned purchase was made on his
highness's account, whose mandate I had,
for the sum of four hundred thousand
francs.

"`Given at Constantinople, by authority
of his highness, in the year 1247 of the
Hegira.

"`Signed El-Kobbir.'

"`That this record should have all due
authority, it shall bear the imperial
seal, which the vendor is bound to have
affixed to it.'

"Near the merchant's signature there
was, indeed, the seal of the sublime
emperor. A dreadful silence followed the
reading of this document; the count
could only stare, and his gaze, fixed as
if unconsciously on Haidee, seemed one
of fire and blood. `Madame,' said the
president, `may reference be made to the
Count of Monte Cristo, who is now, I
believe, in Paris?' -- `Sir,' replied
Haidee, `the Count of Monte Cristo, my
foster-father, has been in Normandy the
last three days.'

"`Who, then, has counselled you to take
this step, one for which the court is
deeply indebted to you, and which is
perfectly natural, considering your
birth and your misfortunes?' -- `Sir,'
replied Haidee, `I have been led to take
this step from a feeling of respect and
grief. Although a Christian, may God
forgive me, I have always sought to
revenge my illustrious father. Since I
set my foot in France, and knew the
traitor lived in Paris, I have watched
carefully. I live retired in the house
of my noble protector, but I do it from
choice. I love retirement and silence,
because I can live with my thoughts and
recollections of past days. But the
Count of Monte Cristo surrounds me with
every paternal care, and I am ignorant
of nothing which passes in the world. I
learn all in the silence of my
apartments, -- for instance, I see all
the newspapers, every periodical, as
well as every new piece of music; and by
thus watching the course of the life of
others, I learned what had transpired
this morning in the House of Peers, and
what was to take place this evening;
then I wrote.'

"`Then,' remarked the president, `the
Count of Monte Cristo knows nothing of
your present proceedings?' -- `He is
quite unaware of them, and I have but
one fear, which is that he should
disapprove of what I have done. But it
is a glorious day for me,' continued the
young girl, raising her ardent gaze to
heaven, `that on which I find at last an
opportunity of avenging my father!'

"The count had not uttered one word the
whole of this time. His colleagues
looked at him, and doubtless pitied his
prospects, blighted under the perfumed
breath of a woman. His misery was
depicted in sinister lines on his
countenance. `M. de Morcerf,' said the
president, `do you recognize this lady
as the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha
of Yanina?' -- `No,' said Morcerf,
attempting to rise, `it is a base plot,
contrived by my enemies.' Haidee, whose
eyes had been fixed on the door, as if
expecting some one, turned hastily, and,
seeing the count standing, shrieked,
`You do not know me?' said she. `Well, I
fortunately recognize you! You are
Fernand Mondego, the French officer who
led the troops of my noble father! It is
you who surrendered the castle of
Yanina! It is you who, sent by him to
Constantinople, to treat with the
emperor for the life or death of your
benefactor, brought back a false mandate
granting full pardon! It is you who,
with that mandate, obtained the pasha's
ring, which gave you authority over
Selim, the fire-keeper! It is you who
stabbed Selim. It is you who sold us, my
mother and me, to the merchant,
El-Kobbir! Assassin, assassin, assassin,
you have still on your brow your
master's blood! Look, gentlemen, all!'

"These words had been pronounced with
such enthusiasm and evident truth, that
every eye was fixed on the count's
forehead, and he himself passed his hand
across it, as if he felt Ali's blood
still lingering there. `You positively
recognize M. de Morcerf as the officer,
Fernand Mondego?' -- `Indeed I do!'
cried Haidee. `Oh, my mother, it was you
who said, "You were free, you had a
beloved father, you were destined to be
almost a queen. Look well at that man;
it is he who raised your father's head
on the point of a spear; it is he who
sold us; it is he who forsook us! Look
well at his right hand, on which he has
a large wound; if you forgot his
features, you would know him by that
hand, into which fell, one by one, the
gold pieces of the merchant El-Kobbir!"
I know him! Ah, let him say now if he
does not recognize me!' Each word fell
like a dagger on Morcerf, and deprived
him of a portion of his energy; as she
uttered the last, he hid his mutilated
hand hastily in his bosom, and fell back
on his seat, overwhelmed by wretchedness
and despair. This scene completely
changed the opinion of the assembly
respecting the accused count.

"`Count of Morcerf,' said the president,
`do not allow yourself to be cast down;
answer. The justice of the court is
supreme and impartial as that of God; it
will not suffer you to be trampled on by
your enemies without giving you an
opportunity of defending yourself. Shall
further inquiries be made? Shall two
members of the House be sent to Yanina?
Speak!' Morcerf did not reply. Then all
the members looked at each other with
terror. They knew the count's energetic
and violent temper; it must be, indeed,
a dreadful blow which would deprive him
of courage to defend himself. They
expected that his stupefied silence
would be followed by a fiery outburst.
`Well,' asked the president, `what is
your decision?'

"`I have no reply to make,' said the
count in a low tone.

"`Has the daughter of Ali Tepelini
spoken the truth?' said the president.
`Is she, then, the terrible witness to
whose charge you dare not plead "Not
guilty"? Have you really committed the
crimes of which you are accused?' The
count looked around him with an
expression which might have softened
tigers, but which could not disarm his
judges. Then he raised his eyes towards
the ceiling, but withdrew then,
immediately, as if he feared the roof
would open and reveal to his distressed
view that second tribunal called heaven,
and that other judge named God. Then,
with a hasty movement, he tore open his
coat, which seemed to stifle him, and
flew from the room like a madman; his
footstep was heard one moment in the
corridor, then the rattling of his
carriage-wheels as he was driven rapidly
away. `Gentlemen,' said the president,
when silence was restored, `is the Count
of Morcerf convicted of felony, treason,
and conduct unbecoming a member of this
House?' -- `Yes,' replied all the
members of the committee of inquiry with
a unanimous voice.

"Haidee had remained until the close of
the meeting. She heard the count's
sentence pronounced without betraying an
expression of joy or pity; then drawing
her veil over her face she bowed
majestically to the councillors, and
left with that dignified step which
Virgil attributes to his goddesses."



Chapter 87 The Challenge.

"Then," continued Beauchamp, "I took
advantage of the silence and the
darkness to leave the house without
being seen. The usher who had introduced
me was waiting for me at the door, and
he conducted me through the corridors to
a private entrance opening into the Rue
de Vaugirard. I left with mingled
feelings of sorrow and delight. Excuse
me, Albert, -- sorrow on your account,
and delight with that noble girl, thus
pursuing paternal vengeance. Yes,
Albert, from whatever source the blow
may have proceeded -- it may be from an
enemy, but that enemy is only the agent
of providence." Albert held his head
between his hands; he raised his face,
red with shame and bathed in tears, and
seizing Beauchamp's arm, "My friend,"
said he, "my life is ended. I cannot
calmly say with you, `Providence has
struck the blow;' but I must discover
who pursues me with this hatred, and
when I have found him I shall kill him,
or he will kill me. I rely on your
friendship to assist me, Beauchamp, if
contempt has not banished it from your
heart."

"Contempt, my friend? How does this
misfortune affect you? No, happily that
unjust prejudice is forgotten which made
the son responsible for the father's
actions. Review your life, Albert;
although it is only just beginning, did
a lovely summer's day ever dawn with
greater purity than has marked the
commencement of your career? No, Albert,
take my advice. You are young and
rich -- leave Paris -- all is soon
forgotten in this great Babylon of
excitement and changing tastes. You will
return after three or four years with a
Russian princess for a bride, and no one
will think more of what occurred
yesterday than if it had happened
sixteen years ago."

"Thank you, my dear Beauchamp, thank you
for the excellent feeling which prompts
your advice; but it cannot be. I have
told you my wish, or rather my
determination. You understand that,
interested as I am in this affair, I
cannot see it in the same light as you
do. What appears to you to emanate from
a celestial source, seems to me to
proceed from one far less pure.
Providence appears to me to have no
share in this affair; and happily so,
for instead of the invisible, impalpable
agent of celestial rewards and
punishments, I shall find one both
palpable and visible, on whom I shall
revenge myself, I assure you, for all I
have suffered during the last month.
Now, I repeat, Beauchamp, I wish to
return to human and material existence,
and if you are still the friend you
profess to be, help me to discover the
hand that struck the blow."

"Be it so," said Beauchamp; "if you must
have me descend to earth, I submit; and
if you will seek your enemy, I will
assist you, and I will engage to find
him, my honor being almost as deeply
interested as yours."

"Well, then, you understand, Beauchamp,
that we begin our search immediately.
Each moment's delay is an eternity for
me. The calumniator is not yet punished,
and he may hope that he will not be;
but, on my honor, it he thinks so, he
deceives himself."

"Well, listen, Morcerf."

"Ah, Beauchamp, I see you know something
already; you will restore me to life."

"I do not say there is any truth in what
I am going to tell you, but it is, at
least, a ray of light in a dark night;
by following it we may, perhaps,
discover something more certain."

"Tell me; satisfy my impatience."

"Well, I will tell you what I did not
like to mention on my return from
Yanina."

"Say on."

"I went, of course, to the chief banker
of the town to make inquiries. At the
first word, before I had even mentioned
your father's name" --

"`Ah,' said he. `I guess what brings you
here.'

"`How, and why?'

"`Because a fortnight since I was
questioned on the same subject.'

"`By whom?' -- `By a Paris banker, my
correspondent.'

"`Whose name is' --

"`Danglars.'"

"He!" cried Albert; "yes, it is indeed
he who has so long pursued my father
with jealous hatred. He, the man who
would be popular, cannot forgive the
Count of Morcerf for being created a
peer; and this marriage broken off
without a reason being assigned -- yes,
it is all from the same cause."

"Make inquiries, Albert, but do not be
angry without reason; make inquiries,
and if it be true" --

"Oh, yes, if it be true," cried the
young man, "he shall pay me all I have
suffered."

"Beware, Morcerf, he is already an old
man."

"I will respect his age as he has
respected the honor of my family; if my
father had offended him, why did he not
attack him personally? Oh, no, he was
afraid to encounter him face to face."

"I do not condemn you, Albert; I only
restrain you. Act prudently."

"Oh, do not fear; besides, you will
accompany me. Beauchamp, solemn
transactions should be sanctioned by a
witness. Before this day closes, if M.
Danglars is guilty, he shall cease to
live, or I shall die. Pardieu,
Beauchamp, mine shall be a splendid
funeral!"

"When such resolutions are made, Albert,
they should be promptly executed. Do you
wish to go to M. Danglars? Let us go
immediately." They sent for a cabriolet.
On entering the banker's mansion, they
perceived the phaeton and servant of M.
Andrea Cavalcanti. "Ah, parbleu, that's
good," said Albert, with a gloomy tone.
"If M. Danglars will not fight with me,
I will kill his son-in-law; Cavalcanti
will certainly fight." The servant
announced the young man; but the banker,
recollecting what had transpired the day
before, did not wish him admitted. It
was, however, too late; Albert had
followed the footman, and, hearing the
order given, forced the door open, and
followed by Beauchamp found himself in
the banker's study. "Sir," cried the
latter, "am I no longer at liberty to
receive whom I choose in my house? You
appear to forget yourself sadly."

"No, sir," said Albert, coldly; "there
are circumstances in which one cannot,
except through cowardice, -- I offer you
that refuge, -- refuse to admit certain
persons at least."

"What is your errand, then, with me,
sir?"

"I mean," said Albert, drawing near, and
without apparently noticing Cavalcanti,
who stood with his back towards the
fireplace -- "I mean to propose a
meeting in some retired corner where no
one will interrupt us for ten minutes;
that will be sufficient -- where two men
having met, one of them will remain on
the ground." Danglars turned pale;
Cavalcanti moved a step forward, and
Albert turned towards him. "And you,
too," said he, "come, if you like,
monsieur; you have a claim, being almost
one of the family, and I will give as
many rendezvous of that kind as I can
find persons willing to accept them."
Cavalcanti looked at Danglars with a
stupefied air, and the latter, making an
effort, arose and stepped between the
two young men. Albert's attack on Andrea
had placed him on a different footing,
and he hoped this visit had another
cause than that he had at first
supposed.

"Indeed, sir," said he to Albert, "if
you are come to quarrel with this
gentleman because I have preferred him
to you, I shall resign the case to the
king's attorney."

"You mistake, sir," said Morcerf with a
gloomy smile; "I am not referring in the
least to matrimony, and I only addressed
myself to M. Cavalcanti because he
appeared disposed to interfere between
us. In one respect you are right, for I
am ready to quarrel with every one
to-day; but you have the first claim, M.
Danglars."

"Sir," replied Danglars, pale with anger
and fear, "I warn you, when I have the
misfortune to meet with a mad dog, I
kill it; and far from thinking myself
guilty of a crime, I believe I do
society a kindness. Now, if you are mad
and try to bite me, I will kill you
without pity. Is it my fault that your
father has dishonored himself?"

"Yes, miserable wretch!" cried Morcerf,
"it is your fault." Danglars retreated a
few steps. "My fault?" said he; "you
must be mad! What do I know of the
Grecian affair? Have I travelled in that
country? Did I advise your father to
sell the castle of Yanina -- to
betray" --

"Silence!" said Albert, with a
thundering voice. "No; it is not you who
have directly made this exposure and
brought this sorrow on us, but you
hypocritically provoked it."

"I?"

"Yes; you! How came it known?"

"I suppose you read it in the paper in
the account from Yanina?"

"Who wrote to Yanina?"

"To Yanina?"

"Yes. Who wrote for particulars
concerning my father?"

"I imagine any one may write to Yanina."

"But one person only wrote!"

"One only?"

"Yes; and that was you!"

"I, doubtless, wrote. It appears to me
that when about to marry your daughter
to a young man, it is right to make some
inquiries respecting his family; it is
not only a right, but a duty."

"You wrote, sir, knowing what answer you
would receive."

"I, indeed? I assure you," cried
Danglars, with a confidence and security
proceeding less from fear than from the
interest he really felt for the young
man, "I solemnly declare to you, that I
should never have thought of writing to
Yanina, did I know anything of Ali
Pasha's misfortunes."

"Who, then, urged you to write? Tell
me."

"Pardieu, it was the most simple thing
in the world. I was speaking of your
father's past history. I said the origin
of his fortune remained obscure. The
person to whom I addressed my scruples
asked me where your father had acquired
his property? I answered, `In
Greece.' -- `Then,' said he, `write to
Yanina.'"

"And who thus advised you?"

"No other than your friend, Monte
Cristo."

"The Count of Monte Cristo told you to
write to Yanina?"

"Yes; and I wrote, and will show you my
correspondence, if you like." Albert and
Beauchamp looked at each other. "Sir,"
said Beauchamp, who had not yet spoken,
"you appear to accuse the count, who is
absent from Paris at this moment, and
cannot justify himself."

"I accuse no one, sir," said Danglars;
"I relate, and I will repeat before the
count what I have said to you."

"Does the count know what answer you
received?"

"Yes; I showed it to him."

"Did he know my father's Christian name
was Fernand, and his family name
Mondego?"

"Yes, I had told him that long since,
and I did only what any other would have
done in my circumstances, and perhaps
less. When, the day after the arrival of
this answer, your father came by the
advice of Monte Cristo to ask my
daughter's hand for you, I decidedly
refused him, but without any explanation
or exposure. In short, why should I have
any more to do with the affair? How did
the honor or disgrace of M. de Morcerf
affect me? It neither increased nor
decreased my income."

Albert felt the blood mounting to his
brow; there was no doubt upon the
subject. Danglars defended himself with
the baseness, but at the same time with
the assurance, of a man who speaks the
truth, at least in part, if not
wholly -- not for conscience' sake, but
through fear. Besides, what was Morcerf
seeking? It was not whether Danglars or
Monte Cristo was more or less guilty; it
was a man who would answer for the
offence, whether trifling or serious; it
was a man who would fight, and it was
evident Danglars's would not fight. And,
in addition to this, everything
forgotten or unperceived before
presented itself now to his
recollection. Monte Cristo knew
everything, as he had bought the
daughter of Ali Pasha; and, knowing
everything, he had advised Danglars to
write to Yanina. The answer known, he
had yielded to Albert's wish to be
introduced to Haidee, and allowed the
conversation to turn on the death of
Ali, and had not opposed Haidee's
recital (but having, doubtless, warned
the young girl, in the few Romaic words
he spoke to her, not to implicate
Morcerf's father). Besides, had he not
begged of Morcerf not to mention his
father's name before Haidee? Lastly, he
had taken Albert to Normandy when he
knew the final blow was near. There
could be no doubt that all had been
calculated and previously arranged;
Monte Cristo then was in league with his
father's enemies. Albert took Beauchamp
aside, and communicated these ideas to
him.

"You are right," said the latter; "M.
Danglars has only been a secondary agent
in this sad affair, and it is of M. de
Monte Cristo that you must demand an
explanation." Albert turned. "Sir," said
he to Danglars, "understand that I do
not take a final leave of you; I must
ascertain if your insinuations are just,
and am going now to inquire of the Count
of Monte Cristo." He bowed to the
banker, and went out with Beauchamp,
without appearing to notice Cavalcanti.
Danglars accompanied him to the door,
where he again assured Albert that no
motive of personal hatred had influenced
him against the Count of Morcerf.



Chapter 88 The Insult.

At the banker's door Beauchamp stopped
Morcerf. "Listen," said he; "just now I
told you it was of M. de Monte Cristo
you must demand an explanation."

"Yes; and we are going to his house."

"Reflect, Morcerf, one moment before you
go."

"On what shall I reflect?"

"On the importance of the step you are
taking."

"Is it more serious than going to M.
Danglars?"

"Yes; M. Danglars is a money-lover, and
those who love money, you know, think
too much of what they risk to be easily
induced to fight a duel. The other is,
on the contrary, to all appearance a
true nobleman; but do you not fear to
find him a bully?"

"I only fear one thing; namely, to find
a man who will not fight."

"Do not be alarmed," said Beauchamp; "he
will meet you. My only fear is that he
will be too strong for you."

"My friend," said Morcerf, with a sweet
smile, "that is what I wish. The
happiest thing that could occur to me,
would be to die in my father's stead;
that would save us all."

"Your mother would die of grief."

"My poor mother!" said Albert, passing
his hand across his eyes, "I know she
would; but better so than die of shame."

"Are you quite decided, Albert?"

"Yes; let us go."

"But do you think we shall find the
count at home?"

"He intended returning some hours after
me, and doubtless he is now at home."
They ordered the driver to take them to
No. 30 Champs-Elysees. Beauchamp wished
to go in alone, but Albert observed that
as this was an unusual circumstance he
might be allowed to deviate from the
usual etiquette in affairs of honor. The
cause which the young man espoused was
one so sacred that Beauchamp had only to
comply with all his wishes; he yielded
and contented himself with following
Morcerf. Albert sprang from the porter's
lodge to the steps. He was received by
Baptistin. The count had, indeed, just
arrived, but he was in his bath, and had
forbidden that any one should be
admitted. "But after his bath?" asked
Morcerf.

"My master will go to dinner."

"And after dinner?"

"He will sleep an hour."

"Then?"

"He is going to the opera."

"Are you sure of it?" asked Albert.

"Quite, sir; my master has ordered his
horses at eight o'clock precisely."

"Very good," replied Albert; "that is
all I wished to know." Then, turning
towards Beauchamp, "If you have anything
to attend to, Beauchamp, do it directly;
if you have any appointment for this
evening, defer it till tomorrow. I
depend on you to accompany me to the
opera; and if you can, bring
Chateau-Renaud with you."

Beauchamp availed himself of Albert's
permission, and left him, promising to
call for him at a quarter before eight.
On his return home, Albert expressed his
wish to Franz Debray, and Morrel, to see
them at the opera that evening. Then he
went to see his mother, who since the
events of the day before had refused to
see any one, and had kept her room. He
found her in bed, overwhelmed with grief
at this public humiliation. The sight of
Albert produced the effect which might
naturally be expected on Mercedes; she
pressed her son's hand and sobbed aloud,
but her tears relieved her. Albert stood
one moment speechless by the side of his
mother's bed. It was evident from his
pale face and knit brows that his
resolution to revenge himself was
growing weaker. "My dear mother," said
he, "do you know if M. de Morcerf has
any enemy?" Mercedes started; she
noticed that the young man did not say
"my father." "My son," she said,
"persons in the count's situation have
many secret enemies. Those who are known
are not the most dangerous."

"I know it, and appeal to your
penetration. You are of so superior a
mind, nothing escapes you."

"Why do you say so?"

"Because, for instance, you noticed on
the evening of the ball we gave, that M.
de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in our
house." Mercedes raised herself on her
feverish arm. "M. de Monte Cristo!" she
exclaimed; "and how is he connected with
the question you asked me?"

"You know, mother, M. de Monte Cristo is
almost an Oriental, and it is customary
with the Orientals to secure full
liberty for revenge by not eating or
drinking in the houses of their
enemies."

"Do you say M. de Monte Cristo is our
enemy?" replied Mercedes, becoming paler
than the sheet which covered her. "Who
told you so? Why, you are mad, Albert!
M. de Monte Cristo has only shown us
kindness. M. de Monte Cristo saved your
life; you yourself presented him to us.
Oh, I entreat you, my son, if you had
entertained such an idea, dispel it; and
my counsel to you -- nay, my prayer --
is to retain his friendship."

"Mother," replied the young man, "you
have especial reasons for telling me to
conciliate that man."

"I?" said Mercedes, blushing as rapidly
as she had turned pale, and again
becoming paler than ever.

"Yes, doubtless; and is it not that he
may never do us any harm?" Mercedes
shuddered, and, fixing on her son a
scrutinizing gaze, "You speak
strangely," said she to Albert, "and you
appear to have some singular prejudices.
What has the count done? Three days
since you were with him in Normandy;
only three days since we looked on him
as our best friend."

An ironical smile passed over Albert's
lips. Mercedes saw it and with the
double instinct of woman and mother
guessed all; but as she was prudent and
strong-minded she concealed both her
sorrows and her fears. Albert was
silent; an instant after, the countess
resumed: "You came to inquire after my
health; I will candidly acknowledge that
I am not well. You should install
yourself here, and cheer my solitude. I
do not wish to be left alone."

"Mother," said the young man, "you know
how gladly I would obey your wish, but
an urgent and important affair obliges
me to leave you for the whole evening."

"Well," replied Mercedes, sighing, "go,
Albert; I will not make you a slave to
your filial piety." Albert pretended he
did not hear, bowed to his mother, and
quitted her. Scarcely had he shut her
door, when Mercedes called a
confidential servant, and ordered him to
follow Albert wherever he should go that
evening, and to come and tell her
immediately what he observed. Then she
rang for her lady's maid, and, weak as
she was, she dressed, in order to be
ready for whatever might happen. The
footman's mission was an easy one.
Albert went to his room, and dressed
with unusual care. At ten minutes to
eight Beauchamp arrived; he had seen
Chateau-Renaud, who had promised to be
in the orchestra before the curtain was
raised. Both got into Albert's coupe;
and, as the young man had no reason to
conceal where he was going, he called
aloud, "To the opera." In his impatience
he arrived before the beginning of the
performance.

Chateau-Renaud was at his post; apprised
by Beauchamp of the circumstances, he
required no explanation from Albert. The
conduct of the son in seeking to avenge
his father was so natural that
Chateau-Renaud did not seek to dissuade
him, and was content with renewing his
assurances of devotion. Debray was not
yet come, but Albert knew that he seldom
lost a scene at the opera. Albert
wandered about the theatre until the
curtain was drawn up. He hoped to meet
with M. de Monte Cristo either in the
lobby or on the stairs. The bell
summoned him to his seat, and he entered
the orchestra with Chateau-Renaud and
Beauchamp. But his eyes scarcely quitted
the box between the columns, which
remained obstinately closed during the
whole of the first act. At last, as
Albert was looking at his watch for
about the hundredth time, at the
beginning of the second act the door
opened, and Monte Cristo entered,
dressed in black, and, leaning over the
front of the box, looked around the pit.
Morrel followed him, and looked also for
his sister and brother in-law; he soon
discovered them in another box, and
kissed his hand to them.

The count, in his survey of the pit,
encountered a pale face and threatening
eyes, which evidently sought to gain his
attention. He recognized Albert, but
thought it better not to notice him, as
he looked so angry and discomposed.
Without communicating his thoughts to
his companion, he sat down, drew out his
opera-glass, and looked another way.
Although apparently not noticing Albert,
he did not, however, lose sight of him,
and when the curtain fell at the end of
the second act, he saw him leave the
orchestra with his two friends. Then his
head was seen passing at the back of the
boxes, and the count knew that the
approaching storm was intended to fall
on him. He was at the moment conversing
cheerfully with Morrel, but he was well
prepared for what might happen. The door
opened, and Monte Cristo, turning round,
saw Albert, pale and trembling, followed
by Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud.

"Well," cried he, with that benevolent
politeness which distinguished his
salutation from the common civilities of
the world, "my cavalier has attained his
object. Good-evening, M. de Morcerf."
The countenance of this man, who
possessed such extraordinary control
over his feelings, expressed the most
perfect cordiality. Morrel only then
recollected the letter he had received
from the viscount, in which, without
assigning any reason, he begged him to
go to the opera, but he understood that
something terrible was brooding.

"We are not come here, sir, to exchange
hypocritical expressions of politeness,
or false professions of friendship,"
said Albert, "but to demand an
explanation." The young man's trembling
voice was scarcely audible. "An
explanation at the opera?" said the
count, with that calm tone and
penetrating eye which characterize the
man who knows his cause is good. "Little
acquainted as I am with the habits of
Parisians, I should not have thought
this the place for such a demand."

"Still, if people will shut themselves
up," said Albert, "and cannot be seen
because they are bathing, dining, or
asleep, we must avail ourselves of the
opportunity whenever they are to be
seen."

"I am not difficult of access, sir; for
yesterday, if my memory does not deceive
me, you were at my house."

"Yesterday I was at your house, sir,"
said the young man; "because then I knew
not who you were." In pronouncing these
words Albert had raised his voice so as
to be heard by those in the adjoining
boxes and in the lobby. Thus the
attention of many was attracted by this
altercation. "Where are you come from,
sir? You do not appear to be in the
possession of your senses."

"Provided I understand your perfidy,
sir, and succeed in making you
understand that I will be revenged, I
shall be reasonable enough," said Albert
furiously.

"I do not understand you, sir," replied
Monte Cristo; "and if I did, your tone
is too high. I am at home here, and I
alone have a right to raise my voice
above another's. Leave the box, sir!"
Monte Cristo pointed towards the door
with the most commanding dignity. "Ah, I
shall know how to make you leave your
home!" replied Albert, clasping in his
convulsed grasp the glove, which Monte
Cristo did not lose sight of.

"Well, well," said Monte Cristo quietly,
"I see you wish to quarrel with me; but
I would give you one piece of advice,
which you will do well to keep in mind.
It is in poor taste to make a display of
a challenge. Display is not becoming to
every one, M. de Morcerf."

At this name a murmur of astonishment
passed around the group of spectators of
this scene. They had talked of no one
but Morcerf the whole day. Albert
understood the allusion in a moment, and
was about to throw his glove at the
count, when Morrel seized his hand,
while Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud,
fearing the scene would surpass the
limits of a challenge, held him back.
But Monte Cristo, without rising, and
leaning forward in his chair, merely
stretched out his arm and, taking the
damp, crushed glove from the clinched
hand of the young man, "Sir," said he in
a solemn tone, "I consider your glove
thrown, and will return it to you
wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me or
I will summon my servants to throw you
out at the door."

Wild, almost unconscious, and with eyes
inflamed, Albert stepped back, and
Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo
took up his glass again as if nothing
had happened; his face was like marble,
and his heart was like bronze. Morrel
whispered, "What have you done to him?"

"I? Nothing -- at least personally,"
said Monte Cristo.

"But there must be some cause for this
strange scene."

"The Count of Morcerf's adventure
exasperates the young man."

"Have you anything to do with it?"

"It was through Haidee that the Chamber
was informed of his father's treason."

"Indeed?" said Morrel. "I had been told,
but would not credit it, that the
Grecian slave I have seen with you here
in this very box was the daughter of Ali
Pasha."

"It is true, nevertheless."

"Then," said Morrel, "I understand it
all, and this scene was premeditated."

"How so?"

"Yes. Albert wrote to request me to come
to the opera, doubtless that I might be
a witness to the insult he meant to
offer you."

"Probably," said Monte Cristo with his
imperturbable tranquillity.

"But what shall you do with him?"

"With whom?"

"With Albert."

"What shall I do with Albert? As
certainly, Maximilian, as I now press
your hand, I shall kill him before ten
o'clock to-morrow morning." Morrel, in
his turn, took Monte Cristo's hand in
both of his, and he shuddered to feel
how cold and steady it was.

"Ah, Count," said he, "his father loves
him so much!"

"Do not speak to me of that," said Monte
Cristo, with the first movement of anger
he had betrayed; "I will make him
suffer." Morrel, amazed, let fall Monte
Cristo's hand. "Count, count!" said he.

"Dear Maximilian," interrupted the
count, "listen how adorably Duprez is
singing that line, --

`O Mathilde! idole de mon ame!'

"I was the first to discover Duprez at
Naples, and the first to applaud him.
Bravo, bravo!" Morrel saw it was useless
to say more, and refrained. The curtain,
which had risen at the close of the
scene with Albert, again fell, and a rap
was heard at the door.

"Come in," said Monte Cristo with a
voice that betrayed not the least
emotion; and immediately Beauchamp
appeared. "Good-evening, M. Beauchamp,"
said Monte Cristo, as if this was the
first time he had seen the journalist
that evening; "be seated."

Beauchamp bowed, and, sitting down,
"Sir," said he, "I just now accompanied
M. de Morcerf, as you saw."

"And that means," replied Monte Cristo,
laughing, "that you had, probably, just
dined together. I am happy to see, M.
Beauchamp, that you are more sober than
he was."

"Sir," said M. Beauchamp, "Albert was
wrong, I acknowledge, to betray so much
anger, and I come, on my own account, to
apologize for him. And having done so,
entirely on my own account, be it
understood, I would add that I believe
you too gentlemanly to refuse giving him
some explanation concerning your
connection with Yanina. Then I will add
two words about the young Greek girl."
Monte Cristo motioned him to be silent.
"Come," said he, laughing, "there are
all my hopes about to be destroyed."

"How so?" asked Beauchamp.

"Doubtless you wish to make me appear a
very eccentric character. I am, in your
opinion, a Lara, a Manfred, a Lord
Ruthven; then, just as I am arriving at
the climax, you defeat your own end, and
seek to make an ordinary man of me. You
bring me down to your own level, and
demand explanations! Indeed, M.
Beauchamp, it is quite laughable."

"Yet," replied Beauchamp haughtily,
"there are occasions when probity
commands" --

"M. Beauchamp," interposed this strange
man, "the Count of Monte Cristo bows to
none but the Count of Monte Cristo
himself. Say no more, I entreat you. I
do what I please, M. Beauchamp, and it
is always well done."

"Sir," replied the young man, "honest
men are not to be paid with such coin. I
require honorable guaranties."

"I am, sir, a living guaranty," replied
Monte Cristo, motionless, but with a
threatening look; "we have both blood in
our veins which we wish to shed -- that
is our mutual guaranty. Tell the
viscount so, and that to-morrow, before
ten o'clock, I shall see what color his
is."

"Then I have only to make arrangements
for the duel," said Beauchamp.

"It is quite immaterial to me," said
Monte Cristo, "and it was very
unnecessary to disturb me at the opera
for such a trifle. In France people
fight with the sword or pistol, in the
colonies with the carbine, in Arabia
with the dagger. Tell your client that,
although I am the insulted party, in
order to carry out my eccentricity, I
leave him the choice of arms, and will
accept without discussion, without
dispute, anything, even combat by
drawing lots, which is always stupid,
but with me different from other people,
as I am sure to gain."

"Sure to gain!" repeated Beauchamp,
looking with amazement at the count.

"Certainly," said Monte Cristo, slightly
shrugging his shoulders; "otherwise I
would not fight with M. de Morcerf. I
shall kill him -- I cannot help it. Only
by a single line this evening at my
house let me know the arms and the hour;
I do not like to be kept waiting."

"Pistols, then, at eight o'clock, in the
Bois de Vincennes," said Beauchamp,
quite disconcerted, not knowing if he
was dealing with an arrogant braggadocio
or a supernatural being.

"Very well, sir," said Monte Cristo.
"Now all that is settled, do let me see
the performance, and tell your friend
Albert not to come any more this
evening; he will hurt himself with all
his ill-chosen barbarisms: let him go
home and go to sleep." Beauchamp left
the box, perfectly amazed. "Now," said
Monte Cristo, turning towards Morrel, "I
may depend upon you, may I not?"

"Certainly," said Morrel, "I am at your
service, count; still" --

"What?"

"It is desirable I should know the real
cause."

"That is to say, you would rather not?"

"No."

"The young man himself is acting
blindfolded, and knows not the true
cause, which is known only to God and to
me; but I give you my word, Morrel, that
God, who does know it, will be on our
side."

"Enough," said Morrel; "who is your
second witness?"

"I know no one in Paris, Morrel, on whom
I could confer that honor besides you
and your brother Emmanuel. Do you think
Emmanuel would oblige me?"

"I will answer for him, count."

"Well? that is all I require. To-morrow
morning, at seven o'clock, you will be
with me, will you not?"

"We will."

"Hush, the curtain is rising. Listen! I
never lose a note of this opera if I can
avoid it; the music of William Tell is
so sweet."



Chapter 89 A Nocturnal Interview.

Monte Cristo waited, according to his
usual custom, until Duprez had sung his
famous "Suivez-moi;" then he rose and
went out. Morrel took leave of him at
the door, renewing his promise to be
with him the next morning at seven
o'clock, and to bring Emmanuel. Then he
stepped into his coupe, calm and
smiling, and was at home in five
minutes. No one who knew the count could
mistake his expression when, on
entering, he said, "Ali, bring me my
pistols with the ivory cross."

Ali brought the box to his master, who
examined the weapons with a solicitude
very natural to a man who is about to
intrust his life to a little powder and
shot. These were pistols of an especial
pattern, which Monte Cristo had had made
for target practice in his own room. A
cap was sufficient to drive out the
bullet, and from the adjoining room no
one would have suspected that the count
was, as sportsmen would say, keeping his
hand in. He was just taking one up and
looking for the point to aim at on a
little iron plate which served him as a
target, when his study door opened, and
Baptistin entered. Before he had spoken
a word, the count saw in the next room a
veiled woman, who had followed closely
after Baptistin, and now, seeing the
count with a pistol in his hand and
swords on the table, rushed in.
Baptistin looked at his master, who made
a sign to him, and he went out, closing
the door after him. "Who are you,
madame?" said the count to the veiled
woman.

The stranger cast one look around her,
to be certain that they were quite
alone; then bending as if she would have
knelt, and joining her hands, she said
with an accent of despair, "Edmond, you
will not kill my son?" The count
retreated a step, uttered a slight
exclamation, and let fall the pistol he
held. "What name did you pronounce then,
Madame de Morcerf?" said he. "Yours!"
cried she, throwing back her veil, --
"yours, which I alone, perhaps, have not
forgotten. Edmond, it is not Madame de
Morcerf who is come to you, it is
Mercedes."

"Mercedes is dead, madame," said Monte
Cristo; "I know no one now of that
name."

"Mercedes lives, sir, and she remembers,
for she alone recognized you when she
saw you, and even before she saw you, by
your voice, Edmond, -- by the simple
sound of your voice; and from that
moment she has followed your steps,
watched you, feared you, and she needs
not to inquire what hand has dealt the
blow which now strikes M. de Morcerf."

"Fernand, do you mean?" replied Monte
Cristo, with bitter irony; "since we are
recalling names, let us remember them
all." Monte Cristo had pronounced the
name of Fernand with such an expression
of hatred that Mercedes felt a thrill of
horror run through every vein. "You see,
Edmond, I am not mistaken, and have
cause to say, `Spare my son!'"

"And who told you, madame, that I have
any hostile intentions against your
son?"

"No one, in truth; but a mother has
twofold sight. I guessed all; I followed
him this evening to the opera, and,
concealed in a parquet box, have seen
all."

"If you have seen all, madame, you know
that the son of Fernand has publicly
insulted me," said Monte Cristo with
awful calmness.

"Oh, for pity's sake!"

"You have seen that he would have thrown
his glove in my face if Morrel, one of
my friends, had not stopped him."

"Listen to me, my son has also guessed
who you are, -- he attributes his
father's misfortunes to you."

"Madame, you are mistaken, they are not
misfortunes, -- it is a punishment. It
is not I who strike M. de Morcerf; it is
providence which punishes him."

"And why do you represent providence?"
cried Mercedes. "Why do you remember
when it forgets? What are Yanina and its
vizier to you, Edmond? What injury his
Fernand Mondego done you in betraying
Ali Tepelini?"

"Ah, madame," replied Monte Cristo, "all
this is an affair between the French
captain and the daughter of Vasiliki. It
does not concern me, you are right; and
if I have sworn to revenge myself, it is
not on the French captain, or the Count
of Morcerf, but on the fisherman
Fernand, the husband of Mercedes the
Catalane."

"Ah, sir!" cried the countess, "how
terrible a vengeance for a fault which
fatality made me commit! -- for I am the
only culprit, Edmond, and if you owe
revenge to any one, it is to me, who had
not fortitude to bear your absence and
my solitude."

"But," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "why was
I absent? And why were you alone?"

"Because you had been arrested, Edmond,
and were a prisoner."

"And why was I arrested? Why was I a
prisoner?"

"I do not know," said Mercedes. "You do
not, madame; at least, I hope not. But I
will tell you. I was arrested and became
a prisoner because, under the arbor of
La Reserve, the day before I was to
marry you, a man named Danglars wrote
this letter, which the fisherman Fernand
himself posted." Monte Cristo went to a
secretary, opened a drawer by a spring,
from which he took a paper which had
lost its original color, and the ink of
which had become of a rusty hue -- this
he placed in the hands of Mercedes. It
was Danglars' letter to the king's
attorney, which the Count of Monte
Cristo, disguised as a clerk from the
house of Thomson & French, had taken
from the file against Edmond Dantes, on
the day he had paid the two hundred
thousand francs to M. de Boville.
Mercedes read with terror the following
lines: --

"The king's attorney is informed by a
friend to the throne and religion that
one Edmond Dantes, second in command on
board the Pharaon, this day arrived from
Smyrna, after having touched at Naples
and Porto-Ferrajo, is the bearer of a
letter from Murat to the usurper, and of
another letter from the usurper to the
Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample
corroboration of this statement may be
obtained by arresting the
above-mentioned Edmond Dantes, who
either carries the letter for Paris
about with him, or has it at his
father's abode. Should it not be found
in possession of either father or son,
then it will assuredly be discovered in
the cabin belonging to the said Dantes
on board the Pharaon."

"How dreadful!" said Mercedes, passing
her hand across her brow, moist with
perspiration; "and that letter" --

"I bought it for two hundred thousand
francs, madame," said Monte Cristo; "but
that is a trifle, since it enables me to
justify myself to you."

"And the result of that letter" --

"You well know, madame, was my arrest;
but you do not know how long that arrest
lasted. You do not know that I remained
for fourteen years within a quarter of a
league of you, in a dungeon in the
Chateau d'If. You do not know that every
day of those fourteen years I renewed
the vow of vengeance which I had made
the first day; and yet I was not aware
that you had married Fernand, my
calumniator, and that my father had died
of hunger!"

"Can it be?" cried Mercedes, shuddering.

"That is what I heard on leaving my
prison fourteen years after I had
entered it; and that is why, on account
of the living Mercedes and my deceased
father, I have sworn to revenge myself
on Fernand, and -- I have revenged
myself."

"And you are sure the unhappy Fernand
did that?"

"I am satisfied, madame, that he did
what I have told you; besides, that is
not much more odious than that a
Frenchman by adoption should pass over
to the English; that a Spaniard by birth
should have fought against the
Spaniards; that a stipendiary of Ali
should have betrayed and murdered Ali.
Compared with such things, what is the
letter you have just read? -- a lover's
deception, which the woman who has
married that man ought certainly to
forgive; but not so the lover who was to
have married her. Well, the French did
not avenge themselves on the traitor,
the Spaniards did not shoot the traitor,
Ali in his tomb left the traitor
unpunished; but I, betrayed, sacrificed,
buried, have risen from my tomb, by the
grace of God, to punish that man. He
sends me for that purpose, and here I
am." The poor woman's head and arms
fell; her legs bent under her, and she
fell on her knees. "Forgive, Edmond,
forgive for my sake, who love you
still!"

The dignity of the wife checked the
fervor of the lover and the mother. Her
forehead almost touched the carpet, when
the count sprang forward and raised her.
Then seated on a chair, she looked at
the manly countenance of Monte Cristo,
on which grief and hatred still
impressed a threatening expression. "Not
crush that accursed race?" murmured he;
"abandon my purpose at the moment of its
accomplishment? Impossible, madame,
impossible!"

"Edmond," said the poor mother, who
tried every means, "when I call you
Edmond, why do you not call me
Mercedes?"

"Mercedes!" repeated Monte Cristo;
"Mercedes! Well yes, you are right; that
name has still its charms, and this is
the first time for a long period that I
have pronounced it so distinctly. Oh,
Mercedes, I have uttered your name with
the sigh of melancholy, with the groan
of sorrow, with the last effort of
despair; I have uttered it when frozen
with cold, crouched on the straw in my
dungeon; I have uttered it, consumed
with heat, rolling on the stone floor of
my prison. Mercedes, I must revenge
myself, for I suffered fourteen
years, -- fourteen years I wept, I
cursed; now I tell you, Mercedes, I must
revenge myself."

The count, fearing to yield to the
entreaties of her he had so ardently
loved, called his sufferings to the
assistance of his hatred. "Revenge
yourself, then, Edmond," cried the poor
mother; "but let your vengeance fall on
the culprits, -- on him, on me, but not
on my son!"

"It is written in the good book," said
Monte Cristo, "that the sins of the
fathers shall fall upon their children
to the third and fourth generation.
Since God himself dictated those words
to his prophet, why should I seek to
make myself better than God?"

"Edmond," continued Mercedes, with her
arms extended towards the count, "since
I first knew you, I have adored your
name, have respected your memory.
Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to
tarnish that noble and pure image
reflected incessantly on the mirror of
my heart. Edmond, if you knew all the
prayers I have addressed to God for you
while I thought you were living and
since I have thought you must be dead!
Yes, dead, alas! I imagined your dead
body buried at the foot of some gloomy
tower, or cast to the bottom of a pit by
hateful jailers, and I wept! What could
I do for you, Edmond, besides pray and
weep? Listen; for ten years I dreamed
each night the same dream. I had been
told that you had endeavored to escape;
that you had taken the place of another
prisoner; that you had slipped into the
winding sheet of a dead body; that you
had been thrown alive from the top of
the Chateau d'If, and that the cry you
uttered as you dashed upon the rocks
first revealed to your jailers that they
were your murderers. Well, Edmond, I
swear to you, by the head of that son
for whom I entreat your pity, -- Edmond,
for ten years I saw every night every
detail of that frightful tragedy, and
for ten years I heard every night the
cry which awoke me, shuddering and cold.
And I, too, Edmond -- oh! believe me --
guilty as I was -- oh, yes, I, too, have
suffered much!"

"Have you known what it is to have your
father starve to death in your absence?"
cried Monte Cristo, thrusting his hands
into his hair; "have you seen the woman
you loved giving her hand to your rival,
while you were perishing at the bottom
of a dungeon?"

"No," interrupted Mercedes, "but I have
seen him whom I loved on the point of
murdering my son." Mercedes uttered
these words with such deep anguish, with
an accent of such intense despair, that
Monte Cristo could not restrain a sob.
The lion was daunted; the avenger was
conquered. "What do you ask of me?" said
he, -- "your son's life? Well, he shall
live!" Mercedes uttered a cry which made
the tears start from Monte Cristo's
eyes; but these tears disappeared almost
instantaneously, for, doubtless, God had
sent some angel to collect them -- far
more precious were they in his eyes than
the richest pearls of Guzerat and Ophir.

"Oh," said she, seizing the count's hand
and raising it to her lips; "oh, thank
you, thank you, Edmond! Now you are
exactly what I dreamt you were, -- the
man I always loved. Oh, now I may say
so!"

"So much the better," replied Monte
Cristo; "as that poor Edmond will not
have long to be loved by you. Death is
about to return to the tomb, the phantom
to retire in darkness."

"What do you say, Edmond?"

"I say, since you command me, Mercedes,
I must die."

"Die? and why so? Who talks of dying?
Whence have you these ideas of death?"

"You do not suppose that, publicly
outraged in the face of a whole theatre,
in the presence of your friends and
those of your son -- challenged by a boy
who will glory in my forgiveness as if
it were a victory -- you do not suppose
that I can for one moment wish to live.
What I most loved after you, Mercedes,
was myself, my dignity, and that
strength which rendered me superior to
other men; that strength was my life.
With one word you have crushed it, and I
die."

"But the duel will not take place,
Edmond, since you forgive?"

"It will take place," said Monte Cristo,
in a most solemn tone; "but instead of
your son's blood to stain the ground,
mine will flow." Mercedes shrieked, and
sprang towards Monte Cristo, but,
suddenly stopping, "Edmond," said she,
"there is a God above us, since you live
and since I have seen you again; I trust
to him from my heart. While waiting his
assistance I trust to your word; you
have said that my son should live, have
you not?"

"Yes, madame, he shall live," said Monte
Cristo, surprised that without more
emotion Mercedes had accepted the heroic
sacrifice he made for her. Mercedes
extended her hand to the count.

"Edmond," said she, and her eyes were
wet with tears while looking at him to
whom she spoke, "how noble it is of you,
how great the action you have just
performed, how sublime to have taken
pity on a poor woman who appealed to you
with every chance against her, Alas, I
am grown old with grief more than with
years, and cannot now remind my Edmond
by a smile, or by a look, of that
Mercedes whom he once spent so many
hours in contemplating. Ah, believe me,
Edmond, as I told you, I too have
suffered much; I repeat, it is
melancholy to pass one's life without
having one joy to recall, without
preserving a single hope; but that
proves that all is not yet over. No, it
is not finished; I feel it by what
remains in my heart. Oh, I repeat it,
Edmond; what you have just done is
beautiful -- it is grand; it is
sublime."

"Do you say so now, Mercedes? -- then
what would you say if you knew the
extent of the sacrifice I make to you?
Suppose that the Supreme Being, after
having created the world and fertilized
chaos, had paused in the work to spare
an angel the tears that might one day
flow for mortal sins from her immortal
eyes; suppose that when everything was
in readiness and the moment had come for
God to look upon his work and see that
it was good -- suppose he had snuffed
out the sun and tossed the world back
into eternal night -- then -- even then,
Mercedes, you could not imagine what I
lose in sacrificing my life at this
moment." Mercedes looked at the count in
a way which expressed at the same time
her astonishment, her admiration, and
her gratitude. Monte Cristo pressed his
forehead on his burning hands, as if his
brain could no longer bear alone the
weight of its thoughts. "Edmond," said
Mercedes, "I have but one word more to
say to you." The count smiled bitterly.
"Edmond," continued she, "you will see
that if my face is pale, if my eyes are
dull, if my beauty is gone; if Mercedes,
in short, no longer resembles her former
self in her features, you will see that
her heart is still the same. Adieu,
then, Edmond; I have nothing more to ask
of heaven -- I have seen you again, and
have found you as noble and as great as
formerly you were. Adieu, Edmond, adieu,
and thank you."

But the count did not answer. Mercedes
opened the door of the study and had
disappeared before he had recovered from
the painful and profound revery into
which his thwarted vengeance had plunged
him. The clock of the Invalides struck
one when the carriage which conveyed
Madame de Morcerf away rolled on the
pavement of the Champs-Elysees, and made
Monte Cristo raise his head. "What a
fool I was," said he, "not to tear my
heart out on the day when I resolved to
avenge myself!"



Chapter 90 The Meeting.

After Mercedes had left Monte Cristo, he
fell into profound gloom. Around him and
within him the flight of thought seemed
to have stopped; his energetic mind
slumbered, as the body does after
extreme fatigue. "What?" said he to
himself, while the lamp and the wax
lights were nearly burnt out, and the
servants were waiting impatiently in the
anteroom; "what? this edifice which I
have been so long preparing, which I
have reared with so much care and toil,
is to be crushed by a single touch, a
word, a breath! Yes, this self, of whom
I thought so much, of whom I was so
proud, who had appeared so worthless in
the dungeons of the Chateau d'If, and
whom I had succeeded in making so great,
will be but a lump of clay to-morrow.
Alas, it is not the death of the body I
regret; for is not the destruction of
the vital principle, the repose to which
everything is tending, to which every
unhappy being aspires, -- is not this
the repose of matter after which I so
long sighed, and which I was seeking to
attain by the painful process of
starvation when Faria appeared in my
dungeon? What is death for me? One step
farther into rest, -- two, perhaps, into
silence.

"No, it is not existence, then, that I
regret, but the ruin of projects so
slowly carried out, so laboriously
framed. Providence is now opposed to
them, when I most thought it would be
propitious. It is not God's will that
they should be accomplished. This
burden, almost as heavy as a world,
which I had raised, and I had thought to
bear to the end, was too great for my
strength, and I was compelled to lay it
down in the middle of my career. Oh,
shall I then, again become a fatalist,
whom fourteen years of despair and ten
of hope had rendered a believer in
providence? And all this -- all this,
because my heart, which I thought dead,
was only sleeping; because it has
awakened and has begun to beat again,
because I have yielded to the pain of
the emotion excited in my breast by a
woman's voice. Yet," continued the
count, becoming each moment more
absorbed in the anticipation of the
dreadful sacrifice for the morrow, which
Mercedes had accepted, "yet, it is
impossible that so noble-minded a woman
should thus through selfishness consent
to my death when I am in the prime of
life and strength; it is impossible that
she can carry to such a point maternal
love, or rather delirium. There are
virtues which become crimes by
exaggeration. No, she must have
conceived some pathetic scene; she will
come and throw herself between us; and
what would be sublime here will there
appear ridiculous." The blush of pride
mounted to the count's forehead as this
thought passed through his mind.
"Ridiculous?" repeated he; "and the
ridicule will fall on me. I ridiculous?
No, I would rather die."

By thus exaggerating to his own mind the
anticipated ill-fortune of the next day,
to which he had condemned himself by
promising Mercedes to spare her son, the
count at last exclaimed, "Folly, folly,
folly! -- to carry generosity so far as
to put myself up as a mark for that
young man to aim at. He will never
believe that my death was suicide; and
yet it is important for the honor of my
memory, -- and this surely is not
vanity, but a justifiable pride, -- it
is important the world should know that
I have consented, by my free will, to
stop my arm, already raised to strike,
and that with the arm which has been so
powerful against others I have struck
myself. It must be; it shall be."

Seizing a pen, he drew a paper from a
secret drawer in his desk, and wrote at
the bottom of the document (which was no
other than his will, made since his
arrival in Paris) a sort of codicil,
clearly explaining the nature of his
death. "I do this, O my God," said he,
with his eyes raised to heaven, "as much
for thy honor as for mine. I have during
ten years considered myself the agent of
thy vengeance, and other wretches, like
Morcerf, Danglars, Villefort, even
Morcerf himself, must not imagine that
chance has freed them from their enemy.
Let them know, on the contrary, that
their punishment, which had been decreed
by providence, is only delayed by my
present determination, and although they
escape it in this world, it awaits them
in another, and that they are only
exchanging time for eternity."

While he was thus agitated by gloomy
uncertainties, -- wretched waking dreams
of grief, -- the first rays of morning
pierced his windows, and shone upon the
pale blue paper on which he had just
inscribed his justification of
providence. It was just five o'clock in
the morning when a slight noise like a
stifled sigh reached his ear. He turned
his head, looked around him, and saw no
one; but the sound was repeated
distinctly enough to convince him of its
reality.

He arose, and quietly opening the door
of the drawing-room, saw Haidee, who had
fallen on a chair, with her arms hanging
down and her beautiful head thrown back.
She had been standing at the door, to
prevent his going out without seeing
her, until sleep, which the young cannot
resist, had overpowered her frame,
wearied as she was with watching. The
noise of the door did not awaken her,
and Monte Cristo gazed at her with
affectionate regret. "She remembered
that she had a son," said he; "and I
forgot I had a daughter." Then, shaking
his head sorrowfully, "Poor Haidee,"
said he; "she wished to see me, to speak
to me; she has feared or guessed
something. Oh, I cannot go without
taking leave of her; I cannot die
without confiding her to some one." He
quietly regained his seat, and wrote
under the other lines: --

"I bequeath to Maximilian Morrel,
captain of Spahis, -- and son of my
former patron, Pierre Morrel, shipowner
at Marseilles, -- the sum of twenty
millions, a part of which may be offered
to his sister Julia and brother-in-law
Emmanuel, if he does not fear this
increase of fortune may mar their
happiness. These twenty millions are
concealed in my grotto at Monte Cristo,
of which Bertuccio knows the secret. If
his heart is free, and he will marry
Haidee, the daughter of Ali Pasha of
Yanina, whom I have brought up with the
love of a father, and who has shown the
love and tenderness of a daughter for
me, he will thus accomplish my last
wish. This will has already constituted
Haidee heiress of the rest of my
fortune, consisting of lands, funds in
England, Austria, and Holland, furniture
in my different palaces and houses, and
which without the twenty millions and
the legacies to my servants, may still
amount to sixty millions."

He was finishing the last line when a
cry behind him made him start, and the
pen fell from his hand. "Haidee," said
he. "did you read it?"

"Oh, my lord," said she, "why are you
writing thus at such an hour? Why are
you bequeathing all your fortune to me?
Are you going to leave me?"

"I am going on a journey, dear child,"
said Monte Cristo, with an expression of
infinite tenderness and melancholy; "and
if any misfortune should happen to me"

The count stopped. "Well?" asked the
young girl, with an authoritative tone
the count had never observed before, and
which startled him. "Well, if any
misfortune happen to me," replied Monte
Cristo, "I wish my daughter to be
happy." Haidee smiled sorrowfully, and
shook her head. "Do you think of dying,
my lord?" said she.

"The wise man, my child, has said, `It
is good to think of death.'"

"Well, if you die," said she, "bequeath
your fortune to others, for if you die I
shall require nothing;" and, taking the
paper, she tore it in four pieces, and
threw it into the middle of the room.
Then, the effort having exhausted her
strength, she fell not asleep this time,
but fainting on the floor. The count
leaned over her and raised her in his
arms; and seeing that sweet pale face,
those lovely eyes closed, that beautiful
form motionless and to all appearance
lifeless, the idea occurred to him for
the first time, that perhaps she loved
him otherwise than as a daughter loves a
father.

"Alas," murmured he, with intense
suffering, "I might, then, have been
happy yet." Then he carried Haidee to
her room, resigned her to the care of
her attendants, and returning to his
study, which he shut quickly this time,
he again copied the destroyed will. As
he was finishing, the sound of a
cabriolet entering the yard was heard.
Monte Cristo approached the window, and
saw Maximilian and Emmanuel alight.
"Good," said he; "it was time," -- and
he sealed his will with three seals. A
moment afterwards he heard a noise in
the drawing-room, and went to open the
door himself. Morrel was there; he had
come twenty minutes before the time
appointed. "I am perhaps come too soon,
count," said he, "but I frankly
acknowledge that I have not closed my
eyes all night, nor has any one in my
house. I need to see you strong in your
courageous assurance, to recover
myself." Monte Cristo could not resist
this proof of affection; he not only
extended his hand to the young man, but
flew to him with open arms. "Morrel,"
said he, "it is a happy day for me, to
feel that I am beloved by such a man as
you. Good-morning, Emmanuel; you will
come with me then, Maximilian?"

"Did you doubt it?" said the young
captain.

"But if I were wrong" --

"I watched you during the whole scene of
that challenge yesterday; I have been
thinking of your firmness all night, and
I said to myself that justice must be on
your side, or man's countenance is no
longer to be relied on."

"But, Morrel, Albert is your friend?"

"Simply an acquaintance, sir."

"You met on the same day you first saw
me?"

"Yes, that is true; but I should not
have recollected it if you had not
reminded me."

"Thank you, Morrel." Then ringing the
bell once, "Look." said he to Ali, who
came immediately, "take that to my
solicitor. It is my will, Morrel. When I
am dead, you will go and examine it."

"What?" said Morrel, "you dead?"

"Yes; must I not be prepared for
everything, dear friend? But what did
you do yesterday after you left me?"

"I went to Tortoni's, where, as I
expected, I found Beauchamp and
Chateau-Renaud. I own I was seeking
them."

"Why, when all was arranged?"

"Listen, count; the affair is serious
and unavoidable."

"Did you doubt it!"

"No; the offence was public, and every
one is already talking of it."

"Well?"

"Well, I hoped to get an exchange of
arms, -- to substitute the sword for the
pistol; the pistol is blind."

"Have you succeeded?" asked Monte Cristo
quickly, with an imperceptible gleam of
hope.

"No; for your skill with the sword is so
well known."

"Ah? -- who has betrayed me?"

"The skilful swordsman whom you have
conquered."

"And you failed?"

"They positively refused."

"Morrel," said the count, "have you ever
seen me fire a pistol?"

"Never."

"Well, we have time; look." Monte Cristo
took the pistols he held in his hand
when Mercedes entered, and fixing an ace
of clubs against the iron plate, with
four shots he successively shot off the
four sides of the club. At each shot
Morrel turned pale. He examined the
bullets with which Monte Cristo
performed this dexterous feat, and saw
that they were no larger than buckshot.
"It is astonishing," said he. "Look,
Emmanuel." Then turning towards Monte
Cristo, "Count," said he, "in the name
of all that is dear to you, I entreat
you not to kill Albert! -- the unhappy
youth has a mother."

"You are right," said Monte Cristo; "and
I have none." These words were uttered
in a tone which made Morrel shudder.
"You are the offended party, count."

"Doubtless; what does that imply?"

"That you will fire first."

"I fire first?"

"Oh, I obtained, or rather claimed that;
we had conceded enough for them to yield
us that."

"And at what distance?"

"Twenty paces." A smile of terrible
import passed over the count's lips.
"Morrel," said he, "do not forget what
you have just seen."

"The only chance for Albert's safety,
then, will arise from your emotion."

"I suffer from emotion?" said Monte
Cristo.

"Or from your generosity, my friend; to
so good a marksman as you are, I may say
what would appear absurd to another."

"What is that?"

"Break his arm -- wound him -- but do
not kill him."

"I will tell you, Morrel," said the
count, "that I do not need entreating to
spare the life of M. de Morcerf; he
shall be so well spared, that he will
return quietly with his two friends,
while I" --

"And you?"

"That will be another thing; I shall be
brought home."

"No, no," cried Maximilian, quite unable
to restrain his feelings.

"As I told you, my dear Morrel, M. de
Morcerf will kill me." Morrel looked at
him in utter amazement. "But what has
happened, then, since last evening,
count?"

"The same thing that happened to Brutus
the night before the battle of Philippi;
I have seen a ghost."

"And that ghost" --

"Told me, Morrel, that I had lived long
enough." Maximilian and Emmanuel looked
at each other. Monte Cristo drew out his
watch. "Let us go," said he; "it is five
minutes past seven, and the appointment
was for eight o'clock." A carriage was
in readiness at the door. Monte Cristo
stepped into it with his two friends. He
had stopped a moment in the passage to
listen at a door, and Maximilian and
Emmanuel, who had considerately passed
forward a few steps, thought they heard
him answer by a sigh to a sob from
within. As the clock struck eight they
drove up to the place of meeting. "We
are first," said Morrel, looking out of
the window. "Excuse me, sir," said
Baptistin, who had followed his master
with indescribable terror, "but I think
I see a carriage down there under the
trees."

Monte Cristo sprang lightly from the
carriage, and offered his hand to assist
Emmanuel and Maximilian. The latter
retained the count's hand between his.
"I like," said he, "to feel a hand like
this, when its owner relies on the
goodness of his cause."

"It seems to me," said Emmanuel, "that I
see two young men down there, who are
evidently, waiting." Monte Cristo drew
Morrel a step or two behind his
brother-in-law. "Maximilian," said he,
"are your affections disengaged?" Morrel
looked at Monte Cristo with
astonishment. "I do not seek your
confidence, my dear friend. I only ask
you a simple question; answer it; --
that is all I require."

"I love a young girl, count."

"Do you love her much?"

"More than my life."

"Another hope defeated!" said the count.
Then, with a sigh, "Poor Haidee!"
murmured he.

"To tell the truth, count, if I knew
less of you, I should think that you
were less brave than you are."

"Because I sigh when thinking of some
one I am leaving? Come, Morrel, it is
not like a soldier to be so bad a judge
of courage. Do I regret life? What is it
to me, who have passed twenty years
between life and death? Moreover, do not
alarm yourself, Morrel; this weakness,
if it is such, is betrayed to you alone.
I know the world is a drawing-room, from
which we must retire politely and
honestly; that is, with a bow, and our
debts of honor paid."

"That is to the purpose. Have you
brought your arms?"

"I? -- what for? I hope these gentlemen
have theirs."

"I will inquire," said Morrel.

"Do; but make no treaty -- you
understand me?"

"You need not fear." Morrel advanced
towards Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud,
who, seeing his intention, came to meet
him. The three young men bowed to each
other courteously, if not affably.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Morrel,
"but I do not see M. de Morcerf."

"He sent us word this morning," replied
Chateau-Renaud, "that he would meet us
on the ground."

"Ah," said Morrel. Beauchamp pulled out
his watch. "It is only five minutes past
eight," said he to Morrel; "there is not
much time lost yet."

"Oh, I made no allusion of that kind,"
replied Morrel.

"There is a carriage coming," said
Chateau-Renaud. It advanced rapidly
along one of the avenues leading towards
the open space where they were
assembled. "You are doubtless provided
with pistols, gentlemen? M. de Monte
Cristo yields his right of using his."

"We had anticipated this kindness on the
part of the count," said Beauchamp, "and
I have brought some weapons which I
bought eight or ten days since, thinking
to want them on a similar occasion. They
are quite new, and have not yet been
used. Will you examine them."

"Oh, M. Beauchamp, if you assure me that
M. de Morcerf does not know these
pistols, you may readily believe that
your word will be quite sufficient."

"Gentlemen," said Chateau-Renaud, "it is
not Morcerf coming in that carriage; --
faith, it is Franz and Debray!" The two
young men he announced were indeed
approaching. "What chance brings you
here, gentlemen?" said Chateau-Renaud,
shaking hands with each of them.
"Because," said Debray, "Albert sent
this morning to request us to come."
Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud exchanged
looks of astonishment. "I think I
understand his reason," said Morrel.

"What is it?"

"Yesterday afternoon I received a letter
from M. de Morcerf, begging me to attend
the opera."

"And I," said Debray.

"And I also," said Franz.

"And we, too," added Beauchamp and
Chateau-Renaud.

"Having wished you all to witness the
challenge, he now wishes you to be
present at the combat."

"Exactly so," said the young men; "you
have probably guessed right."

"But, after all these arrangements, he
does not come himself," said
Chateau-Renaud. "Albert is ten minutes
after time."

"There he comes," said Beauchamp, "on
horseback, at full gallop, followed by a
servant."

"How imprudent," said Chateau-Renaud,
"to come on horseback to fight a duel
with pistols, after all the instructions
I had given him."

"And besides," said Beauchamp, "with a
collar above his cravat, an open coat
and white waistcoat! Why has he not
painted a spot upon his heart? -- it
would have been more simple." Meanwhile
Albert had arrived within ten paces of
the group formed by the five young men.
He jumped from his horse, threw the
bridle on his servant's arms, and joined
them. He was pale, and his eyes were red
and swollen; it was evident that he had
not slept. A shade of melancholy gravity
overspread his countenance, which was
not natural to him. "I thank you,
gentlemen," said he, "for having
complied with my request; I feel
extremely grateful for this mark of
friendship." Morrel had stepped back as
Morcerf approached, and remained at a
short distance. "And to you also, M.
Morrel, my thanks are due. Come, there
cannot be too many."

"Sir," said Maximilian, "you are not
perhaps aware that I am M. de Monte
Cristo's friend?"

"I was not sure, but I thought it might
be so. So much the better; the more
honorable men there are here the better
I shall be satisfied."

"M. Morrel," said Chateau-Renaud, "will
you apprise the Count of Monte Cristo
that M. de Morcerf is arrived, and we
are at his disposal?" Morrel was
preparing to fulfil his commission.
Beauchamp had meanwhile drawn the box of
pistols from the carriage. "Stop,
gentlemen," said Albert; "I have two
words to say to the Count of Monte
Cristo."

"In private?" asked Morrel.

"No, sir; before all who are here."

Albert's witnesses looked at each other.
Franz and Debray exchanged some words in
a whisper, and Morrel, rejoiced at this
unexpected incident, went to fetch the
count, who was walking in a retired path
with Emmanuel. "What does he want with
me?" said Monte Cristo.

"I do not know, but he wishes to speak
to you."

"Ah?" said Monte Cristo, "I trust he is
not going to tempt me by some fresh
insult!"

"I do not think that such is his
intention," said Morrel.

The count advanced, accompanied by
Maximilian and Emmanuel. His calm and
serene look formed a singular contrast
to Albert's grief-stricken face, who
approached also, followed by the other
four young men. When at three paces
distant from each other, Albert and the
count stopped.

"Approach, gentlemen," said Albert; "I
wish you not to lose one word of what I
am about to have the honor of saying to
the Count of Monte Cristo, for it must
be repeated by you to all who will
listen to it, strange as it may appear
to you."

"Proceed, sir," said the count.

"Sir," said Albert, at first with a
tremulous voice, but which gradually
because firmer, "I reproached you with
exposing the conduct of M. de Morcerf in
Epirus, for guilty as I knew he was, I
thought you had no right to punish him;
but I have since learned that you had
that right. It is not Fernand Mondego's
treachery towards Ali Pasha which
induces me so readily to excuse you, but
the treachery of the fisherman Fernand
towards you, and the almost unheard-of
miseries which were its consequences;
and I say, and proclaim it publicly,
that you were justified in revenging
yourself on my father, and I, his son,
thank you for not using greater
severity."

Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of
the spectators of this unexpected scene,
it would not have surprised them more
than did Albert's declaration. As for
Monte Cristo, his eyes slowly rose
towards heaven with an expression of
infinite gratitude. He could not
understand how Albert's fiery nature, of
which he had seen so much among the
Roman bandits, had suddenly stooped to
this humiliation. He recognized the
influence of Mercedes, and saw why her
noble heart had not opposed the
sacrifice she knew beforehand would be
useless. "Now, sir," said Albert, "if
you think my apology sufficient, pray
give me your hand. Next to the merit of
infallibility which you appear to
possess, I rank that of candidly
acknowledging a fault. But this
confession concerns me only. I acted
well as a man, but you have acted better
than man. An angel alone could have
saved one of us from death -- that angel
came from heaven, if not to make us
friends (which, alas, fatality renders
impossible), at least to make us esteem
each other."

Monte Cristo, with moistened eye,
heaving breast, and lips half open,
extended to Albert a hand which the
latter pressed with a sentiment
resembling respectful fear. "Gentlemen,"
said he, "M. de Monte Cristo receives my
apology. I had acted hastily towards
him. Hasty actions are generally bad
ones. Now my fault is repaired. I hope
the world will not call me cowardly for
acting as my conscience dictated. But if
any one should entertain a false opinion
of me," added he, drawing himself up as
if he would challenge both friends and
enemies, "I shall endeavor to correct
his mistake."

"What happened during the night?" asked
Beauchamp of Chateau-Renaud; "we appear
to make a very sorry figure here."

"In truth, what Albert has just done is
either very despicable or very noble,"
replied the baron.

"What can it mean?" said Debray to
Franz. "The Count of Monte Cristo acts
dishonorably to M. de Morcerf, and is
justified by his son! Had I ten Yaninas
in my family, I should only consider
myself the more bound to fight ten
times." As for Monte Cristo, his head
was bent down, his arms were powerless.
Bowing under the weight of twenty-four
years' reminiscences, he thought not of
Albert, of Beauchamp, of Chateau-Renaud,
or of any of that group; but he thought
of that courageous woman who had come to
plead for her son's life, to whom he had
offered his, and who had now saved it by
the revelation of a dreadful family
secret, capable of destroying forever in
that young man's heart every feeling of
filial piety.

"Providence still," murmured he; "now
only am I fully convinced of being the
emissary of God!"



Chapter 91 Mother and Son.

The Count of Monte Cristo bowed to the
five young men with a melancholy and
dignified smile, and got into his
carriage with Maximilian and Emmanuel.
Albert, Beauchamp, and Chateau-Renaud
remained alone. Albert looked at his two
friends, not timidly, but in a way that
appeared to ask their opinion of what he
had just done.

"Indeed, my dear friend," said Beauchamp
first, who had either the most feeling
or the least dissimulation, "allow me to
congratulate you; this is a very
unhoped-for conclusion of a very
disagreeable affair."

Albert remained silent and wrapped in
thought. Chateau-Renaud contented
himself with tapping his boot with his
flexible cane. "Are we not going?" said
he, after this embarrassing silence.
"When you please," replied Beauchamp;
"allow me only to compliment M. de
Morcerf, who has given proof to-day of
rare chivalric generosity."

"Oh, yes," said Chateau-Renaud.

"It is magnificent," continued
Beauchamp, "to be able to exercise so
much self-control!"

"Assuredly; as for me, I should have
been incapable of it," said
Chateau-Renaud, with most significant
coolness.

"Gentlemen," interrupted Albert, "I
think you did not understand that
something very serious had passed
between M. de Monte Cristo and myself."

"Possibly, possibly," said Beauchamp
immediately; "but every simpleton would
not be able to understand your heroism,
and sooner or later you will find
yourself compelled to explain it to them
more energetically than would be
convenient to your bodily health and the
duration of your life. May I give you a
friendly counsel? Set out for Naples,
the Hague, or St. Petersburg -- calm
countries, where the point of honor is
better understood than among our
hot-headed Parisians. Seek quietude and
oblivion, so that you may return
peaceably to France after a few years.
Am I not right, M. de Chateau-Renaud?"

"That is quite my opinion," said the
gentleman; "nothing induces serious
duels so much as a duel forsworn."

"Thank you, gentlemen," replied Albert,
with a smile of indifference; "I shall
follow your advice -- not because you
give it, but because I had before
intended to quit France. I thank you
equally for the service you have
rendered me in being my seconds. It is
deeply engraved on my heart, and, after
what you have just said, I remember that
only." Chateau-Renaud and Beauchamp
looked at each other; the impression was
the same on both of them, and the tone
in which Morcerf had just expressed his
thanks was so determined that the
position would have become embarrassing
for all if the conversation had
continued.

"Good-by, Albert," said Beauchamp
suddenly, carelessly extending his hand
to the young man. The latter did not
appear to arouse from his lethargy; in
fact, he did not notice the offered
hand. "Good-by," said Chateau-Renaud in
his turn, keeping his little cane in his
left hand, and saluting with his right.
Albert's lips scarcely whispered
"Good-by," but his look was more
explicit; it expressed a whole poem of
restrained anger, proud disdain, and
generous indignation. He preserved his
melancholy and motionless position for
some time after his two friends had
regained their carriage; then suddenly
unfastening his horse from the little
tree to which his servant had tied it,
he mounted and galloped off in the
direction of Paris.

In a quarter of an hour he was entering
the house in the Rue du Helder. As he
alighted, he thought he saw his father's
pale face behind the curtain of the
count's bedroom. Albert turned away his
head with a sigh, and went to his own
apartments. He cast one lingering look
on all the luxuries which had rendered
life so easy and so happy since his
infancy; he looked at the pictures,
whose faces seemed to smile, and the
landscapes, which appeared painted in
brighter colors. Then he took away his
mother's portrait, with its oaken frame,
leaving the gilt frame from which he
took it black and empty. Then he
arranged all his beautiful Turkish arms,
his fine English guns, his Japanese
china, his cups mounted in silver, his
artistic bronzes by Feucheres and Barye;
examined the cupboards, and placed the
key in each; threw into a drawer of his
secretary, which he left open, all the
pocket-money he had about him, and with
it the thousand fancy jewels from his
vases and his jewel-boxes; then he made
an exact inventory of everything, and
placed it in the most conspicuous part
of the table, after putting aside the
books and papers which had collected
there.

At the beginning of this work, his
servant, notwithstanding orders to the
contrary, came to his room. "What do you
want?" asked he, with a more sorrowful
than angry tone. "Pardon me, sir,"
replied the valet; "you had forbidden me
to disturb you, but the Count of Morcerf
has called me."

"Well!" said Albert.

"I did not like to go to him without
first seeing you."

"Why?"

"Because the count is doubtless aware
that I accompanied you to the meeting
this morning."

"It is probable," said Albert.

"And since he has sent for me, it is
doubtless to question me on what
happened there. What must I answer?"

"The truth."

"Then I shall say the duel did not take
place?"

"You will say I apologized to the Count
of Monte Cristo. Go."

The valet bowed and retired, and Albert
returned to his inventory. As he was
finishing this work, the sound of horses
prancing in the yard, and the wheels of
a carriage shaking his window, attracted
his attention. He approached the window,
and saw his father get into it, and
drive away. The door was scarcely closed
when Albert bent his steps to his
mother's room; and, no one being there
to announce him, he advanced to her
bed-chamber, and distressed by what he
saw and guessed, stopped for one moment
at the door. As if the same idea had
animated these two beings, Mercedes was
doing the same in her apartments that he
had just done in his. Everything was in
order, -- laces, dresses, jewels, linen,
money, all were arranged in the drawers,
and the countess was carefully
collecting the keys. Albert saw all
these preparations and understood them,
and exclaiming, "My mother!" he threw
his arms around her neck.

The artist who could have depicted the
expression of these two countenances
would certainly have made of them a
beautiful picture. All these proofs of
an energetic resolution, which Albert
did not fear on his own account, alarmed
him for his mother. "What are you
doing?" asked he.

"What were you doing?" replied she.

"Oh, my mother!" exclaimed Albert, so
overcome he could scarcely speak; "it is
not the same with you and me -- you
cannot have made the same resolution I
have, for I have come to warn you that I
bid adieu to your house, and -- and to
you."

"I also," replied Mercedes, "am going,
and I acknowledge I had depended on your
accompanying me; have I deceived
myself?"

"Mother," said Albert with firmness. "I
cannot make you share the fate I have
planned for myself. I must live
henceforth without rank and fortune, and
to begin this hard apprenticeship I must
borrow from a friend the loaf I shall
eat until I have earned one. So, my dear
mother, I am going at once to ask Franz
to lend me the small sum I shall require
to supply my present wants."

"You, my poor child, suffer poverty and
hunger? Oh, do not say so; it will break
my resolutions."

"But not mine, mother," replied Albert.
"I am young and strong; I believe I am
courageous, and since yesterday I have
learned the power of will. Alas, my dear
mother, some have suffered so much, and
yet live, and have raised a new fortune
on the ruin of all the promises of
happiness which heaven had made them --
on the fragments of all the hope which
God had given them! I have seen that,
mother; I know that from the gulf in
which their enemies have plunged them
they have risen with so much vigor and
glory that in their turn they have ruled
their former conquerors, and have
punished them. No. mother; from this
moment I have done with the past, and
accept nothing from it -- not even a
name, because you can understand that
your son cannot bear the name of a man
who ought to blush for it before
another."

"Albert, my child," said Mercedes, "if I
had a stronger heart that is the counsel
I would have given you; your conscience
has spoken when my voice became too
weak; listen to its dictates. You had
friends, Albert; break off their
acquaintance. But do not despair; you
have life before you, my dear Albert,
for you are yet scarcely twenty-two
years old; and as a pure heart like
yours wants a spotless name, take my
father's -- it was Herrera. I am sure,
my dear Albert, whatever may be your
career, you will soon render that name
illustrious. Then, my son, return to the
world still more brilliant because of
your former sorrows; and if I am wrong,
still let me cherish these hopes, for I
have no future to look forward to. For
me the grave opens when I pass the
threshold of this house."

"I will fulfil all your wishes, my dear
mother," said the young man. "Yes, I
share your hopes; the anger of heaven
will not pursue us, since you are pure
and I am innocent. But, since our
resolution is formed, let us act
promptly. M. de Morcerf went out about
half an hour ago; the opportunity in
favorable to avoid an explanation."

"I am ready, my son," said Mercedes.
Albert ran to fetch a carriage. He
recollected that there was a small
furnished house to let in the Rue de
Saints Peres, where his mother would
find a humble but decent lodging, and
thither he intended conducting the
countess. As the carriage stopped at the
door, and Albert was alighting, a man
approached and gave him a letter. Albert
recognized the bearer. "From the count,"
said Bertuccio. Albert took the letter,
opened, and read it, then looked round
for Bertuccio, but he was gone. He
returned to Mercedes with tears in his
eyes and heaving breast, and without
uttering a word he gave her the letter.
Mercedes read: --

Albert, -- While showing you that I have
discovered your plans, I hope also to
convince you of my delicacy. You are
free, you leave the count's house, and
you take your mother to your home; but
reflect, Albert, you owe her more than
your poor noble heart can pay her. Keep
the struggle for yourself, bear all the
suffering, but spare her the trial of
poverty which must accompany your first
efforts; for she deserves not even the
shadow of the misfortune which has this
day fallen on her, and providence is not
willing that the innocent should suffer
for the guilty. I know you are going to
leave the Rue du Helder without taking
anything with you. Do not seek to know
how I discovered it; I know it -- that
is sufficient.

Now, listen, Albert. Twenty-four years
ago I returned, proud and joyful, to my
country. I had a betrothed, Albert, a
lovely girl whom I adored, and I was
bringing to my betrothed a hundred and
fifty louis, painfully amassed by
ceaseless toil. This money was for her;
I destined it for her, and, knowing the
treachery of the sea I buried our
treasure in the little garden of the
house my father lived in at Marseilles,
on the Allees de Meillan. Your mother,
Albert, knows that poor house well. A
short time since I passed through
Marseilles, and went to see the old
place, which revived so many painful
recollections; and in the evening I took
a spade and dug in the corner of the
garden where I had concealed my
treasure. The iron box was there -- no
one had touched it -- under a beautiful
fig-tree my father had planted the day I
was born, which overshadowed the spot.
Well, Albert, this money, which was
formerly designed to promote the comfort
and tranquillity of the woman I adored,
may now, through strange and painful
circumstances, be devoted to the same
purpose. Oh, feel for me, who could
offer millions to that poor woman, but
who return her only the piece of black
bread forgotten under my poor roof since
the day I was torn from her I loved. You
are a generous man, Albert, but perhaps
you may be blinded by pride or
resentment; if you refuse me, if you ask
another for what I have a right to offer
you, I will say it is ungenerous of you
to refuse the life of your mother at the
hands of a man whose father was allowed
by your father to die in all the horrors
of poverty and despair.

Albert stood pale and motionless to hear
what his mother would decide after she
had finished reading this letter.
Mercedes turned her eyes with an
ineffable look towards heaven. "I accept
it," said she; "he has a right to pay
the dowry, which I shall take with me to
some convent!" Putting the letter in her
bosom, she took her son's arm, and with
a firmer step than she even herself
expected she went down-stairs.



Chapter 92 The Suicide.

Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also returned
to town with Emmanuel and Maximilian.
Their return was cheerful. Emmanuel did
not conceal his joy at the peaceful
termination of the affair, and was loud
in his expressions of delight. Morrel,
in a corner of the carriage, allowed his
brother-in-law's gayety to expend itself
in words, while he felt equal inward
joy, which, however, betrayed itself
only in his countenance. At the Barriere
du Trone they met Bertuccio, who was
waiting there, motionless as a sentinel
at his post. Monte Cristo put his head
out of the window, exchanged a few words
with him in a low tone, and the steward
disappeared. "Count," said Emmanuel,
when they were at the end of the Place
Royale, "put me down at my door, that my
wife may not have a single moment of
needless anxiety on my account or
yours."

"If it were not ridiculous to make a
display of our triumph, I would invite
the count to our house; besides that, he
doubtless has some trembling heart to
comfort. So we will take leave of our
friend, and let him hasten home."

"Stop a moment," said Monte Cristo; "do
not let me lose both my companions.
Return, Emmanuel, to your charming wife,
and present my best compliments to her;
and do you, Morrel, accompany me to the
Champs Elysees."

"Willingly," said Maximilian;
"particularly as I have business in that
quarter."

"Shall we wait breakfast for you?" asked
Emmanuel.

"No," replied the young man. The door
was closed, and the carriage proceeded.
"See what good fortune I brought you!"
said Morrel, when he was alone with the
count. "Have you not thought so?"

"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "for that
reason I wished to keep you near me."

"It is miraculous!" continued Morrel,
answering his own thoughts.

"What?" said Monte Cristo.

"What has just happened."

"Yes," said the Count, "you are right --
it is miraculous."

"For Albert is brave," resumed Morrel.

"Very brave," said Monte Cristo; "I have
seen him sleep with a sword suspended
over his head."

"And I know he has fought two duels,"
said Morrel. "How can you reconcile that
with his conduct this morning?"

"All owing to your influence," replied
Monte Cristo, smiling.

"It is well for Albert he is not in the
army," said Morrel.

"Why?"

"An apology on the ground!" said the
young captain, shaking his head.

"Come," said the count mildly, "do not
entertain the prejudices of ordinary
men, Morrel! Acknowledge, that if Albert
is brave, he cannot be a coward; he must
then have had some reason for acting as
he did this morning, and confess that
his conduct is more heroic than
otherwise."

"Doubtless, doubtless," said Morrel;
"but I shall say, like the Spaniard, `He
has not been so brave to-day as he was
yesterday.'"

"You will breakfast with me, will you
not, Morrel?" said the count, to turn
the conversation.

"No; I must leave you at ten o'clock."

"Your engagement was for breakfast,
then?" said the count.

Morrel smiled, and shook his head.
"Still you must breakfast somewhere."

"But if I am not hungry?" said the young
man.

"Oh," said the count, "I only know two
things which destroy the appetite, --
grief -- and as I am happy to see you
very cheerful, it is not that -- and
love. Now after what you told me this
morning of your heart, I may believe" --

"Well, count," replied Morrel gayly, "I
will not dispute it."

"But you will not make me your
confidant, Maximilian?" said the count,
in a tone which showed how gladly he
would have been admitted to the secret.

"I showed you this morning that I had a
heart, did I not, count?" Monte Cristo
only answered by extending his hand to
the young man. "Well," continued the
latter, "since that heart is no longer
with you in the Bois de Vincennes, it is
elsewhere, and I must go and find it."

"Go," said the count deliberately; "go,
dear friend, but promise me if you meet
with any obstacle to remember that I
have some power in this world, that I am
happy to use that power in the behalf of
those I love, and that I love you,
Morrel."

"I will remember it," said the young
man, "as selfish children recollect
their parents when they want their aid.
When I need your assistance, and the
moment arrives, I will come to you,
count."

"Well, I rely upon your promise.
Good-by, then."

"Good-by, till we meet again." They had
arrived in the Champs Elysees. Monte
Cristo opened the carriage-door, Morrel
sprang out on the pavement, Bertuccio
was waiting on the steps. Morrel
disappeared down the Avenue de Marigny,
and Monte Cristo hastened to join
Bertuccio.

"Well?" asked he.

"She is going to leave her house," said
the steward.

"And her son?"

"Florentin, his valet, thinks he is
going to do the same."

"Come this way." Monte Cristo took
Bertuccio into his study, wrote the
letter we have seen, and gave it to the
steward. "Go," said he quickly. "But
first, let Haidee be informed that I
have returned."

"Here I am," said the young girl, who at
the sound of the carriage had run
down-stairs and whose face was radiant
with joy at seeing the count return
safely. Bertuccio left. Every transport
of a daughter finding a father, all the
delight of a mistress seeing an adored
lover, were felt by Haidee during the
first moments of this meeting, which she
had so eagerly expected. Doubtless,
although less evident, Monte Cristo's
joy was not less intense. Joy to hearts
which have suffered long is like the dew
on the ground after a long drought; both
the heart and the ground absorb that
benificent moisture falling on them, and
nothing is outwardly apparent.

Monte Cristo was beginning to think,
what he had not for a long time dared to
believe, that there were two Mercedes in
the world, and he might yet be happy.
His eye, elate with happiness, was
reading eagerly the tearful gaze of
Haidee, when suddenly the door opened.
The count knit his brow. "M. de
Morcerf!" said Baptistin, as if that
name sufficed for his excuse. In fact,
the count's face brightened.

"Which," asked he, "the viscount or the
count?"

"The count."

"Oh," exclaimed Haidee, "is it not yet
over?"

"I know not if it is finished, my
beloved child," said Monte Cristo,
taking the young girl's hands; "but I do
know you have nothing more to fear."

"But it is the wretched" --

"That man cannot injure me, Haidee,"
said Monte Cristo; "it was his son alone
that there was cause to fear."

"And what I have suffered," said the
young girl, "you shall never know, my
lord." Monte Cristo smiled. "By my
father's tomb," said he, extending his
hand over the head of the young girl, "I
swear to you, Haidee, that if any
misfortune happens, it will not be to
me."

"I believe you, my lord, as implicitly
as if God had spoken to me," said the
young girl, presenting her forehead to
him. Monte Cristo pressed on that pure
beautiful forehead a kiss which made two
hearts throb at once, the one violently,
the other heavily. "Oh," murmured the
count, "shall I then be permitted to
love again? Ask M. de Morcerf into the
drawing-room," said he to Baptistin,
while he led the beautiful Greek girl to
a private staircase.

We must explain this visit, which
although expected by Monte Cristo, is
unexpected to our readers. While
Mercedes, as we have said, was making a
similar inventory of her property to
Albert's, while she was arranging her
jewels, shutting her drawers, collecting
her keys, to leave everything in perfect
order, she did not perceive a pale and
sinister face at a glass door which
threw light into the passage, from which
everything could be both seen and heard.
He who was thus looking, without being
heard or seen, probably heard and saw
all that passed in Madame de Morcerf's
apartments. From that glass door the
pale-faced man went to the count's
bedroom and raised with a constricted
hand the curtain of a window overlooking
the court-yard. He remained there ten
minutes, motionless and dumb, listening
to the beating of his own heart. For him
those ten minutes were very long. It was
then Albert, returning from his meeting
with the count, perceived his father
watching for his arrival behind a
curtain, and turned aside. The count's
eye expanded; he knew Albert had
insulted the count dreadfully, and that
in every country in the world such an
insult would lead to a deadly duel.
Albert returned safely -- then the count
was revenged.

An indescribable ray of joy illumined
that wretched countenance like the last
ray of the sun before it disappears
behind the clouds which bear the aspect,
not of a downy couch, but of a tomb. But
as we have said, he waited in vain for
his son to come to his apartment with
the account of his triumph. He easily
understood why his son did not come to
see him before he went to avenge his
father's honor; but when that was done,
why did not his son come and throw
himself into his arms?

It was then, when the count could not
see Albert, that he sent for his
servant, who he knew was authorized not
to conceal anything from him. Ten
minutes afterwards, General Morcerf was
seen on the steps in a black coat with a
military collar, black pantaloons, and
black gloves. He had apparently given
previous orders, for as he reached the
bottom step his carriage came from the
coach-house ready for him. The valet
threw into the carriage his military
cloak, in which two swords were wrapped,
and, shutting the door, he took his seat
by the side of the coachman. The
coachman stooped down for his orders.

"To the Champs Elysees," said the
general; "the Count of Monte Cristo's.
Hurry!" The horses bounded beneath the
whip; and in five minutes they stopped
before the count's door. M. de Morcerf
opened the door himself, and as the
carriage rolled away he passed up the
walk, rang, and entered the open door
with his servant.

A moment afterwards, Baptistin announced
the Count of Morcerf to Monte Cristo,
and the latter, leading Haidee aside,
ordered that Morcerf be asked into the
drawing-room. The general was pacing the
room the third time when, in turning, he
perceived Monte Cristo at the door. "Ah,
it is M. de Morcerf," said Monte Cristo
quietly; "I thought I had not heard
aright."

"Yes, it is I," said the count, whom a
frightful contraction of the lips
prevented from articulating freely.

"May I know the cause which procures me
the pleasure of seeing M. de Morcerf so
early?"

"Had you not a meeting with my son this
morning?" asked the general.

"I had," replied the count.

"And I know my son had good reasons to
wish to fight with you, and to endeavor
to kill you."

"Yes, sir, he had very good ones; but
you see that in spite of them he has not
killed me, and did not even fight."

"Yet he considered you the cause of his
father's dishonor, the cause of the
fearful ruin which has fallen on my
house."

"It is true, sir," said Monte Cristo
with his dreadful calmness; "a secondary
cause, but not the principal."

"Doubtless you made, then, some apology
or explanation?"

"I explained nothing, and it is he who
apologized to me."

"But to what do you attribute this
conduct?"

"To the conviction, probably, that there
was one more guilty than I."

"And who was that?"

"His father."

"That may be," said the count, turning
pale; "but you know the guilty do not
like to find themselves convicted."

"I know it, and I expected this result."

"You expected my son would be a coward?"
cried the count.

"M. Albert de Morcerf is no coward!"
said Monte Cristo.

"A man who holds a sword in his hand,
and sees a mortal enemy within reach of
that sword, and does not fight, is a
coward! Why is he not here that I may
tell him so?"

"Sir." replied Monte Cristo coldly, "I
did not expect that you had come here to
relate to me your little family affairs.
Go and tell M. Albert that, and he may
know what to answer you."

"Oh, no, no," said the general, smiling
faintly, "I did not come for that
purpose; you are right. I came to tell
you that I also look upon you as my
enemy. I came to tell you that I hate
you instinctively; that it seems as if I
had always known you, and always hated
you; and, in short, since the young
people of the present day will not
fight, it remains for us to do so. Do
you think so, sir?"

"Certainly. And when I told you I had
foreseen the result, it is the honor of
your visit I alluded to."

"So much the better. Are you prepared?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know that we shall fight till one
of us is dead," said the general, whose
teeth were clinched with rage. "Until
one of us dies," repeated Monte Cristo,
moving his head slightly up and down.

"Let us start, then; we need no
witnesses."

"Very true," said Monte Cristo; "it is
unnecessary, we know each other so
well!"

"On the contrary," said the count, "we
know so little of each other."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo, with the
same indomitable coolness; "let us see.
Are you not the soldier Fernand who
deserted on the eve of the battle of
Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant
Fernand who served as guide and spy to
the French army in Spain? Are you not
the Captain Fernand who betrayed, sold,
and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And
have not all these Fernands, united,
made Lieutenant-General, the Count of
Morcerf, peer of France?"

"Oh," cried the general, as it branded
with a hot iron, "wretch, -- to reproach
me with my shame when about, perhaps, to
kill me! No, I did not say I was a
stranger to you. I know well, demon,
that you have penetrated into the
darkness of the past, and that you have
read, by the light of what torch I know
not, every page of my life; but perhaps
I may be more honorable in my shame than
you under your pompous coverings. No --
no, I am aware you know me; but I know
you only as an adventurer sewn up in
gold and jewellery. You call yourself in
Paris the Count of Monte Cristo; in
Italy, Sinbad the Sailor; in Malta, I
forget what. But it is your real name I
want to know, in the midst of your
hundred names, that I may pronounce it
when we meet to fight, at the moment
when I plunge my sword through your
heart."

The Count of Monte Cristo turned
dreadfully pale; his eye seemed to burn
with a devouring fire. He leaped towards
a dressing-room near his bedroom, and in
less than a moment, tearing off his
cravat, his coat and waistcoat, he put
on a sailor's jacket and hat, from
beneath which rolled his long black
hair. He returned thus, formidable and
implacable, advancing with his arms
crossed on his breast, towards the
general, who could not understand why he
had disappeared, but who on seeing him
again, and feeling his teeth chatter and
his legs sink under him, drew back, and
only stopped when he found a table to
support his clinched hand. "Fernand,"
cried he, "of my hundred names I need
only tell you one, to overwhelm you! But
you guess it now, do you not? -- or,
rather, you remember it? For,
notwithstanding all my sorrows and my
tortures, I show you to-day a face which
the happiness of revenge makes young
again -- a face you must often have seen
in your dreams since your marriage with
Mercedes, my betrothed!"

The general, with his head thrown back,
hands extended, gaze fixed, looked
silently at this dreadful apparition;
then seeking the wall to support him, he
glided along close to it until he
reached the door, through which he went
out backwards, uttering this single
mournful, lamentable, distressing
cry, -- "Edmond Dantes!" Then, with
sighs which were unlike any human sound,
he dragged himself to the door, reeled
across the court-yard, and falling into
the arms of his valet, he said in a
voice scarcely intelligible, -- "Home,
home." The fresh air and the shame he
felt at having exposed himself before
his servants, partly recalled his
senses, but the ride was short, and as
he drew near his house all his
wretchedness revived. He stopped at a
short distance from the house and
alighted.

The door was wide open, a hackney-coach
was standing in the middle of the
yard -- a strange sight before so noble
a mansion; the count looked at it with
terror, but without daring to inquire
its meaning, he rushed towards his
apartment. Two persons were coming down
the stairs; he had only time to creep
into an alcove to avoid them. It was
Mercedes leaning on her son's arm and
leaving the house. They passed close by
the unhappy being, who, concealed behind
the damask curtain, almost felt Mercedes
dress brush past him, and his son's warm
breath, pronouncing these words, --
"Courage, mother! Come, this is no
longer our home!" The words died away,
the steps were lost in the distance. The
general drew himself up, clinging to the
curtain; he uttered the most dreadful
sob which ever escaped from the bosom of
a father abandoned at the same time by
his wife and son. He soon heard the
clatter of the iron step of the
hackney-coach, then the coachman's
voice, and then the rolling of the heavy
vehicle shook the windows. He darted to
his bedroom to see once more all he had
loved in the world; but the
hackney-coach drove on and the head of
neither Mercedes nor her son appeared at
the window to take a last look at the
house or the deserted father and
husband. And at the very moment when the
wheels of that coach crossed the gateway
a report was heard, and a thick smoke
escaped through one of the panes of the
window, which was broken by the
explosion.



Chapter 93 Valentine.

We may easily conceive where Morrel's
appointment was. On leaving Monte Cristo
he walked slowly towards Villefort's; we
say slowly, for Morrel had more than
half an hour to spare to go five hundred
steps, but he had hastened to take leave
of Monte Cristo because he wished to be
alone with his thoughts. He knew his
time well -- the hour when Valentine was
giving Noirtier his breakfast, and was
sure not to be disturbed in the
performance of this pious duty. Noirtier
and Valentine had given him leave to go
twice a week, and he was now availing
himself of that permission. He had
arrived; Valentine was expecting him.
Uneasy and almost crazed, she seized his
hand and led him to her grandfather.
This uneasiness, amounting almost to
frenzy, arose from the report Morcerf's
adventure had made in the world, for the
affair at the opera was generally known.
No one at Villefort's doubted that a
duel would ensue from it. Valentine,
with her woman's instinct, guessed that
Morrel would be Monte Cristo's second,
and from the young man's well-known
courage and his great affection for the
count, she feared that he would not
content himself with the passive part
assigned to him. We may easily
understand how eagerly the particulars
were asked for, given, and received; and
Morrel could read an indescribable joy
in the eyes of his beloved, when she
knew that the termination of this affair
was as happy as it was unexpected.

"Now," said Valentine, motioning to
Morrel to sit down near her grandfather,
while she took her seat on his
footstool, -- "now let us talk about our
own affairs. You know, Maximilian,
grandpapa once thought of leaving this
house, and taking an apartment away from
M. de Villefort's."

"Yes," said Maximilian, "I recollect the
project, of which I highly approved."

"Well," said Valentine, "you may approve
again, for grandpapa is again thinking
of it."

"Bravo," said Maximilian.

"And do you know," said Valentine, "what
reason grandpapa gives for leaving this
house." Noirtier looked at Valentine to
impose silence, but she did not notice
him; her looks, her eyes, her smile,
were all for Morrel.

"Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier's
reason," answered Morrel, "I can readily
believe it to be a good one."

"An excellent one," said Valentine. "He
pretends the air of the Faubourg St.
Honore is not good for me."

"Indeed?" said Morrel; "in that M.
Noirtier may be right; you have not
seemed to be well for the last
fortnight."

"Not very," said Valentine. "And
grandpapa has become my physician, and I
have the greatest confidence in him,
because he knows everything."

"Do you then really suffer?" asked
Morrel quickly.

"Oh, it must not be called suffering; I
feel a general uneasiness, that is all.
I have lost my appetite, and my stomach
feels as if it were struggling to get
accustomed to something." Noirtier did
not lose a word of what Valentine said.
"And what treatment do you adopt for
this singular complaint?"

"A very simple one," said Valentine. "I
swallow every morning a spoonful of the
mixture prepared for my grandfather.
When I say one spoonful, I began by
one -- now I take four. Grandpapa says
it is a panacea." Valentine smiled, but
it was evident that she suffered.

Maximilian, in his devotedness, gazed
silently at her. She was very beautiful,
but her usual pallor had increased; her
eyes were more brilliant than ever, and
her hands, which were generally white
like mother-of-pearl, now more resembled
wax, to which time was adding a
yellowish hue. From Valentine the young
man looked towards Noirtier. The latter
watched with strange and deep interest
the young girl, absorbed by her
affection, and he also, like Morrel,
followed those traces of inward
suffering which was so little
perceptible to a common observer that
they escaped the notice of every one but
the grandfather and the lover.

"But," said Morrel, "I thought this
mixture, of which you now take four
spoonfuls, was prepared for M.
Noirtier?"

"I know it is very bitter," said
Valentine; "so bitter, that all I drink
afterwards appears to have the same
taste." Noirtier looked inquiringly at
his granddaughter. "Yes, grandpapa,"
said Valentine; "it is so. Just now,
before I came down to you, I drank a
glass of sugared water; I left half,
because it seemed so bitter." Noirtier
turned pale, and made a sign that he
wished to speak. Valentine rose to fetch
the dictionary. Noirtier watched her
with evident anguish. In fact, the blood
was rushing to the young girl's head
already, her cheeks were becoming red.
"Oh," cried she, without losing any of
her cheerfulness, "this is singular! I
can't see! Did the sun shine in my
eyes?" And she leaned against the
window.

"The sun is not shining," said Morrel,
more alarmed by Noirtier's expression
than by Valentine's indisposition. He
ran towards her. The young girl smiled.
"Cheer up," said she to Noirtier. "Do
not be alarmed, Maximilian; it is
nothing, and has already passed away.
But listen! Do I not hear a carriage in
the court-yard?" She opened Noirtier's
door, ran to a window in the passage,
and returned hastily. "Yes," said she,
"it is Madame Danglars and her daughter,
who have come to call on us. Good-by; --
I must run away, for they would send
here for me, or, rather, farewell till I
see you again. Stay with grandpapa,
Maximilian; I promise you not to
persuade them to stay."

Morrel watched her as she left the room;
he heard her ascend the little staircase
which led both to Madame de Villefort's
apartments and to hers. As soon as she
was gone, Noirtier made a sign to Morrel
to take the dictionary. Morrel obeyed;
guided by Valentine, he had learned how
to understand the old man quickly.
Accustomed, however, as he was to the
work, he had to repeat most of the
letters of the alphabet and to find
every word in the dictionary, so that it
was ten minutes before the thought of
the old man was translated by these
words, "Fetch the glass of water and the
decanter from Valentine's room."

Morrel rang immediately for the servant
who had taken Barrois's situation, and
in Noirtier's name gave that order. The
servant soon returned. The decanter and
the glass were completely empty.
Noirtier made a sign that he wished to
speak. "Why are the glass and decanter
empty?" asked he; "Valentine said she
only drank half the glassful." The
translation of this new question
occupied another five minutes. "I do not
know," said the servant, "but the
housemaid is in Mademoiselle Valentine's
room: perhaps she has emptied them."

"Ask her," said Morrel, translating
Noirtier's thought this time by his
look. The servant went out, but returned
almost immediately. "Mademoiselle
Valentine passed through the room to go
to Madame de Villefort's," said he; "and
in passing, as she was thirsty, she
drank what remained in the glass; as for
the decanter, Master Edward had emptied
that to make a pond for his ducks."
Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as a
gambler does who stakes his all on one
stroke. From that moment the old man's
eyes were fixed on the door, and did not
quit it.

It was indeed Madame Danglars and her
daughter whom Valentine had seen; they
had been ushered into Madame de
Villefort's room, who had said she would
receive them there. That is why
Valentine passed through her room, which
was on a level with Valentine's, and
only separated from it by Edward's. The
two ladies entered the drawing-room with
that sort of official stiffness which
preludes a formal communication. Among
worldly people manner is contagious.
Madame de Villefort received them with
equal solemnity. Valentine entered at
this moment, and the formalities were
resumed. "My dear friend," said the
baroness, while the two young people
were shaking hands, "I and Eugenie are
come to be the first to announce to you
the approaching marriage of my daughter
with Prince Cavalcanti." Danglars kept
up the title of prince. The popular
banker found that it answered better
than count. "Allow me to present you my
sincere congratulations," replied Madame
de Villefort. "Prince Cavalcanti appears
to be a young man of rare qualities."

"Listen," said the baroness, smiling;
"speaking to you as a friend I can say
that the prince does not yet appear all
he will be. He has about him a little of
that foreign manner by which French
persons recognize, at first sight, the
Italian or German nobleman. Besides, he
gives evidence of great kindness of
disposition, much keenness of wit, and
as to suitability, M. Danglars assures
me that his fortune is majestic -- that
is his word."

"And then," said Eugenie, while turning
over the leaves of Madame de Villefort's
album, "add that you have taken a great
fancy to the young man."

"And," said Madame de Villefort, "I need
not ask you if you share that fancy."

"I?" replied Eugenie with her usual
candor. "Oh, not the least in the world,
madame! My wish was not to confine
myself to domestic cares, or the
caprices of any man, but to be an
artist, and consequently free in heart,
in person, and in thought." Eugenie
pronounced these words with so firm a
tone that the color mounted to
Valentine's cheeks. The timid girl could
not understand that vigorous nature
which appeared to have none of the
timidities of woman.

"At any rate," said she, "since I am to
be married whether I will or not, I
ought to be thankful to providence for
having released me from my engagement
with M. Albert de Morcerf, or I should
this day have been the wife of a
dishonored man."

"It is true," said the baroness, with
that strange simplicity sometimes met
with among fashionable ladies, and of
which plebeian intercourse can never
entirely deprive them, -- "it is very
true that had not the Morcerfs
hesitated, my daughter would have
married Monsieur Albert. The general
depended much on it; he even came to
force M. Danglars. We have had a narrow
escape."

"But," said Valentine, timidly, "does
all the father's shame revert upon the
son? Monsieur Albert appears to me quite
innocent of the treason charged against
the general."

"Excuse me," said the implacable young
girl, "Monsieur Albert claims and well
deserves his share. It appears that
after having challenged M. de Monte
Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he
apologized on the ground to-day."

"Impossible," said Madame de Villefort.

"Ah, my dear friend," said Madame
Danglars, with the same simplicity we
before noticed, "it is a fact. I heard
it from M. Debray, who was present at
the explanation." Valentine also knew
the truth, but she did not answer. A
single word had reminded her that Morrel
was expecting her in M. Noirtier's room.
Deeply engaged with a sort of inward
contemplation, Valentine had ceased for
a moment to join in the conversation.
She would, indeed, have found it
impossible to repeat what had been said
the last few minutes, when suddenly
Madame Danglars' hand, pressed on her
arm, aroused her from her lethargy.

"What is it?" said she, starting at
Madame Danglars, touch as she would have
done from an electric shock. "It is, my
dear Valentine," said the baroness,
"that you are, doubtless, suffering."

"I?" said the young girl, passing her
hand across her burning forehead.

"Yes, look at yourself in that glass;
you have turned pale and then red
successively, three or four times in one
minute."

"Indeed," cried Eugenie, "you are very
pale!"

"Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so
for many days." Artless as she was, the
young girl knew that this was an
opportunity to leave, and besides,
Madame de Villefort came to her
assistance. "Retire, Valentine," said
she; "you are really suffering, and
these ladies will excuse you; drink a
glass of pure water, it will restore
you." Valentine kissed Eugenie, bowed to
Madame Danglars, who had already risen
to take her leave, and went out. "That
poor child," said Madame de Villefort
when Valentine was gone, "she makes me
very uneasy, and I should not be
astonished if she had some serious
illness."

Meanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of
excitement which she could not quite
understand, had crossed Edward's room
without noticing some trick of the
child, and through her own had reached
the little staircase. She was within
three steps of the bottom; she already
heard Morrel's voice, when suddenly a
cloud passed over her eyes, her
stiffened foot missed the step, her
hands had no power to hold the baluster,
and falling against the wall she lost
her balance wholly and toppled to the
floor. Morrel bounded to the door,
opened it, and found Valentine stretched
out at the bottom of the stairs. Quick
as a flash, he raised her in his arms
and placed her in a chair. Valentine
opened her eyes.

"Oh, what a clumsy thing I am," said she
with feverish volubility; "I don't know
my way. I forgot there were three more
steps before the landing."

"You have hurt yourself, perhaps," said
Morrel. "What can I do for you,
Valentine?" Valentine looked around her;
she saw the deepest terror depicted in
Noirtier's eyes. "Don't worry, dear
grandpapa," said she, endeavoring to
smile; "it is nothing -- it is nothing;
I was giddy, that is all."

"Another attack of giddiness," said
Morrel, clasping his hands. "Oh, attend
to it, Valentine, I entreat you."

"But no," said Valentine, -- "no, I tell
you it is all past, and it was nothing.
Now, let me tell you some news; Eugenie
is to be married in a week, and in three
days there is to be a grand feast, a
betrothal festival. We are all invited,
my father, Madame de Villefort, and I --
at least, I understood it so."

"When will it be our turn to think of
these things? Oh, Valentine, you who
have so much influence over your
grandpapa, try to make him answer --
Soon."

"And do you," said Valentine, "depend on
me to stimulate the tardiness and arouse
the memory of grandpapa?"

"Yes," cried Morrel, "make haste. So
long as you are not mine, Valentine, I
shall always think I may lose you."

"Oh," replied Valentine with a
convulsive movement, "oh, indeed,
Maximilian, you are too timid for an
officer, for a soldier who, they say,
never knows fear. Ah, ha, ha!" she burst
into a forced and melancholy laugh, her
arms stiffened and twisted, her head
fell back on her chair, and she remained
motionless. The cry of terror which was
stopped on Noirtier's lips, seemed to
start from his eyes. Morrel understood
it; he knew he must call assistance. The
young man rang the bell violently; the
housemaid who had been in Mademoiselle
Valentine's room, and the servant who
had replaced Barrois, ran in at the same
moment. Valentine was so pale, so cold,
so inanimate that without listening to
what was said to them they were seized
with the fear which pervaded that house,
and they flew into the passage crying
for help. Madame Danglars and Eugenie
were going out at that moment; they
heard the cause of the disturbance. "I
told you so!" exclaimed Madame de
Villefort. "Poor child!"



Chapter 94 Maximilian's Avowal.

At the same moment M. de Villefort's
voice was heard calling from his study,
"What is the matter?" Morrel looked at
Noirtier who had recovered his
self-command, and with a glance
indicated the closet where once before
under somewhat similar circumstances, he
had taken refuge. He had only time to
get his hat and throw himself breathless
into the closet when the procureur's
footstep was heard in the passage.
Villefort sprang into the room, ran to
Valentine, and took her in his arms. "A
physician, a physician, -- M.
d'Avrigny!" cried Villefort; "or rather
I will go for him myself." He flew from
the apartment, and Morrel at the same
moment darted out at the other door. He
had been struck to the heart by a
frightful recollection -- the
conversation he had heard between the
doctor and Villefort the night of Madame
de Saint-Meran's death, recurred to him;
these symptoms, to a less alarming
extent, were the same which had preceded
the death of Barrois. At the same time
Monte Cristo's voice seemed to resound
in his ear with the words he had heard
only two hours before, "Whatever you
want, Morrel, come to me; I have great
power." More rapidly than thought, he
darted down the Rue Matignon, and thence
to the Avenue des Champs Elysees.

Meanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a
hired cabriolet at M. d'Avrigny's door.
He rang so violently that the porter was
alarmed. Villefort ran up-stairs without
saying a word. The porter knew him, and
let him pass, only calling to him, "In
his study, Monsieur Procureur -- in his
study!" Villefort pushed, or rather
forced, the door open. "Ah," said the
doctor, "is it you?"

"Yes," said Villefort, closing the door
after him, "it is I, who am come in my
turn to ask you if we are quite alone.
Doctor, my house is accursed!"

"What?" said the latter with apparent
coolness, but with deep emotion, "have
you another invalid?"

"Yes, doctor," cried Villefort,
clutching his hair, "yes!"

D'Avrigny's look implied, "I told you it
would be so." Then he slowly uttered
these words, "Who is now dying in your
house? What new victim is going to
accuse you of weakness before God?" A
mournful sob burst from Villefort's
heart; he approached the doctor, and
seizing his arm, -- "Valentine," said
he, "it is Valentine's turn!"

"Your daughter?" cried d'Avrigny with
grief and surprise.

"You see you were deceived," murmured
the magistrate; "come and see her, and
on her bed of agony entreat her pardon
for having suspected her."

"Each time you have applied to me," said
the doctor, "it has been too late; still
I will go. But let us make haste, sir;
with the enemies you have to do with
there is no time to be lost."

"Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not
have to reproach me with weakness. This
time I will know the assassin, and will
pursue him."

"Let us try first to save the victim
before we think of revenging her," said
d'Avrigny. "Come." The same cabriolet
which had brought Villefort took them
back at full speed, and at this moment
Morrel rapped at Monte Cristo's door.
The count was in his study and was
reading with an angry look something
which Bertuccio had brought in haste.
Hearing the name of Morrel, who had left
him only two hours before, the count
raised his head, arose, and sprang to
meet him. "What is the matter,
Maximilian?" asked he; "you are pale,
and the perspiration rolls from your
forehead." Morrel fell into a chair.
"Yes," said he, "I came quickly; I
wanted to speak to you."

"Are all your family well?" asked the
count, with an affectionate benevolence,
whose sincerity no one could for a
moment doubt.

"Thank you, count -- thank you," said
the young man, evidently embarrassed how
to begin the conversation; "yes, every
one in my family is well."

"So much the better; yet you have
something to tell me?" replied the count
with increased anxiety.

"Yes," said Morrel, "it is true; I have
but now left a house where death has
just entered, to run to you."

"Are you then come from M. de
Morcerf's?" asked Monte Cristo.

"No," said Morrel; "is some one dead in
his house?"

"The general has just blown his brains
out," replied Monte Cristo with great
coolness.

"Oh, what a dreadful event!" cried
Maximilian.

"Not for the countess, or for Albert,"
said Monte Cristo; "a dead father or
husband is better than a dishonored
one, -- blood washes out shame."

"Poor countess," said Maximilian, "I
pity her very much; she is so noble a
woman!"

"Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for
believe me he is the worthy son of the
countess. But let us return to yourself.
You have hastened to me -- can I have
the happiness of being useful to you?"

"Yes, I need your help: that is I
thought like a madman that you could
lend me your assistance in a case where
God alone can succor me."

"Tell me what it is," replied Monte
Cristo.

"Oh," said Morrel, "I know not, indeed,
if I may reveal this secret to mortal
ears, but fatality impels me, necessity
constrains me, count" -- Morrel
hesitated. "Do you think I love you?"
said Monte Cristo, taking the young
man's hand affectionately in his.

"Oh, you encourage me, and something
tells me there," placing his hand on his
heart, "that I ought to have no secret
from you."

"You are right, Morrel; God is speaking
to your heart, and your heart speaks to
you. Tell me what it says."

"Count, will you allow me to send
Baptistin to inquire after some one you
know?"

"I am at your service, and still more my
servants."

"Oh, I cannot live if she is not
better."

"Shall I ring for Baptistin?"

"No, I will go and speak to him myself."
Morrel went out, called Baptistin, and
whispered a few words to him. The valet
ran directly. "Well, have you sent?"
asked Monte Cristo, seeing Morrel
return.

"Yes, and now I shall be more calm."

"You know I am waiting," said Monte
Cristo, smiling.

"Yes, and I will tell you. One evening I
was in a garden; a clump of trees
concealed me; no one suspected I was
there. Two persons passed near me --
allow me to conceal their names for the
present; they were speaking in an
undertone, and yet I was so interested
in what they said that I did not lose a
single word."

"This is a gloomy introduction, if I may
judge from your pallor and shuddering,
Morrel."

"Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Some
one had just died in the house to which
that garden belonged. One of the persons
whose conversation I overheard was the
master of the house; the other, the
physician. The former was confiding to
the latter his grief and fear, for it
was the second time within a month that
death had suddenly and unexpectedly
entered that house which was apparently
destined to destruction by some
exterminating angel, as an object of
God's anger."

"Ah, indeed?" said Monte Cristo, looking
earnestly at the young man, and by an
imperceptible movement turning his
chair, so that he remained in the shade
while the light fell full on
Maximilian's face. "Yes," continued
Morrel, "death had entered that house
twice within one month."

"And what did the doctor answer?" asked
Monte Cristo.

"He replied -- he replied, that the
death was not a natural one, and must be
attributed" --

"To what?"

"To poison."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo with a
slight cough which in moments of extreme
emotion helped him to disguise a blush,
or his pallor, or the intense interest
with which he listened; "indeed,
Maximilian, did you hear that?"

"Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and the
doctor added that if another death
occurred in a similar way he must appeal
to justice." Monte Cristo listened, or
appeared to do so, with the greatest
calmness. "Well," said Maximilian,
"death came a third time, and neither
the master of the house nor the doctor
said a word. Death is now, perhaps,
striking a fourth blow. Count, what am I
bound to do, being in possession of this
secret?"

"My dear friend," said Monte Cristo,
"you appear to be relating an adventure
which we all know by heart. I know the
house where you heard it, or one very
similar to it; a house with a garden, a
master, a physician, and where there
have been three unexpected and sudden
deaths. Well, I have not intercepted
your confidence, and yet I know all that
as well as you, and I have no
conscientious scruples. No, it does not
concern me. You say an exterminating
angel appears to have devoted that house
to God's anger -- well, who says your
supposition is not reality? Do not
notice things which those whose interest
it is to see them pass over. If it is
God's justice, instead of his anger,
which is walking through that house,
Maximilian, turn away your face and let
his justice accomplish its purpose."
Morrel shuddered. There was something
mournful, solemn, and terrible in the
count's manner. "Besides," continued he,
in so changed a tone that no one would
have supposed it was the same person
speaking -- "besides, who says that it
will begin again?"

"It has returned, count," exclaimed
Morrel; "that is why I hastened to you."

"Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you
wish me, for instance, to give
information to the procureur?" Monte
Cristo uttered the last words with so
much meaning that Morrel, starting up,
cried out, "You know of whom I speak,
count, do you not?"

"Perfectly well, my good friend; and I
will prove it to you by putting the dots
to the `i,' or rather by naming the
persons. You were walking one evening in
M. de Villefort's garden; from what you
relate, I suppose it to have been the
evening of Madame de Saint-Meran's
death. You heard M. de Villefort talking
to M. d'Avrigny about the death of M. de
Saint-Meran, and that no less
surprising, of the countess. M.
d'Avrigny said he believed they both
proceeded from poison; and you, honest
man, have ever since been asking your
heart and sounding your conscience to
know if you ought to expose or conceal
this secret. Why do you torment them?
`Conscience, what hast thou to do with
me?' as Sterne said. My dear fellow, let
them sleep on, if they are asleep; let
them grow pale in their drowsiness, if
they are disposed to do so, and pray do
you remain in peace, who have no remorse
to disturb you." Deep grief was depicted
on Morrel's features; he seized Monte
Cristo's hand. "But it is beginning
again, I say!"

"Well," said the Count, astonished at
his perseverance, which he could not
understand, and looking still more
earnestly at Maximilian, "let it begin
again, -- it is like the house of the
Atreidae;* God has condemned them, and
they must submit to their punishment.
They will all disappear, like the
fabrics children build with cards, and
which fall, one by one, under the breath
of their builder, even if there are two
hundred of them. Three months since it
was M. de Saint-Meran; Madame de
Saint-Meran two months since; the other
day it was Barrois; to-day, the old
Noirtier, or young Valentine."

* In the old Greek legend the Atreidae,
or children of Atreus, were doomed to
punishment because of the abominable
crime of their father. The Agamemnon of
Aeschylus is based on this legend.

"You knew it?" cried Morrel, in such a
paroxysm of terror that Monte Cristo
started, -- he whom the falling heavens
would have found unmoved; "you knew it,
and said nothing?"

"And what is it to me?" replied Monte
Cristo, shrugging his shoulders; "do I
know those people? and must I lose the
one to save the other? Faith, no, for
between the culprit and the victim I
have no choice."

"But I," cried Morrel, groaning with
sorrow, "I love her!"

"You love? -- whom?" cried Monte Cristo,
starting to his feet, and seizing the
two hands which Morrel was raising
towards heaven.

"I love most fondly -- I love madly -- I
love as a man who would give his
life-blood to spare her a tear -- I love
Valentine de Villefort, who is being
murdered at this moment! Do you
understand me? I love her; and I ask God
and you how I can save her?" Monte
Cristo uttered a cry which those only
can conceive who have heard the roar of
a wounded lion. "Unhappy man," cried he,
wringing his hands in his turn; "you
love Valentine, -- that daughter of an
accursed race!" Never had Morrel
witnessed such an expression -- never
had so terrible an eye flashed before
his face -- never had the genius of
terror he had so often seen, either on
the battle-field or in the murderous
nights of Algeria, shaken around him
more dreadful fire. He drew back
terrified.

As for Monte Cristo, after this
ebullition he closed his eyes as if
dazzled by internal light. In a moment
he restrained himself so powerfully that
the tempestuous heaving of his breast
subsided, as turbulent and foaming waves
yield to the sun's genial influence when
the cloud has passed. This silence,
self-control, and struggle lasted about
twenty seconds, then the count raised
his pallid face. "See," said he, "my
dear friend, how God punishes the most
thoughtless and unfeeling men for their
indifference, by presenting dreadful
scenes to their view. I, who was looking
on, an eager and curious spectator, --
I, who was watching the working of this
mournful tragedy, -- I, who like a
wicked angel was laughing at the evil
men committed protected by secrecy (a
secret is easily kept by the rich and
powerful), I am in my turn bitten by the
serpent whose tortuous course I was
watching, and bitten to the heart!"

Morrel groaned. "Come, come," continued
the count, "complaints are unavailing,
be a man, be strong, be full of hope,
for I am here and will watch over you."
Morrel shook his head sorrowfully. "I
tell you to hope. Do you understand me?"
cried Monte Cristo. "Remember that I
never uttered a falsehood and am never
deceived. It is twelve o'clock,
Maximilian; thank heaven that you came
at noon rather than in the evening, or
to-morrow morning. Listen, Morrel -- it
is noon; if Valentine is not now dead,
she will not die."

"How so?" cried Morrel, "when I left her
dying?" Monte Cristo pressed his hands
to his forehead. What was passing in
that brain, so loaded with dreadful
secrets? What does the angel of light or
the angel of darkness say to that mind,
at once implacable and generous? God
only knows.

Monte Cristo raised his head once more,
and this time he was calm as a child
awaking from its sleep. "Maximilian,"
said he, "return home. I command you not
to stir -- attempt nothing, not to let
your countenance betray a thought, and I
will send you tidings. Go."

"Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that
coolness. Have you, then, power against
death? Are you superhuman? Are you an
angel?" And the young man, who had never
shrunk from danger, shrank before Monte
Cristo with indescribable terror. But
Monte Cristo looked at him with so
melancholy and sweet a smile, that
Maximilian felt the tears filling his
eyes. "I can do much for you, my
friend," replied the count. "Go; I must
be alone." Morrel, subdued by the
extraordinary ascendancy Monte Cristo
exercised over everything around him,
did not endeavor to resist it. He
pressed the count's hand and left. He
stopped one moment at the door for
Baptistin, whom he saw in the Rue
Matignon, and who was running.

Meanwhile, Villefort and d'Avrigny had
made all possible haste, Valentine had
not revived from her fainting fit on
their arrival, and the doctor examined
the invalid with all the care the
circumstances demanded, and with an
interest which the knowledge of the
secret intensified twofold. Villefort,
closely watching his countenance and his
lips, awaited the result of the
examination. Noirtier, paler than even
the young girl, more eager than
Villefort for the decision, was watching
also intently and affectionately. At
last d'Avrigny slowly uttered these
words: -- "she is still alive!"

"Still?" cried Villefort; "oh, doctor,
what a dreadful word is that."

"Yes," said the physician, "I repeat it;
she is still alive, and I am astonished
at it."

"But is she safe?" asked the father.

"Yes, since she lives." At that moment
d'Avrigny's glance met Noirtier's eye.
It glistened with such extraordinary
joy, so rich and full of thought, that
the physician was struck. He placed the
young girl again on the chair, -- her
lips were scarcely discernible, they
were so pale and white, as well as her
whole face, -- and remained motionless,
looking at Noirtier, who appeared to
anticipate and commend all he did.
"Sir," said d'Avrigny to Villefort,
"call Mademoiselle Valentine's maid, if
you please." Villefort went himself to
find her; and d'Avrigny approached
Noirtier. "Have you something to tell
me?" asked he. The old man winked his
eyes expressively, which we may remember
was his only way of expressing his
approval.

"Privately?"

"Yes."

"Well, I will remain with you." At this
moment Villefort returned, followed by
the lady's maid; and after her came
Madame de Villefort.

"What is the matter, then, with this
dear child? she has just left me, and
she complained of being indisposed, but
I did not think seriously of it." The
young woman with tears in her eyes and
every mark of affection of a true
mother, approached Valentine and took
her hand. D'Avrigny continued to look at
Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old man
dilate and become round, his cheeks turn
pale and tremble; the perspiration stood
in drops upon his forehead. "Ah," said
he, involuntarily following Noirtier's
eyes, which were fixed on Madame de
Villefort, who repeated, -- "This poor
child would be better in bed. Come,
Fanny, we will put her to bed." M.
d'Avrigny, who saw that would be a means
of his remaining alone with Noirtier,
expressed his opinion that it was the
best thing that could be done; but he
forbade that anything should be given to
her except what he ordered.

They carried Valentine away; she had
revived, but could scarcely move or
speak, so shaken was her frame by the
attack. She had, however, just power to
give one parting look to her
grandfather, who in losing her seemed to
be resigning his very soul. D'Avrigny
followed the invalid, wrote a
prescription, ordered Villefort to take
a cabriolet, go in person to a chemist's
to get the prescribed medicine, bring it
himself, and wait for him in his
daughter's room. Then, having renewed
his injunction not to give Valentine
anything, he went down again to
Noirtier, shut the doors carefully, and
after convincing himself that no one was
listening, -- "Do you," said he, "know
anything of this young lady's illness?"

"Yes," said the old man.

"We have no time to lose; I will
question, and do you answer me."
Noirtier made a sign that he was ready
to answer. "Did you anticipate the
accident which has happened to your
granddaughter?"

"Yes." D'Avrigny reflected a moment;
then approaching Noirtier, -- "Pardon
what I am going to say," added he, "but
no indication should be neglected in
this terrible situation. Did you see
poor Barrois die?" Noirtier raised his
eyes to heaven. "Do you know of what he
died!" asked d'Avrigny, placing his hand
on Noirtier's shoulder.

"Yes," replied the old man.

"Do you think he died a natural death?"
A sort of smile was discernible on the
motionless lips of Noirtier.

"Then you have thought that Barrois was
poisoned?"

"Yes."

"Do you think the poison he fell a
victim to was intended for him?"

"No."

"Do you think the same hand which
unintentionally struck Barrois has now
attacked Valentine?"

"Yes."

"Then will she die too?" asked
d'Avrigny, fixing his penetrating gaze
on Noirtier. He watched the effect of
this question on the old man. "No,"
replied he with an air of triumph which
would have puzzled the most clever
diviner. "Then you hope?" said
d'Avrigny, with surprise.

"Yes."

"What do you hope?" The old man made him
understand with his eyes that he could
not answer. "Ah, yes, it is true,"
murmured d'Avrigny. Then, turning to
Noirtier, -- "Do you hope the assassin
will be tried?"

"No."

"Then you hope the poison will take no
effect on Valentine?"

"Yes."

"It is no news to you," added d'Avrigny,
"to tell you that an attempt has been
made to poison her?" The old man made a
sign that he entertained no doubt upon
the subject. "Then how do you hope
Valentine will escape?" Noirtier kept
his eyes steadfastly fixed on the same
spot. D'Avrigny followed the direction
and saw that they were fixed on a bottle
containing the mixture which he took
every morning. "Ah, indeed?" said
d'Avrigny, struck with a sudden thought,
"has it occurred to you" -- Noirtier did
not let him finish. "Yes," said he. "To
prepare her system to resist poison?"

"Yes."

"By accustoming her by degrees" --

"Yes, yes, yes," said Noirtier,
delighted to be understood.

"Of course. I had told you that there
was brucine in the mixture I give you."

"Yes."

"And by accustoming her to that poison,
you have endeavored to neutralize the
effect of a similar poison?" Noirtier's
joy continued. "And you have succeeded,"
exclaimed d'Avrigny. "Without that
precaution Valentine would have died
before assistance could have been
procured. The dose has been excessive,
but she has only been shaken by it; and
this time, at any rate, Valentine will
not die." A superhuman joy expanded the
old man's eyes, which were raised
towards heaven with an expression of
infinite gratitude. At this moment
Villefort returned. "Here, doctor," said
he, "is what you sent me for."

"Was this prepared in your presence?"

"Yes," replied the procureur.

"Have you not let it go out of your
hands?"

"No." D'Avrigny took the bottle, poured
some drops of the mixture it contained
in the hollow of his hand, and swallowed
them. "Well," said he, "let us go to
Valentine; I will give instructions to
every one, and you, M. de Villefort,
will yourself see that no one deviates
from them."

At the moment when d'Avrigny was
returning to Valentine's room,
accompanied by Villefort, an Italian
priest, of serious demeanor and calm and
firm tone, hired for his use the house
adjoining the hotel of M. de Villefort.
No one knew how the three former tenants
of that house left it. About two hours
afterwards its foundation was reported
to be unsafe; but the report did not
prevent the new occupant establishing
himself there with his modest furniture
the same day at five o'clock. The lease
was drawn up for three, six, or nine
years by the new tenant, who, according
to the rule of the proprietor, paid six
months in advance. This new tenant, who,
as we have said, was an Italian, was
called Il Signor Giacomo Busoni. Workmen
were immediately called in, and that
same night the passengers at the end of
the faubourg saw with surprise that
carpenters and masons were occupied in
repairing the lower part of the
tottering house.



Chapter 95 Father and Daughter.

We saw in a preceding chapter how Madame
Danglars went formally to announce to
Madame de Villefort the approaching
marriage of Eugenie Danglars and M.
Andrea Cavalcanti. This announcement,
which implied or appeared to imply, the
approval of all the persons concerned in
this momentous affair, had been preceded
by a scene to which our readers must be
admitted. We beg them to take one step
backward, and to transport themselves,
the morning of that day of great
catastrophes, into the showy, gilded
salon we have before shown them, and
which was the pride of its owner, Baron
Danglars. In this room, at about ten
o'clock in the morning, the banker
himself had been walking to and fro for
some minutes thoughtfully and in evident
uneasiness, watching both doors, and
listening to every sound. When his
patience was exhausted, he called his
valet. "Etienne," said he, "see why
Mademoiselle Eugenie has asked me to
meet her in the drawing-room, and why
she makes me wait so long."

Having given this vent to his ill-humor,
the baron became more calm; Mademoiselle
Danglars had that morning requested an
interview with her father, and had fixed
on the gilded drawing-room as the spot.
The singularity of this step, and above
all its formality, had not a little
surprised the banker, who had
immediately obeyed his daughter by
repairing first to the drawing-room.
Etienne soon returned from his errand.
"Mademoiselle's lady's maid says, sir,
that mademoiselle is finishing her
toilette, and will be here shortly."

Danglars nodded, to signify that he was
satisfied. To the world and to his
servants Danglars assumed the character
of the good-natured man and the
indulgent father. This was one of his
parts in the popular comedy he was
performing, -- a make-up he had adopted
and which suited him about as well as
the masks worn on the classic stage by
paternal actors, who seen from one side,
were the image of geniality, and from
the other showed lips drawn down in
chronic ill-temper. Let us hasten to say
that in private the genial side
descended to the level of the other, so
that generally the indulgent man
disappeared to give place to the brutal
husband and domineering father. "Why the
devil does that foolish girl, who
pretends to wish to speak to me, not
come into my study? and why on earth
does she want to speak to me at all?"

He was turning this thought over in his
brain for the twentieth time, when the
door opened and Eugenie appeared,
attired in a figured black satin dress,
her hair dressed and gloves on, as if
she were going to the Italian Opera.
"Well, Eugenie, what is it you want with
me? and why in this solemn drawing-room
when the study is so comfortable?"

"I quite understand why you ask, sir,"
said Eugenie, making a sign that her
father might be seated, "and in fact
your two questions suggest fully the
theme of our conversation. I will answer
them both, and contrary to the usual
method, the last first, because it is
the least difficult. I have chosen the
drawing-room, sir, as our place of
meeting, in order to avoid the
disagreeable impressions and influences
of a banker's study. Those gilded
cashbooks, drawers locked like gates of
fortresses, heaps of bank-bills, come
from I know not where, and the
quantities of letters from England,
Holland, Spain, India, China, and Peru,
have generally a strange influence on a
father's mind, and make him forget that
there is in the world an interest
greater and more sacred than the good
opinion of his correspondents. I have,
therefore, chosen this drawing-room,
where you see, smiling and happy in
their magnificent frames, your portrait,
mine, my mother's, and all sorts of
rural landscapes and touching pastorals.
I rely much on external impressions;
perhaps, with regard to you, they are
immaterial, but I should be no artist if
I had not some fancies."

"Very well," replied M. Danglars, who
had listened to all this preamble with
imperturbable coolness, but without
understanding a word, since like every
man burdened with thoughts of the past,
he was occupied with seeking the thread
of his own ideas in those of the
speaker.

"There is, then, the second point
cleared up, or nearly so," said Eugenie,
without the least confusion, and with
that masculine pointedness which
distinguished her gesture and her
language; "and you appear satisfied with
the explanation. Now, let us return to
the first. You ask me why I have
requested this interview; I will tell
you in two words, sir; I will not marry
count Andrea Cavalcanti."

Danglars leaped from his chair and
raised his eyes and arms towards heaven.

"Yes, indeed, sir," continued Eugenie,
still quite calm; "you are astonished, I
see; for since this little affair began,
I have not manifested the slightest
opposition, and yet I am always sure,
when the opportunity arrives, to oppose
a determined and absolute will to people
who have not consulted me, and things
which displease me. However, this time,
my tranquillity, or passiveness as
philosophers say, proceeded from another
source; it proceeded from a wish, like a
submissive and devoted daughter" (a
slight smile was observable on the
purple lips of the young girl), "to
practice obedience."

"Well?" asked Danglars.

"Well, sir," replied Eugenie, "I have
tried to the very last and now that the
moment has come, I feel in spite of all
my efforts that it is impossible."

"But," said Danglars, whose weak mind
was at first quite overwhelmed with the
weight of this pitiless logic, marking
evident premeditation and force of will,
"what is your reason for this refusal,
Eugenie? what reason do you assign?"

"My reason?" replied the young girl.
"Well, it is not that the man is more
ugly, more foolish, or more disagreeable
than any other; no, M. Andrea Cavalcanti
may appear to those who look at men's
faces and figures as a very good
specimen of his kind. It is not, either,
that my heart is less touched by him
than any other; that would be a
schoolgirl's reason, which I consider
quite beneath me. I actually love no
one, sir; you know it, do you not? I do
not then see why, without real
necessity, I should encumber my life
with a perpetual companion. Has not some
sage said, `Nothing too much'? and
another, `I carry all my effects with
me'? I have been taught these two
aphorisms in Latin and in Greek; one is,
I believe, from Phaedrus, and the other
from Bias. Well, my dear father, in the
shipwreck of life -- for life is an
eternal shipwreck of our hopes -- I cast
into the sea my useless encumbrance,
that is all, and I remain with my own
will, disposed to live perfectly alone,
and consequently perfectly free."

"Unhappy girl, unhappy girl!" murmured
Danglars, turning pale, for he knew from
long experience the solidity of the
obstacle he had so suddenly encountered.

"Unhappy girl," replied Eugenie,
"unhappy girl, do you say, sir? No,
indeed; the exclamation appears quite
theatrical and affected. Happy, on the
contrary, for what am I in want of! The
world calls me beautiful. It is
something to be well received. I like a
favorable reception; it expands the
countenance, and those around me do not
then appear so ugly. I possess a share
of wit, and a certain relative
sensibility, which enables me to draw
from life in general, for the support of
mine, all I meet with that is good, like
the monkey who cracks the nut to get at
its contents. I am rich, for you have
one of the first fortunes in France. I
am your only daughter, and you are not
so exacting as the fathers of the Porte
Saint-Martin and Gaiete, who disinherit
their daughters for not giving them
grandchildren. Besides, the provident
law has deprived you of the power to
disinherit me, at least entirely, as it
has also of the power to compel me to
marry Monsieur This or Monsieur That.
And so -- being, beautiful, witty,
somewhat talented, as the comic operas
say, and rich -- and that is happiness,
sir -- why do you call me unhappy?"

Danglars, seeing his daughter smiling,
and proud even to insolence, could not
entirely repress his brutal feelings,
but they betrayed themselves only by an
exclamation. Under the fixed and
inquiring gaze levelled at him from
under those beautiful black eyebrows, he
prudently turned away, and calmed
himself immediately, daunted by the
power of a resolute mind. "Truly, my
daughter," replied he with a smile, "you
are all you boast of being, excepting
one thing; I will not too hastily tell
you which, but would rather leave you to
guess it." Eugenie looked at Danglars,
much surprised that one flower of her
crown of pride, with which she had so
superbly decked herself, should be
disputed. "My daughter," continued the
banker, "you have perfectly explained to
me the sentiments which influence a girl
like you, who is determined she will not
marry; now it remains for me to tell you
the motives of a father like me, who has
decided that his daughter shall marry."
Eugenie bowed, not as a submissive
daughter, but as an adversary prepared
for a discussion.

"My daughter," continued Danglars, "when
a father asks his daughter to choose a
husband, he has always some reason for
wishing her to marry. Some are affected
with the mania of which you spoke just
now, that of living again in their
grandchildren. This is not my weakness,
I tell you at once; family joys have no
charm for me. I may acknowledge this to
a daughter whom I know to be
philosophical enough to understand my
indifference, and not to impute it to me
as a crime."

"This is not to the purpose," said
Eugenie; "let us speak candidly, sir; I
admire candor."

"Oh," said Danglars, "I can, when
circumstances render it desirable, adopt
your system, although it may not be my
general practice. I will therefore
proceed. I have proposed to you to
marry, not for your sake, for indeed I
did not think of you in the least at the
moment (you admire candor, and will now
be satisfied, I hope); but because it
suited me to marry you as soon as
possible, on account of certain
commercial speculations I am desirous of
entering into." Eugenie became uneasy.

"It is just as I tell you, I assure you,
and you must not be angry with me, for
you have sought this disclosure. I do
not willingly enter into arithmetical
explanations with an artist like you,
who fears to enter my study lest she
should imbibe disagreeable or
anti-poetic impressions and sensations.
But in that same banker's study, where
you very willingly presented yourself
yesterday to ask for the thousand francs
I give you monthly for pocket-money, you
must know, my dear young lady, that many
things may be learned, useful even to a
girl who will not marry. There one may
learn, for instance, what, out of regard
to your nervous susceptibility, I will
inform you of in the drawing-room,
namely, that the credit of a banker is
his physical and moral life; that credit
sustains him as breath animates the
body; and M. de Monte Cristo once gave
me a lecture on that subject, which I
have never forgotten. There we may learn
that as credit sinks, the body becomes a
corpse, and this is what must happen
very soon to the banker who is proud to
own so good a logician as you for his
daughter." But Eugenie, instead of
stooping, drew herself up under the
blow. "Ruined?" said she.

"Exactly, my daughter; that is precisely
what I mean," said Danglars, almost
digging his nails into his breast, while
he preserved on his harsh features the
smile of the heartless though clever
man; "ruined -- yes, that is it."

"Ah!" said Eugenie.

"Yes, ruined! Now it is revealed, this
secret so full of horror, as the tragic
poet says. Now, my daughter, learn from
my lips how you may alleviate this
misfortune, so far as it will affect
you."

"Oh," cried Eugenie, "you are a bad
physiognomist, if you imagine I deplore
on my own account the catastrophe of
which you warn me. I ruined? and what
will that signify to me? Have I not my
talent left? Can I not, like Pasta,
Malibran, Grisi, acquire for myself what
you would never have given me, whatever
might have been your fortune, a hundred
or a hundred and fifty thousand livres
per annum, for which I shall be indebted
to no one but myself; and which, instead
of being given as you gave me those poor
twelve thousand francs, with sour looks
and reproaches for my prodigality, will
be accompanied with acclamations, with
bravos, and with flowers? And if I do
not possess that talent, which your
smiles prove to me you doubt, should I
not still have that ardent love of
independence, which will be a substitute
for wealth, and which in my mind
supersedes even the instinct of
self-preservation? No, I grieve not on
my own account, I shall always find a
resource; my books, my pencils, my
piano, all the things which cost but
little, and which I shall be able to
procure, will remain my own.

"Do you think that I sorrow for Madame
Danglars? Undeceive yourself again;
either I am greatly mistaken, or she has
provided against the catastrophe which
threatens you, and, which will pass over
without affecting her. She has taken
care for herself, -- at least I hope
so, -- for her attention has not been
diverted from her projects by watching
over me. She has fostered my
independence by professedly indulging my
love for liberty. Oh, no, sir; from my
childhood I have seen too much, and
understood too much, of what has passed
around me, for misfortune to have an
undue power over me. From my earliest
recollections, I have been beloved by no
one -- so much the worse; that has
naturally led me to love no one -- so
much the better -- now you have my
profession of faith."

"Then," said Danglars, pale with anger,
which was not at all due to offended
paternal love, -- "then, mademoiselle,
you persist in your determination to
accelerate my ruin?"

"Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? What
do you mean? I do not understand you."

"So much the better, I have a ray of
hope left; listen."

"I am all attention," said Eugenie,
looking so earnestly at her father that
it was an effort for the latter to
endure her unrelenting gaze.

"M. Cavalcanti," continued Danglars, "is
about to marry you, and will place in my
hands his fortune, amounting to three
million livres."

"That is admirable!" said Eugenie with
sovereign contempt, smoothing her gloves
out one upon the other.

"You think I shall deprive you of those
three millions," said Danglars; "but do
not fear it. They are destined to
produce at least ten. I and a brother
banker have obtained a grant of a
railway, the only industrial enterprise
which in these days promises to make
good the fabulous prospects that Law
once held out to the eternally deluded
Parisians, in the fantastic Mississippi
scheme. As I look at it, a millionth
part of a railway is worth fully as much
as an acre of waste land on the banks of
the Ohio. We make in our case a deposit,
on a mortgage, which is an advance, as
you see, since we gain at least ten,
fifteen, twenty, or a hundred livres'
worth of iron in exchange for our money.
Well, within a week I am to deposit four
millions for my share; the four
millions, I promise you, will produce
ten or twelve."

"But during my visit to you the day
before yesterday, sir, which you appear
to recollect so well," replied Eugenie,
"I saw you arranging a deposit -- is not
that the term? -- of five millions and a
half; you even pointed it out to me in
two drafts on the treasury, and you were
astonished that so valuable a paper did
not dazzle my eyes like lightning."

"Yes, but those five millions and a half
are not mine, and are only a proof of
the great confidence placed in me; my
title of popular banker has gained me
the confidence of charitable
institutions, and the five millions and
a half belong to them; at any other time
I should not have hesitated to make use
of them, but the great losses I have
recently sustained are well known, and,
as I told you, my credit is rather
shaken. That deposit may be at any
moment withdrawn, and if I had employed
it for another purpose, I should bring
on me a disgraceful bankruptcy. I do not
despise bankruptcies, believe me, but
they must be those which enrich, not
those which ruin. Now, if you marry M.
Cavalcanti, and I get the three
millions, or even if it is thought I am
going to get them, my credit will be
restored, and my fortune, which for the
last month or two has been swallowed up
in gulfs which have been opened in my
path by an inconceivable fatality, will
revive. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly; you pledge me for three
millions, do you not?"

"The greater the amount, the more
flattering it is to you; it gives you an
idea of your value."

"Thank you. One word more, sir; do you
promise me to make what use you can of
the report of the fortune M. Cavalcanti
will bring without touching the money?
This is no act of selfishness, but of
delicacy. I am willing to help rebuild
your fortune, but I will not be an
accomplice in the ruin of others."

"But since I tell you," cried Danglars,
"that with these three million" --

"Do you expect to recover your position,
sir, without touching those three
million?"

"I hope so, if the marriage should take
place and confirm my credit."

"Shall you be able to pay M. Cavalcanti
the five hundred thousand francs you
promise for my dowry?"

"He shall receive then on returning from
the mayor's."*

* The performance of the civil marriage.

"Very well!"

"What next? what more do you want?"

"I wish to know if, in demanding my
signature, you leave me entirely free in
my person?"

"Absolutely."

"Then, as I said before, sir, -- very
well; I am ready to marry M.
Cavalcanti."

"But what are you up to?"

"Ah, that is my affair. What advantage
should I have over you, if knowing your
secret I were to tell you mine?"
Danglars bit his lips. "Then," said he,
"you are ready to pay the official
visits, which are absolutely
indispensable?"

"Yes," replied Eugenie.

"And to sign the contract in three
days?"

"Yes."

"Then, in my turn, I also say, very
well!" Danglars pressed his daughter's
hand in his. But, extraordinary to
relate, the father did not say, "Thank
you, my child," nor did the daughter
smile at her father. "Is the conference
ended?" asked Eugenie, rising. Danglars
motioned that he had nothing more to
say. Five minutes afterwards the piano
resounded to the touch of Mademoiselle
d'Armilly's fingers, and Mademoiselle
Danglars was singing Brabantio's
malediction on Desdemona. At the end of
the piece Etienne entered, and announced
to Eugenie that the horses were in the
carriage, and that the baroness was
waiting for her to pay her visits. We
have seen them at Villefort's; they
proceeded then on their course.



Chapter 96 The Contract.

Three days after the scene we have just
described, namely towards five o'clock
in the afternoon of the day fixed for
the signature of the contract between
Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars and Andrea
Cavalcanti, -- whom the banker persisted
in calling prince, -- a fresh breeze was
stirring the leaves in the little garden
in front of the Count of Monte Cristo's
house, and the count was preparing to go
out. While his horses were impatiently
pawing the ground, -- held in by the
coachman, who had been seated a quarter
of an hour on his box, -- the elegant
phaeton with which we are familiar
rapidly turned the angle of the
entrance-gate, and cast out on the
doorsteps M. Andrea Cavalcanti, as
decked up and gay as if he were going to
marry a princess. He inquired after the
count with his usual familiarity, and
ascending lightly to the second story
met him at the top of the stairs. The
count stopped on seeing the young man.
As for Andrea, he was launched, and when
he was once launched nothing stopped
him. "Ah, good morning, my dear count,"
said he. "Ah, M. Andrea," said the
latter, with his half-jesting tone; "how
do you do."

"Charmingly, as you see. I am come to
talk to you about a thousand things;
but, first tell me, were you going out
or just returned?"

"I was going out, sir."

"Then, in order not to hinder you, I
will get up with you if you please in
your carriage, and Tom shall follow with
my phaeton in tow."

"No," said the count, with an
imperceptible smile of contempt, for he
had no wish to be seen in the young
man's society, -- "no; I prefer
listening to you here, my dear M.
Andrea; we can chat better in-doors, and
there is no coachman to overhear our
conversation." The count returned to a
small drawing-room on the first floor,
sat down, and crossing his legs motioned
to the young man to take a seat also.
Andrea assumed his gayest manner. "You
know, my dear count," said he, "the
ceremony is to take place this evening.
At nine o'clock the contract is to be
signed at my father-in-law's."

"Ah, indeed?" said Monte Cristo.

"What; is it news to you? Has not M.
Danglars informed you of the ceremony?"

"Oh, yes," said the count; "I received a
letter from him yesterday, but I do not
think the hour was mentioned."

"Possibly my father-in-law trusted to
its general notoriety."

"Well," said Monte Cristo, "you are
fortunate, M. Cavalcanti; it is a most
suitable alliance you are contracting,
and Mademoiselle Danglars is a handsome
girl."

"Yes, indeed she is," replied
Cavalcanti, in a very modest tone.

"Above all, she is very rich, -- at
least, I believe so," said Monte Cristo.

"Very rich, do you think?" replied the
young man.

"Doubtless; it is said M. Danglars
conceals at least half of his fortune."

"And he acknowledges fifteen or twenty
millions," said Andrea with a look
sparkling with joy.

"Without reckoning," added Monte Cristo,
"that he is on the eve of entering into
a sort of speculation already in vogue
in the United States and in England, but
quite novel in France."

"Yes, yes, I know what you mean, -- the
railway, of which he has obtained the
grant, is it not?"

"Precisely; it is generally believed he
will gain ten millions by that affair."

"Ten millions! Do you think so? It is
magnificent!" said Cavalcanti, who was
quite confounded at the metallic sound
of these golden words. "Without
reckoning," replied Monte Cristo, "that
all his fortune will come to you, and
justly too, since Mademoiselle Danglars
is an only daughter. Besides, your own
fortune, as your father assured me, is
almost equal to that of your betrothed.
But enough of money matters. Do you
know, M. Andrea, I think you have
managed this affair rather skilfully?"

"Not badly, by any means," said the
young man; "I was born for a
diplomatist."

"Well, you must become a diplomatist;
diplomacy, you know, is something that
is not to be acquired; it is
instinctive. Have you lost your heart?"

"Indeed, I fear it," replied Andrea, in
the tone in which he had heard Dorante
or Valere reply to Alceste* at the
Theatre Francais.

"Is your love returned?"

* In Moliere's comedy, Le Misanthrope.

"I suppose so," said Andrea with a
triumphant smile, "since I am accepted.
But I must not forget one grand point."

"Which?"

"That I have been singularly assisted."

"Nonsense."

"I have, indeed."

"By circumstances?"

"No; by you."

"By me? Not at all, prince," said Monte
Cristo laying a marked stress on the
title, "what have I done for you? Are
not your name, your social position, and
your merit sufficient?"

"No," said Andrea, -- "no; it is useless
for you to say so, count. I maintain
that the position of a man like you has
done more than my name, my social
position, and my merit."

"You are completely mistaken, sir," said
Monte Cristo coldly, who felt the
perfidious manoeuvre of the young man,
and understood the bearing of his words;
"you only acquired my protection after
the influence and fortune of your father
had been ascertained; for, after all,
who procured for me, who had never seen
either you or your illustrious father,
the pleasure of your acquaintance? --
two of my good friends, Lord Wilmore and
the Abbe Busoni. What encouraged me not
to become your surety, but to patronize
you? -- your father's name, so well
known in Italy and so highly honored.
Personally, I do not know you." This
calm tone and perfect ease made Andrea
feel that he was, for the moment,
restrained by a more muscular hand than
his own, and that the restraint could
not be easily broken through.

"Oh, then my father has really a very
large fortune, count?"

"It appears so, sir," replied Monte
Cristo.

"Do you know if the marriage settlement
he promised me has come?"

"I have been advised of it."

"But the three millions?"

"The three millions are probably on the
road."

"Then I shall really have them?"

"Oh, well," said the count, "I do not
think you have yet known the want of
money." Andrea was so surprised that he
pondered the matter for a moment. Then,
arousing from his revery, -- "Now, sir,
I have one request to make to you, which
you will understand, even if it should
be disagreeable to you."

"Proceed," said Monte Cristo.

"I have formed an acquaintance, thanks
to my good fortune, with many noted
persons, and have, at least for the
moment, a crowd of friends. But
marrying, as I am about to do, before
all Paris, I ought to be supported by an
illustrious name, and in the absence of
the paternal hand some powerful one
ought to lead me to the altar; now, my
father is not coming to Paris, is he? He
is old, covered with wounds, and suffers
dreadfully, he says, in travelling."

"Indeed?"

"Well, I am come to ask a favor of you."

"Of me?"

"Yes, of you."

"And pray what may it be?"

"Well, to take his part."

"Ah, my dear sir! What? -- after the
varied relations I have had the
happiness to sustain towards you, can it
be that you know me so little as to ask
such a thing? Ask me to lend you half a
million and, although such a loan is
somewhat rare, on my honor, you would
annoy me less! Know, then, what I
thought I had already told you, that in
participation in this world's affairs,
more especially in their moral aspects,
the Count of Monte Cristo has never
ceased to entertain the scruples and
even the superstitions of the East. I,
who have a seraglio at Cairo, one at
Smyrna, and one at Constantinople,
preside at a wedding? -- never!"

"Then you refuse me?"

"Decidedly; and were you my son or my
brother I would refuse you in the same
way."

"But what must be done?" said Andrea,
disappointed.

"You said just now that you had a
hundred friends."

"Very true, but you introduced me at M.
Danglars'."

"Not at all! Let us recall the exact
facts. You met him at a dinner party at
my house, and you introduced yourself at
his house; that is a totally different
affair."

"Yes, but, by my marriage, you have
forwarded that."

"I? -- not in the least, I beg you to
believe. Recollect what I told you when
you asked me to propose you. `Oh, I
never make matches, my dear prince, it
is my settled principle.'" Andrea bit
his lips.

"But, at least, you will be there?"

"Will all Paris be there?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Well, like all Paris, I shall be there
too," said the count.

"And will you sign the contract?"

"I see no objection to that; my scruples
do not go thus far."

"Well, since you will grant me no more,
I must be content with what you give me.
But one word more, count."

"What is it?"

"Advice."

"Be careful; advice is worse than a
service."

"Oh, you can give me this without
compromising yourself."

"Tell me what it is."

"Is my wife's fortune five hundred
thousand livres?"

"That is the sum M. Danglars himself
announced."

"Must I receive it, or leave it in the
hands of the notary?"

"This is the way such affairs are
generally arranged when it is wished to
do them stylishly: Your two solicitors
appoint a meeting, when the contract is
signed, for the next or the following
day; then they exchange the two
portions, for which they each give a
receipt; then, when the marriage is
celebrated, they place the amount at
your disposal as the chief member of the
alliance."

"Because," said Andrea, with a certain
ill-concealed uneasiness, "I thought I
heard my father-in-law say that he
intended embarking our property in that
famous railway affair of which you spoke
just now."

"Well," replied Monte Cristo, "it will
be the way, everybody says, of trebling
your fortune in twelve months. Baron
Danglars is a good father, and knows how
to calculate."

"In that case," said Andrea, "everything
is all right, excepting your refusal,
which quite grieves me."

"You must attribute it only to natural
scruples under similar circumstances."

"Well," said Andrea, "let it be as you
wish. This evening, then, at nine
o'clock."

"Adieu till then." Notwithstanding a
slight resistance on the part of Monte
Cristo, whose lips turned pale, but who
preserved his ceremonious smile, Andrea
seized the count's hand, pressed it,
jumped into his phaeton, and
disappeared.

The four or five remaining hours before
nine o'clock arrived, Andrea employed in
riding, paying visits, -- designed to
induce those of whom he had spoken to
appear at the banker's in their gayest
equipages, -- dazzling them by promises
of shares in schemes which have since
turned every brain, and in which
Danglars was just taking the initiative.
In fact, at half-past eight in the
evening the grand salon, the gallery
adjoining, and the three other
drawing-rooms on the same floor, were
filled with a perfumed crowd, who
sympathized but little in the event, but
who all participated in that love of
being present wherever there is anything
fresh to be seen. An Academician would
say that the entertainments of the
fashionable world are collections of
flowers which attract inconstant
butterflies, famished bees, and buzzing
drones.

No one could deny that the rooms were
splendidly illuminated; the light
streamed forth on the gilt mouldings and
the silk hangings; and all the bad taste
of decorations, which had only their
richness to boast of, shone in its
splendor. Mademoiselle Eugenie was
dressed with elegant simplicity in a
figured white silk dress, and a white
rose half concealed in her jet black
hair was her only ornament,
unaccompanied by a single jewel. Her
eyes, however, betrayed that perfect
confidence which contradicted the
girlish simplicity of this modest
attire. Madame Danglars was chatting at
a short distance with Debray, Beauchamp,
and Chateau-Renaud.

Debray was admitted to the house for
this grand ceremony, but on the same
plane with every one else, and without
any particular privilege. M. Danglars,
surrounded by deputies and men connected
with the revenue, was explaining a new
theory of taxation which he intended to
adopt when the course of events had
compelled the government to call him
into the ministry. Andrea, on whose arm
hung one of the most consummate dandies
of the opera, was explaining to him
rather cleverly, since he was obliged to
be bold to appear at ease, his future
projects, and the new luxuries he meant
to introduce to Parisian fashions with
his hundred and seventy-five thousand
livres per annum.

The crowd moved to and fro in the rooms
like an ebb and flow of turquoises,
rubies, emeralds, opals, and diamonds.
As usual, the oldest women were the most
decorated, and the ugliest the most
conspicuous. If there was a beautiful
lily, or a sweet rose, you had to search
for it, concealed in some corner behind
a mother with a turban, or an aunt with
a bird of paradise.

At each moment, in the midst of the
crowd, the buzzing, and the laughter,
the door-keeper's voice was heard
announcing some name well known in the
financial department, respected in the
army, or illustrious in the literary
world, and which was acknowledged by a
slight movement in the different groups.
But for one whose privilege it was to
agitate that ocean of human waves, how
many were received with a look of
indifference or a sneer of disdain! At
the moment when the hand of the massive
time-piece, representing Endymion
asleep, pointed to nine on its golden
face, and the hammer, the faithful type
of mechanical thought, struck nine
times, the name of the Count of Monte
Cristo resounded in its turn, and as if
by an electric shock all the assembly
turned towards the door.

The count was dressed in black and with
his habitual simplicity; his white
waistcoat displayed his expansive noble
chest and his black stock was singularly
noticeable because of its contrast with
the deadly paleness of his face. His
only jewellery was a chain, so fine that
the slender gold thread was scarcely
perceptible on his white waistcoat. A
circle was immediately formed around the
door. The count perceived at one glance
Madame Danglars at one end of the
drawing-room, M. Danglars at the other,
and Eugenie in front of him. He first
advanced towards the baroness, who was
chatting with Madame de Villefort, who
had come alone, Valentine being still an
invalid; and without turning aside, so
clear was the road left for him, he
passed from the baroness to Eugenie,
whom he complimented in such rapid and
measured terms, that the proud artist
was quite struck. Near her was
Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly, who
thanked the count for the letters of
introduction he had so kindly given her
for Italy, which she intended
immediately to make use of. On leaving
these ladies he found himself with
Danglars, who had advanced to meet him.

Having accomplished these three social
duties, Monte Cristo stopped, looking
around him with that expression peculiar
to a certain class, which seems to say,
"I have done my duty, now let others do
theirs." Andrea, who was in an adjoining
room, had shared in the sensation caused
by the arrival of Monte Cristo, and now
came forward to pay his respects to the
count. He found him completely
surrounded; all were eager to speak to
him, as is always the case with those
whose words are few and weighty. The
solicitors arrived at this moment and
arranged their scrawled papers on the
velvet cloth embroidered with gold which
covered the table prepared for the
signature; it was a gilt table supported
on lions' claws. One of the notaries sat
down, the other remained standing. They
were about to proceed to the reading of
the contract, which half Paris assembled
was to sign. All took their places, or
rather the ladies formed a circle, while
the gentlemen (more indifferent to the
restraints of what Boileau calls the
"energetic style") commented on the
feverish agitation of Andrea, on M.
Danglars' riveted attention, Eugenie's
composure, and the light and sprightly
manner in which the baroness treated
this important affair.

The contract was read during a profound
silence. But as soon as it was finished,
the buzz was redoubled through all the
drawing-rooms; the brilliant sums, the
rolling millions which were to be at the
command of the two young people, and
which crowned the display of the wedding
presents and the young lady's diamonds,
which had been made in a room entirely
appropriated for that purpose, had
exercised to the full their delusions
over the envious assembly. Mademoiselle
Danglars' charms were heightened in the
opinion of the young men, and for the
moment seemed to outvie the sun in
splendor. As for the ladies, it is
needless to say that while they coveted
the millions, they thought they did not
need them for themselves, as they were
beautiful enough without them. Andrea,
surrounded by his friends, complimented,
flattered, beginning to believe in the
reality of his dream, was almost
bewildered. The notary solemnly took the
pen, flourished it above his head, and
said, "Gentlemen, we are about to sign
the contract."

The baron was to sign first, then the
representative of M. Cavalcanti, senior,
then the baroness, afterwards the
"future couple," as they are styled in
the abominable phraseology of legal
documents. The baron took the pen and
signed, then the representative. The
baroness approached, leaning on Madame
de Villefort's arm. "My dear," said she,
as she took the pen, "is it not
vexatious? An unexpected incident, in
the affair of murder and theft at the
Count of Monte Cristo's, in which he
nearly fell a victim, deprives us of the
pleasure of seeing M. de Villefort."

"Indeed?" said M. Danglars, in the same
tone in which he would have said, "Oh,
well, what do I care?"

"As a matter of fact," said Monte
Cristo, approaching, "I am much afraid
that I am the involuntary cause of his
absence."

"What, you, count?" said Madame
Danglars, signing; "if you are, take
care, for I shall never forgive you."
Andrea pricked up his ears.

"But it is not my fault, as I shall
endeavor to prove." Every one listened
eagerly; Monte Cristo who so rarely
opened his lips, was about to speak.
"You remember," said the count, during
the most profound silence, "that the
unhappy wretch who came to rob me died
at my house; the supposition is that he
was stabbed by his accomplice, on
attempting to leave it."

"Yes," said Danglars.

"In order that his wounds might be
examined he was undressed, and his
clothes were thrown into a corner, where
the police picked them up, with the
exception of the waistcoat, which they
overlooked." Andrea turned pale, and
drew towards the door; he saw a cloud
rising in the horizon, which appeared to
forebode a coming storm.

"Well, this waistcoat was discovered
to-day, covered with blood, and with a
hole over the heart." The ladies
screamed, and two or three prepared to
faint. "It was brought to me. No one
could guess what the dirty rag could be;
I alone suspected that it was the
waistcoat of the murdered man. My valet,
in examining this mournful relic, felt a
paper in the pocket and drew it out; it
was a letter addressed to you, baron."

"To me?" cried Danglars.

"Yes, indeed, to you; I succeeded in
deciphering your name under the blood
with which the letter was stained,"
replied Monte Cristo, amid the general
outburst of amazement.

"But," asked Madame Danglars, looking at
her husband with uneasiness, "how could
that prevent M. de Villefort" --

"In this simple way, madame," replied
Monte Cristo; "the waistcoat and the
letter were both what is termed
circumstantial evidence; I therefore
sent them to the king's attorney. You
understand, my dear baron, that legal
methods are the safest in criminal
cases; it was, perhaps, some plot
against you." Andrea looked steadily at
Monte Cristo and disappeared in the
second drawing-room.

"Possibly," said Danglars; "was not this
murdered man an old galley-slave?"

"Yes," replied the count; "a felon named
Caderousse." Danglars turned slightly
pale; Andrea reached the anteroom beyond
the little drawing-room.

"But go on signing," said Monte Cristo;
"I perceive that my story has caused a
general emotion, and I beg to apologize
to you, baroness, and to Mademoiselle
Danglars." The baroness, who had signed,
returned the pen to the notary. "Prince
Cavalcanti," said the latter; "Prince
Cavalcanti, where are you?"

"Andrea, Andrea," repeated several young
people, who were already on sufficiently
intimate terms with him to call him by
his Christian name.

"Call the prince; inform him that it is
his turn to sign," cried Danglars to one
of the floorkeepers.

But at the same instant the crowd of
guests rushed in alarm into the
principal salon as if some frightful
monster had entered the apartments,
quaerens quem devoret. There was,
indeed, reason to retreat, to be
alarmed, and to scream. An officer was
placing two soldiers at the door of each
drawing-room, and was advancing towards
Danglars, preceded by a commissary of
police, girded with his scarf. Madame
Danglars uttered a scream and fainted.
Danglars, who thought himself threatened
(certain consciences are never calm), --
Danglars even before his guests showed a
countenance of abject terror.

"What is the matter, sir?" asked Monte
Cristo, advancing to meet the
commissioner.

"Which of you gentlemen," asked the
magistrate, without replying to the
count, "answers to the name of Andrea
Cavalcanti?" A cry of astonishment was
heard from all parts of the room. They
searched; they questioned. "But who then
is Andrea Cavalcanti?" asked Danglars in
amazement.

"A galley-slave, escaped from
confinement at Toulon."

"And what crime has he committed?"

"He is accused," said the commissary
with his inflexible voice, "of having
assassinated the man named Caderousse,
his former companion in prison, at the
moment he was making his escape from the
house of the Count of Monte Cristo."
Monte Cristo cast a rapid glance around
him. Andrea was gone.



Chapter 97 The Departure for Belgium.

A few minutes after the scene of
confusion produced in the salons of M.
Danglars by the unexpected appearance of
the brigade of soldiers, and by the
disclosure which had followed, the
mansion was deserted with as much
rapidity as if a case of plague or of
cholera morbus had broken out among the
guests. In a few minutes, through all
the doors, down all the staircases, by
every exit, every one hastened to
retire, or rather to fly; for it was a
situation where the ordinary
condolences, -- which even the best
friends are so eager to offer in great
catastrophes, -- were seen to be utterly
futile. There remained in the banker's
house only Danglars, closeted in his
study, and making his statement to the
officer of gendarmes; Madame Danglars,
terrified, in the boudoir with which we
are acquainted; and Eugenie, who with
haughty air and disdainful lip had
retired to her room with her inseparable
companion, Mademoiselle Louise
d'Armilly. As for the numerous servants
(more numerous that evening than usual,
for their number was augmented by cooks
and butlers from the Cafe de Paris),
venting on their employers their anger
at what they termed the insult to which
they had been subjected, they collected
in groups in the hall, in the kitchens,
or in their rooms, thinking very little
of their duty, which was thus naturally
interrupted. Of all this household, only
two persons deserve our notice; these
are Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars and
Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly.

The betrothed had retired, as we said,
with haughty air, disdainful lip, and
the demeanor of an outraged queen,
followed by her companion, who was paler
and more disturbed than herself. On
reaching her room Eugenie locked her
door, while Louise fell on a chair. "Ah,
what a dreadful thing," said the young
musician; "who would have suspected it?
M. Andrea Cavalcanti a murderer -- a
galley-slave escaped -- a convict!" An
ironical smile curled the lip of
Eugenie. "In truth I was fated," said
she. "I escaped the Morcerf only to fall
into the Cavalcanti."

"Oh, do not confound the two, Eugenie."

"Hold your tongue! The men are all
infamous, and I am happy to be able now
to do more than detest them -- I despise
them."

"What shall we do?" asked Louise.

"What shall we do?"

"Yes."

"Why, the same we had intended doing
three days since -- set off."

"What? -- although you are not now going
to be married, you intend still" --

"Listen, Louise. I hate this life of the
fashionable world, always ordered,
measured, ruled, like our music-paper.
What I have always wished for, desired,
and coveted, is the life of an artist,
free and independent, relying only on my
own resources, and accountable only to
myself. Remain here? What for? -- that
they may try, a month hence, to marry me
again; and to whom? -- M. Debray,
perhaps, as it was once proposed. No,
Louise, no! This evening's adventure
will serve for my excuse. I did not seek
one, I did not ask for one. God sends me
this, and I hail it joyfully!"

"How strong and courageous you are!"
said the fair, frail girl to her
brunette companion.

"Did you not yet know me? Come, Louise,
let us talk of our affairs. The
post-chaise" --

"Was happily bought three days since."

"Have you had it sent where we are to go
for it?"

"Yes."

"Our passport?"

"Here it is."

And Eugenie, with her usual precision,
opened a printed paper, and read, --

"M. Leon d'Armilly, twenty years of age;
profession, artist; hair black, eyes
black; travelling with his sister."

"Capital! How did you get this
passport?"

"When I went to ask M. de Monte Cristo
for letters to the directors of the
theatres at Rome and Naples, I expressed
my fears of travelling as a woman; he
perfectly understood them, and undertook
to procure for me a man's passport, and
two days after I received this, to which
I have added with my own hand,
`travelling with his sister.'"

"Well," said Eugenie cheerfully, "we
have then only to pack up our trunks; we
shall start the evening of the signing
of the contract, instead of the evening
of the wedding -- that is all."

"But consider the matter seriously,
Eugenie!"

"Oh, I am done with considering! I am
tired of hearing only of market reports,
of the end of the month, of the rise and
fall of Spanish funds, of Haitian bonds.
Instead of that, Louise -- do you
understand? -- air, liberty, melody of
birds, plains of Lombardy, Venetian
canals, Roman palaces, the Bay of
Naples. How much have we, Louise?" The
young girl to whom this question was
addressed drew from an inlaid secretary
a small portfolio with a lock, in which
she counted twenty-three bank-notes.

"Twenty-three thousand francs," I said
she.

"And as much, at least, in pearls,
diamonds, and jewels," said Eugenie. "We
are rich. With forty-five thousand
francs we can live like princesses for
two years, and comfortably for four; but
before six months -- you with your
music, and I with my voice -- we shall
double our capital. Come, you shall take
charge of the money, I of the jewel-box;
so that if one of us had the misfortune
to lose her treasure, the other would
still have hers left. Now, the
portmanteau -- let us make haste -- the
portmanteau!"

"Stop!" said Louise, going to listen at
Madame Danglars' door.

"What do you fear?"

"That we may be discovered."

"The door is locked."

"They may tell us to open it."

"They may if they like, but we will
not."

"You are a perfect Amazon, Eugenie!" And
the two young girls began to heap into a
trunk all the things they thought they
should require. "There now," said
Eugenie, "while I change my costume do
you lock the portmanteau." Louise
pressed with all the strength of her
little hands on the top of the
portmanteau. "But I cannot," said she;
"I am not strong enough; do you shut
it."

"Ah, you do well to ask," said Eugenie,
laughing; "I forgot that I was Hercules,
and you only the pale Omphale!" And the
young girl, kneeling on the top, pressed
the two parts of the portmanteau
together, and Mademoiselle d'Armilly
passed the bolt of the padlock through.
When this was done, Eugenie opened a
drawer, of which she kept the key, and
took from it a wadded violet silk
travelling cloak. "Here," said she, "you
see I have thought of everything; with
this cloak you will not be cold."

"But you?"

"Oh, I am never cold, you know! Besides,
with these men's clothes" --

"Will you dress here?"

"Certainly."

"Shall you have time?"

"Do not be uneasy, you little coward!
All our servants are busy, discussing
the grand affair. Besides, what is there
astonishing, when you think of the grief
I ought to be in, that I shut myself
up? -- tell me!"

"No, truly -- you comfort me."

"Come and help me."

From the same drawer she took a man's
complete costume, from the boots to the
coat, and a provision of linen, where
there was nothing superfluous, but every
requisite. Then, with a promptitude
which indicated that this was not the
first time she had amused herself by
adopting the garb of the opposite sex,
Eugenie drew on the boots and
pantaloons, tied her cravat, buttoned
her waistcoat up to the throat, and put
on a coat which admirably fitted her
beautiful figure. "Oh, that is very
good -- indeed, it is very good!" said
Louise, looking at her with admiration;
"but that beautiful black hair, those
magnificent braids, which made all the
ladies sigh with envy, -- will they go
under a man's hat like the one I see
down there?"

"You shall see," said Eugenie. And with
her left hand seizing the thick mass,
which her long fingers could scarcely
grasp, she took in her right hand a pair
of long scissors, and soon the steel met
through the rich and splendid hair,
which fell in a cluster at her feet as
she leaned back to keep it from her
coat. Then she grasped the front hair,
which she also cut off, without
expressing the least regret; on the
contrary, her eyes sparkled with greater
pleasure than usual under her ebony
eyebrows. "Oh, the magnificent hair!"
said Louise, with regret.

"And am I not a hundred times better
thus?" cried Eugenie, smoothing the
scattered curls of her hair, which had
now quite a masculine appearance; "and
do you not think me handsomer so?"

"Oh, you are beautiful -- always
beautiful!" cried Louise. "Now, where
are you going?"

"To Brussels, if you like; it is the
nearest frontier. We can go to Brussels,
Liege, Aix-la-Chapelle; then up the
Rhine to Strasburg. We will cross
Switzerland, and go down into Italy by
the Saint-Gothard. Will that do?"

"Yes."

"What are you looking at?"

"I am looking at you; indeed you are
adorable like that! One would say you
were carrying me off."

"And they would be right, pardieu!"

"Oh, I think you swore, Eugenie." And
the two young girls, whom every one
might have thought plunged in grief, the
one on her own account, the other from
interest in her friend, burst out
laughing, as they cleared away every
visible trace of the disorder which had
naturally accompanied the preparations
for their escape. Then, having blown out
the lights, the two fugitives, looking
and listening eagerly, with outstretched
necks, opened the door of a
dressing-room which led by a side
staircase down to the yard, -- Eugenie
going first, and holding with one arm
the portmanteau, which by the opposite
handle Mademoiselle d'Armilly scarcely
raised with both hands. The yard was
empty; the clock was striking twelve.
The porter was not yet gone to bed.
Eugenie approached softly, and saw the
old man sleeping soundly in an arm-chair
in his lodge. She returned to Louise,
took up the portmanteau, which she had
placed for a moment on the ground, and
they reached the archway under the
shadow of the wall.

Eugenie concealed Louise in an angle of
the gateway, so that if the porter
chanced to awake he might see but one
person. Then placing herself in the full
light of the lamp which lit the yard, --
"Gate!" cried she, with her finest
contralto voice, and rapping at the
window.

The porter got up as Eugenie expected,
and even advanced some steps to
recognize the person who was going out,
but seeing a young man striking his boot
impatiently with his riding-whip, he
opened it immediately. Louise slid
through the half-open gate like a snake,
and bounded lightly forward. Eugenie,
apparently calm, although in all
probability her heart beat somewhat
faster than usual, went out in her turn.
A porter was passing and they gave him
the portmanteau; then the two young
girls, having told him to take it to No.
36, Rue de la Victoire, walked behind
this man, whose presence comforted
Louise. As for Eugenie, she was as
strong as a Judith or a Delilah. They
arrived at the appointed spot. Eugenie
ordered the porter to put down the
portmanteau, gave him some pieces of
money, and having rapped at the shutter
sent him away. The shutter where Eugenie
had rapped was that of a little
laundress, who had been previously
warned, and was not yet gone to bed. She
opened the door.

"Mademoiselle," said Eugenie, "let the
porter get the post-chaise from the
coach-house, and fetch some post-horses
from the hotel. Here are five francs for
his trouble."

"Indeed," said Louise, "I admire you,
and I could almost say respect you." The
laundress looked on in astonishment, but
as she had been promised twenty louis,
she made no remark.

In a quarter of an hour the porter
returned with a post-boy and horses,
which were harnessed, and put in the
post-chaise in a minute, while the
porter fastened the portmanteau on with
the assistance of a cord and strap.
"Here is the passport," said the
postilion, "which way are we going,
young gentleman?"

"To Fontainebleau," replied Eugenie with
an almost masculine voice.

"What do you say?" said Louise.

"I am giving them the slip," said
Eugenie; "this woman to whom we have
given twenty louis may betray us for
forty; we will soon alter our
direction." And the young girl jumped
into the britzska, which was admirably
arranged for sleeping in, without
scarcely touching the step. "You are
always right," said the music teacher,
seating herself by the side of her
friend.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the
postilion, having been put in the right
road, passed with a crack of his whip
through the gateway of the Barriere
Saint-Martin. "Ah," said Louise,
breathing freely, "here we are out of
Paris."

"Yes, my dear, the abduction is an
accomplished fact," replied Eugenie.
"Yes, and without violence," said
Louise.

"I shall bring that forward as an
extenuating circumstance," replied
Eugenie. These words were lost in the
noise which the carriage made in rolling
over the pavement of La Villette. M.
Danglars no longer had a daughter.



Chapter 98 The Bell and Bottle Tavern.

And now let us leave Mademoiselle
Danglars and her friend pursuing their
way to Brussels, and return to poor
Andrea Cavalcanti, so inopportunely
interrupted in his rise to fortune.
Notwithstanding his youth, Master Andrea
was a very skilful and intelligent boy.
We have seen that on the first rumor
which reached the salon he had gradually
approached the door, and crossing two or
three rooms at last disappeared. But we
have forgotten to mention one
circumstance, which nevertheless ought
not to be omitted; in one of the rooms
he crossed, the trousseau of the
bride-elect was on exhibition. There
were caskets of diamonds, cashmere
shawls, Valenciennes lace, English
veilings, and in fact all the tempting
things, the bare mention of which makes
the hearts of young girls bound with
joy, and which is called the
"corbeille."* Now, in passing through
this room, Andrea proved himself not
only to be clever and intelligent, but
also provident, for he helped himself to
the most valuable of the ornaments
before him.

* Literally, "the basket," because
wedding gifts were originally brought in
such a receptacle.

Furnished with this plunder, Andrea
leaped with a lighter heart from the
window, intending to slip through the
hands of the gendarmes. Tall and well
proportioned as an ancient gladiator,
and muscular as a Spartan, he walked for
a quarter of an hour without knowing
where to direct his steps, actuated by
the sole idea of getting away from the
spot where if he lingered he knew that
he would surely be taken. Having passed
through the Rue Mont Blanc, guided by
the instinct which leads thieves always
to take the safest path, he found
himself at the end of the Rue Lafayette.
There he stopped, breathless and
panting. He was quite alone; on one side
was the vast wilderness of the
Saint-Lazare, on the other, Paris
enshrouded in darkness. "Am I to be
captured?" he cried; "no, not if I can
use more activity than my enemies. My
safety is now a mere question of speed."
At this moment he saw a cab at the top
of the Faubourg Poissonniere. The dull
driver, smoking his pipe, was plodding
along toward the limits of the Faubourg
Saint-Denis, where no doubt he
ordinarily had his station. "Ho,
friend!" said Benedetto.

"What do you want, sir?" asked the
driver.

"Is your horse tired?"

"Tired? oh, yes, tired enough -- he has
done nothing the whole of this blessed
day! Four wretched fares, and twenty
sous over, making in all seven francs,
are all that I have earned, and I ought
to take ten to the owner."

"Will you add these twenty francs to the
seven you have?"

"With pleasure, sir; twenty francs are
not to be despised. Tell me what I am to
do for this."

"A very easy thing, if your horse isn't
tired."

"I tell you he'll go like the wind, --
only tell me which way to drive."

"Towards the Louvres."

"Ah, I know the way -- you get good
sweetened rum over there."

"Exactly so; I merely wish to overtake
one of my friends, with whom I am going
to hunt to-morrow at Chapelle-en-Serval.
He should have waited for me here with a
cabriolet till half-past eleven; it is
twelve, and, tired of waiting, he must
have gone on."

"It is likely."

"Well, will you try and overtake him?"

"Nothing I should like better."

"If you do not overtake him before we
reach Bourget you shall have twenty
francs; if not before Louvres, thirty."

"And if we do overtake him?"

"Forty," said Andrea, after a moment's
hesitation, at the end of which he
remembered that he might safely promise.
"That's all right," said the man; "hop
in, and we're off! Who-o-o-p, la!"

Andrea got into the cab, which passed
rapidly through the Faubourg
Saint-Denis, along the Faubourg
Saint-Martin, crossed the barrier, and
threaded its way through the
interminable Villette. They never
overtook the chimerical friend, yet
Andrea frequently inquired of people on
foot whom he passed and at the inns
which were not yet closed, for a green
cabriolet and bay horse; and as there
are a great many cabriolets to be seen
on the road to the Low Countries, and as
nine-tenths of them are green, the
inquiries increased at every step. Every
one had just seen it pass; it was only
five hundred, two hundred, one hundred
steps in advance; at length they reached
it, but it was not the friend. Once the
cab was also passed by a calash rapidly
whirled along by two post-horses. "Ah,"
said Cavalcanti to himself, "if I only
had that britzska, those two good
post-horses, and above all the passport
that carries them on!" And he sighed
deeply. The calash contained
Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle
d'Armilly. "Hurry, hurry!" said Andrea,
"we must overtake him soon." And the
poor horse resumed the desperate gallop
it had kept up since leaving the
barrier, and arrived steaming at
Louvres.

"Certainly," said Andrea, "I shall not
overtake my friend, but I shall kill
your horse, therefore I had better stop.
Here are thirty francs; I will sleep at
the Red Horse, and will secure a place
in the first coach. Good-night, friend."
And Andrea, after placing six pieces of
five francs each in the man's hand,
leaped lightly on to the pathway. The
cabman joyfully pocketed the sum, and
turned back on his road to Paris. Andrea
pretended to go towards the Red Horse
inn, but after leaning an instant
against the door, and hearing the last
sound of the cab, which was disappearing
from view, he went on his road, and with
a lusty stride soon traversed the space
of two leagues. Then he rested; he must
be near Chapelle-en-Serval, where he
pretended to be going. It was not
fatigue that stayed Andrea here; it was
that he might form some resolution,
adopt some plan. It would be impossible
to make use of a diligence, equally so
to engage post-horses; to travel either
way a passport was necessary. It was
still more impossible to remain in the
department of the Oise, one of the most
open and strictly guarded in France;
this was quite out of the question,
especially to a man like Andrea,
perfectly conversant with criminal
matters.

He sat down by the side of the moat,
buried his face in his hands and
reflected. Ten minutes after he raised
his head; his resolution was made. He
threw some dust over the topcoat, which
he had found time to unhook from the
ante-chamber and button over his ball
costume, and going to Chapelle-en-Serval
he knocked loudly at the door of the
only inn in the place. The host opened.
"My friend," said Andrea, "I was coming
from Montefontaine to Senlis, when my
horse, which is a troublesome creature,
stumbled and threw me. I must reach
Compiegne to-night, or I shall cause
deep anxiety to my family. Could you let
me hire a horse of you?"

An inn-keeper has always a horse to let,
whether it be good or bad. The host
called the stable-boy, and ordered him
to saddle "Whitey," then he awoke his
son, a child of seven years, whom he
ordered to ride before the gentleman and
bring back the horse. Andrea gave the
inn-keeper twenty francs, and in taking
them from his pocket dropped a visiting
card. This belonged to one of his
friends at the Cafe de Paris, so that
the innkeeper, picking it up after
Andrea had left, was convinced that he
had let his horse to the Count of
Mauleon, 25 Rue Saint-Dominique, that
being the name and address on the card.
"Whitey" was not a fast animal, but he
kept up an easy, steady pace; in three
hours and a half Andrea had traversed
the nine leagues which separated him
from Compiegne, and four o'clock struck
as he reached the place where the
coaches stop. There is an excellent
tavern at Compiegne, well remembered by
those who have ever been there. Andrea,
who had often stayed there in his rides
about Paris, recollected the Bell and
Bottle inn; he turned around, saw the
sign by the light of a reflected lamp,
and having dismissed the child, giving
him all the small coin he had about him,
he began knocking at the door, very
reasonably concluding that having now
three or four hours before him he had
best fortify himself against the
fatigues of the morrow by a sound sleep
and a good supper. A waiter opened the
door.

"My friend," said Andrea, "I have been
dining at Saint-Jean-au-Bois, and
expected to catch the coach which passes
by at midnight, but like a fool I have
lost my way, and have been walking for
the last four hours in the forest. Show
me into one of those pretty little rooms
which overlook the court, and bring me a
cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux." The
waiter had no suspicions; Andrea spoke
with perfect composure, he had a cigar
in his mouth, and his hands in the
pocket of his top coat; his clothes were
fashionably made, his chin smooth, his
boots irreproachable; he looked merely
as if he had stayed out very late, that
was all. While the waiter was preparing
his room, the hostess arose; Andrea
assumed his most charming smile, and
asked if he could have No. 3, which he
had occupied on his last stay at
Compiegne. Unfortunately, No. 3 was
engaged by a young man who was
travelling with his sister. Andrea
appeared in despair, but consoled
himself when the hostess assured him
that No. 7, prepared for him, was
situated precisely the same as No. 3,
and while warming his feet and chatting
about the last races at Chantilly, he
waited until they announced his room to
be ready.

Andrea had not spoken without cause of
the pretty rooms looking out upon the
court of the Bell Tavern, which with its
triple galleries like those of a
theatre, with the jessamine and clematis
twining round the light columns, forms
one of the prettiest entrances to an inn
that you can imagine. The fowl was
tender, the wine old, the fire clear and
sparkling, and Andrea was surprised to
find himself eating with as good an
appetite as though nothing had happened.
Then be went to bed and almost
immediately fell into that deep sleep
which is sure to visit men of twenty
years of age, even when they are torn
with remorse. Now, here we are obliged
to own that Andrea ought to have felt
remorse, but that he did not. This was
the plan which had appealed to him to
afford the best chance of his security.
Before daybreak he would awake, leave
the inn after rigorously paying his
bill, and reaching the forest, he would,
under presence of making studies in
painting, test the hospitality of some
peasants, procure himself the dress of a
woodcutter and a hatchet, casting off
the lion's skin to assume that of the
woodman; then, with his hands covered
with dirt, his hair darkened by means of
a leaden comb, his complexion embrowned
with a preparation for which one of his
old comrades had given him the recipe,
he intended, by following the wooded
districts, to reach the nearest
frontier, walking by night and sleeping
in the day in the forests and quarries,
and only entering inhabited regions to
buy a loaf from time to time.

Once past the frontier, Andrea proposed
making money of his diamonds; and by
uniting the proceeds to ten bank-notes
he always carried about with him in case
of accident, he would then find himself
possessor of about 50,000 livres, which
he philosophically considered as no very
deplorable condition after all.
Moreover, he reckoned much on the
interest of the Danglars to hush up the
rumor of their own misadventures. These
were the reasons which, added to the
fatigue, caused Andrea to sleep so
soundly. In order that he might awaken
early he did not close the shutters, but
contented himself with bolting the door
and placing on the table an unclasped
and long-pointed knife, whose temper he
well knew, and which was never absent
from him. About seven in the morning
Andrea was awakened by a ray of
sunlight, which played, warm and
brilliant, upon his face. In all
well-organized brains, the predominating
idea -- and there always is one -- is
sure to be the last thought before
sleeping, and the first upon waking in
the morning. Andrea had scarcely opened
his eyes when his predominating idea
presented itself, and whispered in his
ear that he had slept too long. He
jumped out of bed and ran to the window.
A gendarme was crossing the court. A
gendarme is one of the most striking
objects in the world, even to a man void
of uneasiness; but for one who has a
timid conscience, and with good cause
too, the yellow, blue, and white uniform
is really very alarming.

"Why is that gendarme there?" asked
Andrea of himself. Then, all at once, he
replied, with that logic which the
reader has, doubtless, remarked in him,
"There is nothing astonishing in seeing
a gendarme at an inn; instead of being
astonished, let me dress myself." And
the youth dressed himself with a
facility his valet de chambre had failed
to rob him of during the two months of
fashionable life he had led in Paris.
"Now then," said Andrea, while dressing
himself, "I'll wait till he leaves, and
then I'll slip away." And, saying this,
Andrea, who had now put on his boots and
cravat, stole gently to the window, and
a second time lifted up the muslin
curtain. Not only was the first gendarme
still there, but the young man now
perceived a second yellow, blue, and
white uniform at the foot of the
staircase, the only one by which he
could descend, while a third, on
horseback, holding a musket in his fist,
was posted as a sentinel at the great
street door which alone afforded the
means of egress.

The appearance of the third gendarme
settled the matter, for a crowd of
curious loungers was extended before
him, effectually blocking the entrance
to the hotel. "They're after me!" was
Andrea's first thought. "The devil!" A
pallor overspread the young man's
forehead, and he looked around him with
anxiety. His room, like all those on the
same floor, had but one outlet to the
gallery in the sight of everybody. "I am
lost!" was his second thought; and,
indeed, for a man in Andrea's situation,
an arrest meant the assizes, trial, and
death, -- death without mercy or delay.
For a moment he convulsively pressed his
head within his hands, and during that
brief period he became nearly mad with
terror; but soon a ray of hope glimmered
in the multitude of thoughts which
bewildered his mind, and a faint smile
played upon his white lips and pallid
cheeks. He looked around and saw the
objects of his search upon the
chimney-piece; they were a pen, ink, and
paper. With forced composure he dipped
the pen in the ink, and wrote the
following lines upon a sheet of
paper: --

"I have no money to pay my bill, but I
am not a dishonest man; I leave behind
me as a pledge this pin, worth ten times
the amount. I shall be excused for
leaving at daybreak, for I was ashamed."

He then drew the pin from his cravat and
placed it on the paper. This done,
instead of leaving the door fastened, he
drew back the bolts and even placed the
door ajar, as though he had left the
room, forgetting to close it, and
slipping into the chimney like a man
accustomed to that kind of gymnastic
exercise, having effaced the marks of
his feet upon the floor, he commenced
climbing the only opening which afforded
him the means of escape. At this precise
time, the first gendarme Andrea had
noticed walked up-stairs, preceded by
the commissary of police, and supported
by the second gendarme who guarded the
staircase and was himself re-enforced by
the one stationed at the door.

Andrea was indebted for this visit to
the following circumstances. At
daybreak, the telegraphs were set at
work in all directions, and almost
immediately the authorities in every
district had exerted their utmost
endeavors to arrest the murderer of
Caderousse. Compiegne, that royal
residence and fortified town, is well
furnished with authorities, gendarmes,
and commissaries of police; they
therefore began operations as soon as
the telegraphic despatch arrived, and
the Bell and Bottle being the best-known
hotel in the town, they had naturally
directed their first inquiries there.

Now, besides the reports of the
sentinels guarding the Hotel de Ville,
which is next door to the Bell and
Bottle, it had been stated by others
that a number of travellers had arrived
during the night. The sentinel who was
relieved at six o'clock in the morning,
remembered perfectly that just as he was
taking his post a few minutes past four
a young man arrived on horseback, with a
little boy before him. The young man,
having dismissed the boy and horse,
knocked at the door of the hotel, which
was opened, and again closed after his
entrance. This late arrival had
attracted much suspicion, and the young
man being no other than Andrea, the
commissary and gendarme, who was a
brigadier, directed their steps towards
his room.

They found the door ajar. "Oh, ho," said
the brigadier, who thoroughly understood
the trick; "a bad sign to find the door
open! I would rather find it triply
bolted." And, indeed, the little note
and pin upon the table confirmed, or
rather corroborated, the sad truth.
Andrea had fled. We say corroborated,
because the brigadier was too
experienced to be convinced by a single
proof. He glanced around, looked in the
bed, shook the curtains, opened the
closets, and finally stopped at the
chimney. Andrea had taken the precaution
to leave no traces of his feet in the
ashes, but still it was an outlet, and
in this light was not to be passed over
without serious investigation.

The brigadier sent for some sticks and
straw, and having filled the chimney
with them, set a light to it. The fire
crackled, and the smoke ascended like
the dull vapor from a volcano; but still
no prisoner fell down, as they expected.
The fact was, that Andrea, at war with
society ever since his youth, was quite
as deep as a gendarme, even though he
were advanced to the rank of brigadier,
and quite prepared for the fire, he had
climbed out on the roof and was
crouching down against the chimney-pots.
At one time he thought he was saved, for
he heard the brigadier exclaim in a loud
voice, to the two gendarmes, "He is not
here!" But venturing to peep, he
perceived that the latter, instead of
retiring, as might have been reasonably
expected upon this announcement, were
watching with increased attention.

It was now his turn to look about him;
the Hotel de Ville, a massive sixteenth
century building, was on his right; any
one could descend from the openings in
the tower, and examine every corner of
the roof below, and Andrea expected
momentarily to see the head of a
gendarme appear at one of these
openings. If once discovered, he knew he
would be lost, for the roof afforded no
chance of escape; he therefore resolved
to descend, not through the same chimney
by which he had come up, but by a
similar one conducting to another room.
He looked around for a chimney from
which no smoke issued, and having
reached it, he disappeared through the
orifice without being seen by any one.
At the same minute, one of the little
windows of the Hotel de Ville was thrown
open, and the head of a gendarme
appeared. For an instant it remained
motionless as one of the stone
decorations of the building, then after
a long sigh of disappointment the head
disappeared. The brigadier, calm and
dignified as the law he represented,
passed through the crowd, without
answering the thousand questions
addressed to him, and re-entered the
hotel.

"Well?" asked the two gendarmes.

"Well, my boys," said the brigadier,
"the brigand must really have escaped
early this morning; but we will send to
the Villers-Coterets and Noyon roads,
and search the forest, when we shall
catch him, no doubt." The honorable
functionary had scarcely expressed
himself thus, in that intonation which
is peculiar to brigadiers of the
gendarmerie, when a loud scream,
accompanied by the violent ringing of a
bell, resounded through the court of the
hotel. "Ah, what is that?" cried the
brigadier.

"Some traveller seems impatient," said
the host. "What number was it that
rang?"

"Number 3."

"Run, waiter!" At this moment the
screams and ringing were redoubled.
"Ah," said the brigadier, stopping the
servant, "the person who is ringing
appears to want something more than a
waiter; we will attend upon him with a
gendarme. Who occupies Number 3?"

"The little fellow who arrived last
night in a post-chaise with his sister,
and who asked for an apartment with two
beds." The bell here rang for the third
time, with another shriek of anguish.

"Follow me, Mr. Commissary!" said the
brigadier; "tread in my steps."

"Wait an instant," said the host;
"Number 3 has two staircases, -- inside
and outside."

"Good," said the brigadier. "I will take
charge of the inside one. Are the
carbines loaded?"

"Yes, brigadier."

"Well, you guard the exterior, and if he
attempts to fly, fire upon him; he must
be a great criminal, from what the
telegraph says."

The brigadier, followed by the
commissary, disappeared by the inside
staircase, accompanied by the noise
which his assertions respecting Andrea
had excited in the crowd. This is what
had happened. Andrea had very cleverly
managed to descend two-thirds of the
chimney, but then his foot slipped, and
notwithstanding his endeavors, he came
into the room with more speed and noise
than he intended. It would have
signified little had the room been
empty, but unfortunately it was
occupied. Two ladies, sleeping in one
bed, were awakened by the noise, and
fixing their eyes upon the spot whence
the sound proceeded, they saw a man. One
of these ladies, the fair one, uttered
those terrible shrieks which resounded
through the house, while the other,
rushing to the bell-rope, rang with all
her strength. Andrea, as we can see, was
surrounded by misfortune.

"For pity's sake," he cried, pale and
bewildered, without seeing whom he was
addressing, -- "for pity's sake do not
call assistance! Save me! -- I will not
harm you."

"Andrea, the murderer!" cried one of the
ladies.

"Eugenie! Mademoiselle Danglars!"
exclaimed Andrea, stupefied.

"Help, help!" cried Mademoiselle
d'Armilly, taking the bell from her
companion's hand, and ringing it yet
more violently. "Save me, I am pursued!"
said Andrea, clasping his hands. "For
pity, for mercy's sake do not deliver me
up!"

"It is too late, they are coming," said
Eugenie.

"Well, conceal me somewhere; you can say
you were needlessly alarmed; you can
turn their suspicions and save my life!"

The two ladies, pressing closely to one
another, and drawing the bedclothes
tightly around them, remained silent to
this supplicating voice, repugnance and
fear taking possession of their minds.

"Well, be it so," at length said
Eugenie; "return by the same road you
came, and we will say nothing about you,
unhappy wretch."

"Here he is, here he is!" cried a voice
from the landing; "here he is! I see
him!" The brigadier had put his eye to
the keyhole, and had discovered Andrea
in a posture of entreaty. A violent blow
from the butt end of the musket burst
open the lock, two more forced out the
bolts, and the broken door fell in.
Andrea ran to the other door, leading to
the gallery, ready to rush out; but he
was stopped short, and he stood with his
body a little thrown back, pale, and
with the useless knife in his clinched
hand.

"Fly, then!" cried Mademoiselle
d'Armilly, whose pity returned as her
fears diminished; "fly!"

"Or kill yourself!" said Eugenie (in a
tone which a Vestal in the amphitheatre
would have used, when urging the
victorious gladiator to finish his
vanquished adversary). Andrea shuddered,
and looked on the young girl with an
expression which proved how little he
understood such ferocious honor. "Kill
myself?" he cried, throwing down his
knife; "why should I do so?"

"Why, you said," answered Mademoiselle
Danglars, "that you would be condemned
to die like the worst criminals."

"Bah," said Cavalcanti, crossing his
arms, "one has friends."

The brigadier advanced to him, sword in
hand. "Come, come," said Andrea,
"sheathe your sword, my fine fellow;
there is no occasion to make such a
fuss, since I give myself up;" and he
held out his hands to be manacled. The
girls looked with horror upon this
shameful metamorphosis, the man of the
world shaking off his covering and
appearing as a galley-slave. Andrea
turned towards them, and with an
impertinent smile asked, -- "Have you
any message for your father,
Mademoiselle Danglars, for in all
probability I shall return to Paris?"

Eugenie covered her face with her hands.
"Oh, ho!" said Andrea, "you need not be
ashamed, even though you did post after
me. Was I not nearly your husband?"

And with this raillery Andrea went out,
leaving the two girls a prey to their
own feelings of shame, and to the
comments of the crowd. An hour after
they stepped into their calash, both
dressed in feminine attire. The gate of
the hotel had been closed to screen them
from sight, but they were forced, when
the door was open, to pass through a
throng of curious glances and whispering
voices. Eugenie closed her eyes; but
though she could not see, she could
hear, and the sneers of the crowd
reached her in the carriage. "Oh, why is
not the world a wilderness?" she
exclaimed, throwing herself into the
arms of Mademoiselle d'Armilly, her eyes
sparkling with the same kind of rage
which made Nero wish that the Roman
world had but one neck, that he might
sever it at a single blow. The next day
they stopped at the Hotel de Flandre, at
Brussels. The same evening Andrea was
incarcerated in the Conciergerie.



Chapter 99 The Law.

We have seen how quietly Mademoiselle
Danglars and Mademoiselle d'Armilly
accomplished their transformation and
flight; the fact being that every one
was too much occupied in his or her own
affairs to think of theirs. We will
leave the banker contemplating the
enormous magnitude of his debt before
the phantom of bankruptcy, and follow
the baroness, who after being
momentarily crushed under the weight of
the blow which had struck her, had gone
to seek her usual adviser, Lucien
Debray. The baroness had looked forward
to this marriage as a means of ridding
her of a guardianship which, over a girl
of Eugenie's character, could not fail
to be rather a troublesome undertaking;
for in the tacit relations which
maintain the bond of family union, the
mother, to maintain her ascendancy over
her daughter, must never fail to be a
model of wisdom and a type of
perfection.

Now, Madame Danglars feared Eugenie's
sagacity and the influence of
Mademoiselle d'Armilly; she had
frequently observed the contemptuous
expression with which her daughter
looked upon Debray, -- an expression
which seemed to imply that she
understood all her mother's amorous and
pecuniary relationships with the
intimate secretary; moreover, she saw
that Eugenie detested Debray, -- not
only because he was a source of
dissension and scandal under the
paternal roof, but because she had at
once classed him in that catalogue of
bipeds whom Plato endeavors to withdraw
from the appellation of men, and whom
Diogenes designated as animals upon two
legs without feathers.

Unfortunately, in this world of ours,
each person views things through a
certain medium, and so is prevented from
seeing in the same light as others, and
Madame Danglars, therefore, very much
regretted that the marriage of Eugenie
had not taken place, not only because
the match was good, and likely to insure
the happiness of her child, but because
it would also set her at liberty. She
ran therefore to Debray, who, after
having like the rest of Paris witnessed
the contract scene and the scandal
attending it, had retired in haste to
his club, where he was chatting with
some friends upon the events which
served as a subject of conversation for
three-fourths of that city known as the
capital of the world.

At the precise time when Madame
Danglars, dressed in black and concealed
in a long veil, was ascending the stairs
leading to Debray's apartments, --
notwithstanding the assurances of the
concierge that the young man was not at
home, -- Debray was occupied in
repelling the insinuations of a friend,
who tried to persuade him that after the
terrible scene which had just taken
place he ought, as a friend of the
family, to marry Mademoiselle Danglars
and her two millions. Debray did not
defend himself very warmly, for the idea
had sometimes crossed his mind; still,
when he recollected the independent,
proud spirit of Eugenie, he positively
rejected it as utterly impossible,
though the same thought again
continually recurred and found a
resting-place in his heart. Tea, play,
and the conversation, which had become
interesting during the discussion of
such serious affairs, lasted till one
o'clock in the morning.

Meanwhile Madame Danglars, veiled and
uneasy, awaited the return of Debray in
the little green room, seated between
two baskets of flowers, which she had
that morning sent, and which, it must be
confessed, Debray had himself arranged
and watered with so much care that his
absence was half excused in the eyes of
the poor woman.

At twenty minutes of twelve, Madame
Danglars, tired of waiting, returned
home. Women of a certain grade are like
prosperous grisettes in one respect,
they seldom return home after twelve
o'clock. The baroness returned to the
hotel with as much caution as Eugenie
used in leaving it; she ran lightly
up-stairs, and with an aching heart
entered her apartment, contiguous, as we
know, to that of Eugenie. She was
fearful of exciting any remark, and
believed firmly in her daughter's
innocence and fidelity to the paternal
roof. She listened at Eugenie's door,
and hearing no sound tried to enter, but
the bolts were in place. Madame Danglars
then concluded that the young girl had
been overcome with the terrible
excitement of the evening, and had gone
to bed and to sleep. She called the maid
and questioned her.

"Mademoiselle Eugenie," said the maid,
"retired to her apartment with
Mademoiselle d'Armilly; they then took
tea together, after which they desired
me to leave, saying that they needed me
no longer." Since then the maid had been
below, and like every one else she
thought the young ladies were in their
own room; Madame Danglars, therefore,
went to bed without a shadow of
suspicion, and began to muse over the
recent events. In proportion as her
memory became clearer, the occurrences
of the evening were revealed in their
true light; what she had taken for
confusion was a tumult; what she had
regarded as something distressing, was
in reality a disgrace. And then the
baroness remembered that she had felt no
pity for poor Mercedes, who had been
afflicted with as severe a blow through
her husband and son.

"Eugenie," she said to herself, "is
lost, and so are we. The affair, as it
will be reported, will cover us with
shame; for in a society such as ours
satire inflicts a painful and incurable
wound. How fortunate that Eugenie is
possessed of that strange character
which has so often made me tremble!" And
her glance was turned towards heaven,
where a mysterious providence disposes
all things, and out of a fault, nay,
even a vice, sometimes produces a
blessing. And then her thoughts,
cleaving through space like a bird in
the air, rested on Cavalcanti. This
Andrea was a wretch, a robber, an
assassin, and yet his manners showed the
effects of a sort of education, if not a
complete one; he had been presented to
the world with the appearance of an
immense fortune, supported by an
honorable name. How could she extricate
herself from this labyrinth? To whom
would she apply to help her out of this
painful situation? Debray, to whom she
had run, with the first instinct of a
woman towards the man she loves, and who
yet betrays her, -- Debray could but
give her advice, she must apply to some
one more powerful than he.

The baroness then thought of M. de
Villefort. It was M. de Villefort who
had remorselessly brought misfortune
into her family, as though they had been
strangers. But, no; on reflection, the
procureur was not a merciless man; and
it was not the magistrate, slave to his
duties, but the friend, the loyal
friend, who roughly but firmly cut into
the very core of the corruption; it was
not the executioner, but the surgeon,
who wished to withdraw the honor of
Danglars from ignominious association
with the disgraced young man they had
presented to the world as their
son-in-law. And since Villefort, the
friend of Danglars, had acted in this
way, no one could suppose that he had
been previously acquainted with, or had
lent himself to, any of Andrea's
intrigues. Villefort's conduct,
therefore, upon reflection, appeared to
the baroness as if shaped for their
mutual advantage. But the inflexibility
of the procureur should stop there; she
would see him the next day, and if she
could not make him fail in his duties as
a magistrate, she would, at least,
obtain all the indulgence he could
allow. She would invoke the past, recall
old recollections; she would supplicate
him by the remembrance of guilty, yet
happy days. M. de Villefort would stifle
the affair; he had only to turn his eyes
on one side, and allow Andrea to fly,
and follow up the crime under that
shadow of guilt called contempt of
court. And after this reasoning she
slept easily.

At nine o'clock next morning she arose,
and without ringing for her maid or
giving the least sign of her activity,
she dressed herself in the same simple
style as on the previous night; then
running down-stairs, she left the hotel.
walked to the Rue de Provence, called a
cab, and drove to M. de Villefort's
house. For the last month this wretched
house had presented the gloomy
appearance of a lazaretto infected with
the plague. Some of the apartments were
closed within and without; the shutters
were only opened to admit a minute's
air, showing the scared face of a
footman, and immediately afterwards the
window would be closed, like a
gravestone falling on a sepulchre, and
the neighbors would say to each other in
a low voice, "Will there be another
funeral to-day at the procureur's
house?" Madame Danglars involuntarily
shuddered at the desolate aspect of the
mansion; descending from the cab, she
approached the door with trembling
knees, and rang the bell. Three times
did the bell ring with a dull, heavy
sound, seeming to participate, in the
general sadness, before the concierge
appeared and peeped through the door,
which he opened just wide enough to
allow his words to be heard. He saw a
lady, a fashionable, elegantly dressed
lady, and yet the door remained almost
closed.

"Do you intend opening the door?" said
the baroness.

"First, madame, who are you?"

"Who am I? You know me well enough."

"We no longer know any one, madame."

"You must be mad, my friend," said the
baroness.

"Where do you come from?"

"Oh, this is too much!"

"Madame, these are my orders; excuse me.
Your name?"

"The baroness Danglars; you have seen me
twenty times."

"Possibly, madame. And now, what do you
want?"

"Oh, how extraordinary! I shall complain
to M. de Villefort of the impertinence
of his servants."

"Madame, this is precaution, not
impertinence; no one enters here without
an order from M. d'Avrigny, or without
speaking to the procureur."

"Well, I have business with the
procureur."

"Is it pressing business?"

"You can imagine so, since I have not
even brought my carriage out yet. But
enough of this -- here is my card, take
it to your master."

"Madame will await my return?"

"Yes; go." The concierge closed the
door, leaving Madame Danglars in the
street. She had not long to wait;
directly afterwards the door was opened
wide enough to admit her, and when she
had passed through, it was again shut.
Without losing sight of her for an
instant, the concierge took a whistle
from his pocket as soon as they entered
the court, and blew it. The valet de
chambre appeared on the door-steps. "You
will excuse this poor fellow, madame,"
he said, as he preceded the baroness,
"but his orders are precise, and M. de
Villefort begged me to tell you that he
could not act otherwise."

In the court showing his merchandise,
was a tradesman who had been admitted
with the same precautions. The baroness
ascended the steps; she felt herself
strongly infected with the sadness which
seemed to magnify her own, and still
guided by the valet de chambre, who
never lost sight of her for an instant,
she was introduced to the magistrate's
study. Preoccupied as Madame Danglars
had been with the object of her visit,
the treatment she had received from
these underlings appeared to her so
insulting, that she began by complaining
of it. But Villefort, raising his head,
bowed down by grief, looked up at her
with so sad a smile that her complaints
died upon her lips. "Forgive my
servants," he said, "for a terror I
cannot blame them for; from being
suspected they have become suspicious."

Madame Danglars had often heard of the
terror to which the magistrate alluded,
but without the evidence of her own
eyesight she could never have believed
that the sentiment had been carried so
far. "You too, then, are unhappy?" she
said. "Yes, madame," replied the
magistrate.

"Then you pity me!"

"Sincerely, madame."

"And you understand what brings me
here?"

"You wish to speak to me about the
circumstance which has just happened?"

"Yes, sir, -- a fearful misfortune."

"You mean a mischance."

"A mischance?" repeated the baroness.

"Alas, madame," said the procureur with
his imperturbable calmness of manner, "I
consider those alone misfortunes which
are irreparable."

"And do you suppose this will be
forgotten?"

"Everything will be forgotten, madame,"
said Villefort. "Your daughter will be
married to-morrow, if not to-day -- in a
week, if not to-morrow; and I do not
think you can regret the intended
husband of your daughter."

Madame Danglars gazed on Villefort,
stupefied to find him so almost
insultingly calm. "Am I come to a
friend?" she asked in a tone full of
mournful dignity. "You know that you
are, madame," said Villefort, whose pale
cheeks became slightly flushed as he
gave her the assurance. And truly this
assurance carried him back to different
events from those now occupying the
baroness and him. "Well, then, be more
affectionate, my dear Villefort," said
the baroness. "Speak to me not as a
magistrate, but as a friend; and when I
am in bitter anguish of spirit, do not
tell me that I ought to be gay."
Villefort bowed. "When I hear
misfortunes named, madame," he said, "I
have within the last few mouths
contracted the bad habit of thinking of
my own, and then I cannot help drawing
up an egotistical parallel in my mind.
That is the reason that by the side of
my misfortunes yours appear to me mere
mischances; that is why my dreadful
position makes yours appear enviable.
But this annoys you; let us change the
subject. You were saying, madame" --

"I came to ask you, my friend," said the
baroness, "what will be done with this
impostor?"

"Impostor," repeated Villefort;
"certainly, madame, you appear to
extenuate some cases, and exaggerate
others. Impostor, indeed! -- M. Andrea
Cavalcanti, or rather M. Benedetto, is
nothing more nor less than an assassin!"

"Sir, I do not deny the justice of your
correction, but the more severely you
arm yourself against that unfortunate
man, the more deeply will you strike our
family. Come, forget him for a moment,
and instead of pursuing him let him go."

"You are too late, madame; the orders
are issued."

"Well, should he be arrested -- do they
think they will arrest him?"

"I hope so."

"If they should arrest him (I know that
sometimes prisoners afford means of
escape), will you leave him in
prison?" -- The procureur shook his
head. "At least keep him there till my
daughter be married."

"Impossible, madame; justice has its
formalities."

"What, even for me?" said the baroness,
half jesting, half in earnest. "For all,
even for myself among the rest," replied
Villefort.

"Ah," exclaimed the baroness, without
expressing the ideas which the
exclamation betrayed. Villefort looked
at her with that piercing glance which
reads the secrets of the heart. "Yes, I
know what you mean," he said; "you refer
to the terrible rumors spread abroad in
the world, that the deaths which have
kept me in mourning for the last three
months, and from which Valentine has
only escaped by a miracle, have not
happened by natural means."

"I was not thinking of that," replied
Madame Danglars quickly. "Yes, you were
thinking of it, and with justice. You
could not help thinking of it, and
saying to yourself, `you, who pursue
crime so vindictively, answer now, why
are there unpunished crimes in your
dwelling?'" The baroness became pale.
"You were saying this, were you not?"

"Well, I own it."

"I will answer you."

Villefort drew his armchair nearer to
Madame Danglars; then resting both hands
upon his desk he said in a voice more
hollow than usual: "There are crimes
which remain unpunished because the
criminals are unknown, and we might
strike the innocent instead of the
guilty; but when the culprits are
discovered" (Villefort here extended his
hand toward a large crucifix placed
opposite to his desk) -- "when they are
discovered, I swear to you, by all I
hold most sacred, that whoever they may
be they shall die. Now, after the oath I
have just taken, and which I will keep,
madame, dare you ask for mercy for that
wretch!"

"But, sir, are you sure he is as guilty
as they say?"

"Listen; this is his description:
`Benedetto, condemned, at the age of
sixteen, for five years to the galleys
for forgery.' He promised well, as you
see -- first a runaway, then an
assassin."

"And who is this wretch?"

"Who can tell? -- a vagabond, a
Corsican."

"Has no one owned him?"

"No one; his parents are unknown."

"But who was the man who brought him
from Lucca?"

"Another rascal like himself, perhaps
his accomplice." The baroness clasped
her hands. "Villefort," she exclaimed in
her softest and most captivating manner.

"For heaven's sake, madame," said
Villefort, with a firmness of expression
not altogether free from harshness --
"for heaven's sake, do not ask pardon of
me for a guilty wretch! What am I? --
the law. Has the law any eyes to witness
your grief? Has the law ears to be
melted by your sweet voice? Has the law
a memory for all those soft
recollections you endeavor to recall?
No, madame; the law has commanded, and
when it commands it strikes. You will
tell me that I am a living being, and
not a code -- a man, and not a volume.
Look at me, madame -- look around me.
Have mankind treated me as a brother?
Have they loved me? Have they spared me?
Has any one shown the mercy towards me
that you now ask at my hands? No,
madame, they struck me, always struck
me!

"Woman, siren that you are, do you
persist in fixing on me that fascinating
eye, which reminds me that I ought to
blush? Well, be it so; let me blush for
the faults you know, and perhaps --
perhaps for even more than those! But
having sinned myself, -- it may be more
deeply than others, -- I never rest till
I have torn the disguises from my
fellow-creatures, and found out their
weaknesses. I have always found them;
and more, -- I repeat it with joy, with
triumph, -- I have always found some
proof of human perversity or error.
Every criminal I condemn seems to me
living evidence that I am not a hideous
exception to the rest. Alas, alas, alas;
all the world is wicked; let us
therefore strike at wickedness!"

Villefort pronounced these last words
with a feverish rage, which gave a
ferocious eloquence to his words.

"But"' said Madame Danglars, resolving
to make a last effort, "this young man,
though a murderer, is an orphan,
abandoned by everybody."

"So much the worse, or rather, so much
the better; it has been so ordained that
he may have none to weep his fate."

"But this is trampling on the weak,
sir."

"The weakness of a murderer!"

"His dishonor reflects upon us."

"Is not death in my house?"

"Oh, sir," exclaimed the baroness, "you
are without pity for others, well, then,
I tell you they will have no mercy on
you!"

"Be it so!" said Villefort, raising his
arms to heaven.

"At least, delay the trial till the next
assizes; we shall then have six months
before us."

"No, madame," said Villefort;
"instructions have been given, There are
yet five days left; five days are more
than I require. Do you not think that I
also long for forgetfulness? While
working night and day, I sometimes lose
all recollection of the past, and then I
experience the same sort of happiness I
can imagine the dead feel; still, it is
better than suffering."

"But, sir, he has fled; let him
escape -- inaction is a pardonable
offence."

"I tell you it is too late; early this
morning the telegraph was employed, and
at this very minute" --

"Sir," said the valet de chambre,
entering the room, "a dragoon has
brought this despatch from the minister
of the interior." Villefort seized the
letter, and hastily broke the seal.
Madame Danglars trembled with fear;
Villefort started with joy. "Arrested!"
he exclaimed; "he was taken at
Compiegne, and all is over." Madame
Danglars rose from her seat, pale and
cold. "Adieu, sir," she said. "Adieu,
madame," replied the king's attorney, as
in an almost joyful manner he conducted
her to the door. Then, turning to his
desk, he said, striking the letter with
the back of his right hand, "Come, I had
a forgery, three robberies, and two
cases of arson, I only wanted a murder,
and here it is. It will be a splendid
session!"



Chapter 100 The Apparition.

As the procureur had told Madame
Danglars, Valentine was not yet
recovered. Bowed down with fatigue, she
was indeed confined to her bed; and it
was in her own room, and from the lips
of Madame de Villefort, that she heard
all the strange events we have
related, -- we mean the flight of
Eugenie and the arrest of Andrea
Cavalcanti, or rather Benedetto,
together with the accusation of murder
pronounced against him. But Valentine
was so weak that this recital scarcely
produced the same effect it would have
done had she been in her usual state of
health. Indeed, her brain was only the
seat of vague ideas, and confused forms,
mingled with strange fancies, alone
presented themselves before her eyes.

During the daytime Valentine's
perceptions remained tolerably clear,
owing to the constant presence of M.
Noirtier, who caused himself to be
carried to his granddaughter's room, and
watched her with his paternal
tenderness; Villefort also, on his
return from the law courts, frequently
passed an hour or two with his father
and child. At six o'clock Villefort
retired to his study, at eight M.
d'Avrigny himself arrived, bringing the
night draught prepared for the young
girl, and then M. Noirtier was carried
away. A nurse of the doctor's choice
succeeded them, and never left till
about ten or eleven o'clock, when
Valentine was asleep. As she went
down-stairs she gave the keys of
Valentine's room to M. de Villefort, so
that no one could reach the sick-room
excepting through that of Madame de
Villefort and little Edward.

Every morning Morrel called on Noirtier
to receive news of Valentine, and,
extraordinary as it seemed, each day
found him less uneasy. Certainly, though
Valentine still labored under dreadful
nervous excitement, she was better; and
moreover, Monte Cristo had told him
when, half distracted, he had rushed to
the count's house, that if she were not
dead in two hours she would be saved.
Now four days had elapsed, and Valentine
still lived.

The nervous excitement of which we speak
pursued Valentine even in her sleep, or
rather in that state of somnolence which
succeeded her waking hours; it was then,
in the silence of night, in the dim
light shed from the alabaster lamp on
the chimney-piece, that she saw the
shadows pass and repass which hover over
the bed of sickness, and fan the fever
with their trembling wings. First she
fancied she saw her stepmother
threatening her, then Morrel stretched
his arms towards her; sometimes mere
strangers, like the Count of Monte
Cristo came to visit her; even the very
furniture, in these moments of delirium,
seemed to move, and this state lasted
till about three o'clock in the morning,
when a deep, heavy slumber overcame the
young girl, from which she did not awake
till daylight. On the evening of the day
on which Valentine had learned of the
flight of Eugenie and the arrest of
Benedetto, -- Villefort having retired
as well as Noirtier and d'Avrigny, --
her thoughts wandered in a confused
maze, alternately reviewing her own
situation and the events she had just
heard.

Eleven o'clock had struck. The nurse,
having placed the beverage prepared by
the doctor within reach of the patient,
and locked the door, was listening with
terror to the comments of the servants
in the kitchen, and storing her memory
with all the horrible stories which had
for some months past amused the
occupants of the ante-chambers in the
house of the king's attorney. Meanwhile
an unexpected scene was passing in the
room which had been so carefully locked.
Ten minutes had elapsed since the nurse
had left; Valentine, who for the last
hour had been suffering from the fever
which returned nightly, incapable of
controlling her ideas, was forced to
yield to the excitement which exhausted
itself in producing and reproducing a
succession and recurrence of the same
fancies and images. The night-lamp threw
out countless rays, each resolving
itself into some strange form to her
disordered imagination, when suddenly by
its flickering light Valentine thought
she saw the door of her library, which
was in the recess by the chimney-piece,
open slowly, though she in vain listened
for the sound of the hinges on which it
turned.

At any other time Valentine would have
seized the silken bell-pull and summoned
assistance, but nothing astonished her
in her present situation. Her reason
told her that all the visions she beheld
were but the children of her
imagination, and the conviction was
strengthened by the fact that in the
morning no traces remained of the
nocturnal phantoms, who disappeared with
the coming of daylight. From behind the
door a human figure appeared, but the
girl was too familiar with such
apparitions to be alarmed, and therefore
only stared, hoping to recognize Morrel.
The figure advanced towards the bed and
appeared to listen with profound
attention. At this moment a ray of light
glanced across the face of the midnight
visitor.

"It is not he," she murmured, and
waited, in the assurance that this was
but a dream, for the man to disappear or
assume some other form. Still, she felt
her pulse, and finding it throb
violently she remembered that the best
method of dispelling such illusions was
to drink, for a draught of the beverage
prepared by the doctor to allay her
fever seemed to cause a reaction of the
brain, and for a short time she suffered
less. Valentine therefore reached her
hand towards the glass, but as soon as
her trembling arm left the bed the
apparition advanced more quickly towards
her, and approached the young girl so
closely that she fancied she heard his
breath, and felt the pressure of his
hand.

This time the illusion, or rather the
reality, surpassed anything Valentine
had before experienced; she began to
believe herself really alive and awake,
and the belief that her reason was this
time not deceived made her shudder. The
pressure she felt was evidently intended
to arrest her arm, and she slowly
withdrew it. Then the figure, from whom
she could not detach her eyes, and who
appeared more protecting than menacing,
took the glass, and walking towards the
night-light held it up, as if to test
its transparency. This did not seem
sufficient; the man, or rather the
ghost -- for he trod so softly that no
sound was heard -- then poured out about
a spoonful into the glass, and drank it.
Valentine witnessed this scene with a
sentiment of stupefaction. Every minute
she had expected that it would vanish
and give place to another vision; but
the man, instead of dissolving like a
shadow, again approached her, and said
in an agitated voice, "Now you may
drink."

Valentine shuddered. It was the first
time one of these visions had ever
addressed her in a living voice, and she
was about to utter an exclamation. The
man placed his finger on her lips. "The
Count of Monte Cristo!" she murmured.

It was easy to see that no doubt now
remained in the young girl's mind as to
the reality of the scene; her eyes
started with terror, her hands trembled,
and she rapidly drew the bedclothes
closer to her. Still, the presence of
Monte Cristo at such an hour, his
mysterious, fanciful, and extraordinary
entrance into her room through the wall,
might well seem impossibilities to her
shattered reason. "Do not call any
one -- do not be alarmed," said the
Count; "do not let a shade of suspicion
or uneasiness remain in your breast; the
man standing before you, Valentine (for
this time it is no ghost), is nothing
more than the tenderest father and the
most respectful friend you could dream
of."

Valentine could not reply; the voice
which indicated the real presence of a
being in the room, alarmed her so much
that she feared to utter a syllable;
still the expression of her eyes seemed
to inquire, "If your intentions are
pure, why are you here?" The count's
marvellous sagacity understood all that
was passing in the young girl's mind.

"Listen to me," he said, "or, rather,
look upon me; look at my face, paler
even than usual, and my eyes, red with
weariness -- for four days I have not
closed them, for I have been constantly
watching you, to protect and preserve
you for Maximilian." The blood mounted
rapidly to the cheeks of Valentine, for
the name just announced by the count
dispelled all the fear with which his
presence had inspired her. "Maximilian!"
she exclaimed, and so sweet did the
sound appear to her, that she repeated
it -- "Maximilian! -- has he then owned
all to you?"

"Everything. He told me your life was
his, and I have promised him that you
shall live."

"You have promised him that I shall
live?"

"Yes."

"But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and
protection. Are you a doctor?"

"Yes; the best you could have at the
present time, believe me."

"But you say you have watched?" said
Valentine uneasily; "where have you
been? -- I have not seen you." The count
extended his hand towards the library.
"I was hidden behind that door," he
said, "which leads into the next house,
which I have rented." Valentine turned
her eyes away, and, with an indignant
expression of pride and modest fear,
exclaimed: "Sir, I think you have been
guilty of an unparalleled intrusion, and
that what you call protection is more
like an insult."

"Valentine," he answered, "during my
long watch over you, all I have observed
has been what people visited you, what
nourishment was prepared, and what
beverage was served; then, when the
latter appeared dangerous to me, I
entered, as I have now done, and
substituted, in the place of the poison,
a healthful draught; which, instead of
producing the death intended, caused
life to circulate in your veins."

"Poison -- death!" exclaimed Valentine,
half believing herself under the
influence of some feverish
hallucination; "what are you saying,
sir?"

"Hush, my child," said Monte Cristo,
again placing his finger upon her lips,
"I did say poison and death. But drink
some of this;" and the count took a
bottle from his pocket, containing a red
liquid, of which he poured a few drops
into the glass. "Drink this, and then
take nothing more to-night." Valentine
stretched out her hand, but scarcely had
she touched the glass when she drew back
in fear. Monte Cristo took the glass,
drank half its contents, and then
presented it to Valentine, who smiled
and swallowed the rest. "Oh, yes," she
exclaimed, "I recognize the flavor of my
nocturnal beverage which refreshed me so
much, and seemed to ease my aching
brain. Thank you, sir, thank you!"

"This is how you have lived during the
last four nights, Valentine," said the
count. "But, oh, how I passed that time!
Oh, the wretched hours I have endured --
the torture to which I have submitted
when I saw the deadly poison poured into
your glass, and how I trembled lest you
should drink it before I could find time
to throw it away!"

"Sir," said Valentine, at the height of
her terror, "you say you endured
tortures when you saw the deadly poison
poured into my glass; but if you saw
this, you must also have seen the person
who poured it?"

"Yes." Valentine raised herself in bed,
and drew over her chest, which appeared
whiter than snow, the embroidered
cambric, still moist with the cold dews
of delirium, to which were now added
those of terror. "You saw the person?"
repeated the young girl. "Yes," repeated
the count.

"What you tell me is horrible, sir. You
wish to make me believe something too
dreadful. What? -- attempt to murder me
in my father's house, in my room, on my
bed of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you
are tempting me -- you make me doubt the
goodness of providence -- it is
impossible, it cannot be!"

"Are you the first that this hand has
stricken? Have you not seen M. de
Saint-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran,
Barrois, all fall? would not M. Noirtier
also have fallen a victim, had not the
treatment he has been pursuing for the
last three years neutralized the effects
of the poison?"

"Oh, heaven," said Valentine; "is this
the reason why grandpapa has made me
share all his beverages during the last
month?"

"And have they all tasted of a slightly
bitter flavor, like that of dried
orange-peel?"

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"Then that explains all," said Monte
Cristo. "Your grandfather knows, then,
that a poisoner lives here; perhaps he
even suspects the person. He has been
fortifying you, his beloved child,
against the fatal effects of the poison,
which has failed because your system was
already impregnated with it. But even
this would have availed little against a
more deadly medium of death employed
four days ago, which is generally but
too fatal."

"But who, then, is this assassin, this
murderer?"

"Let me also ask you a question. Have
you never seen any one enter your room
at night?"

"Oh, yes; I have frequently seen shadows
pass close to me, approach, and
disappear; but I took them for visions
raised by my feverish imagination, and
indeed when you entered I thought I was
under the influence of delirium."

"Then you do not know who it is that
attempts your life?"

"No," said Valentine; "who could desire
my death?"

"You shall know it now, then," said
Monte Cristo, listening.

"How do you mean?" said Valentine,
looking anxiously around.

"Because you are not feverish or
delirious to-night, but thoroughly
awake; midnight is striking, which is
the hour murderers choose."

"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine,
wiping off the drops which ran down her
forehead. Midnight struck slowly and
sadly; every hour seemed to strike with
leaden weight upon the heart of the poor
girl. "Valentine," said the count,
"summon up all your courage; still the
beatings of your heart; do not let a
sound escape you, and feign to be
asleep; then you will see." Valentine
seized the count's hand. "I think I hear
a noise," she said; "leave me."

"Good-by, for the present," replied the
count, walking upon tiptoe towards the
library door, and smiling with an
expression so sad and paternal that the
young girl's heart was filled with
gratitude. Before closing the door he
turned around once more, and said, "Not
a movement -- not a word; let them think
you asleep, or perhaps you may be killed
before I have the power of helping you."
And with this fearful injunction the
count disappeared through the door,
which noiselessly closed after him.



Chapter 101 Locusta.

Valentine was alone; two other clocks,
slower than that of Saint-Philippe du
Roule, struck the hour of midnight from
different directions, and excepting the
rumbling of a few carriages all was
silent. Then Valentine's attention was
engrossed by the clock in her room,
which marked the seconds. She began
counting them, remarking that they were
much slower than the beatings of her
heart; and still she doubted, -- the
inoffensive Valentine could not imagine
that any one should desire her death.
Why should they? To what end? What had
she done to excite the malice of an
enemy? There was no fear of her falling
asleep. One terrible idea pressed upon
her mind, -- that some one existed in
the world who had attempted to
assassinate her, and who was about to
endeavor to do so again. Supposing this
person, wearied at the inefficacy of the
poison, should, as Monte Cristo
intimated, have recourse to steel! --
What if the count should have no time to
run to her rescue! -- What if her last
moments were approaching, and she should
never again see Morrel! When this
terrible chain of ideas presented
itself, Valentine was nearly persuaded
to ring the bell, and call for help. But
through the door she fancied she saw the
luminous eye of the count -- that eye
which lived in her memory, and the
recollection overwhelmed her with so
much shame that she asked herself
whether any amount of gratitude could
ever repay his adventurous and devoted
friendship.

Twenty minutes, twenty tedious minutes,
passed thus, then ten more, and at last
the clock struck the half-flour. Just
then the sound of finger-nails slightly
grating against the door of the library
informed Valentine that the count was
still watching, and recommended her to
do the same; at the same time, on the
opposite side, that is towards Edward's
room, Valentine fancied that she heard
the creaking of the floor; she listened
attentively, holding her breath till she
was nearly suffocated; the lock turned,
and the door slowly opened. Valentine
had raised herself upon her elbow, and
had scarcely time to throw herself down
on the bed and shade her eyes with her
arm; then, trembling, agitated, and her
heart beating with indescribable terror,
she awaited the event.

Some one approached the bed and drew
back the curtains. Valentine summoned
every effort, and breathed with that
regular respiration which announces
tranquil sleep. "Valentine!" said a low
voice. Still silent: Valentine had
promised not to awake. Then everything
was still, excepting that Valentine
heard the almost noiseless sound of some
liquid being poured into the glass she
had just emptied. Then she ventured to
open her eyelids, and glance over her
extended arm. She saw a woman in a white
dressing-gown pouring a liquor from a
phial into her glass. During this short
time Valentine must have held her
breath, or moved in some slight degree,
for the woman, disturbed, stopped and
leaned over the bed, in order the better
to ascertain whether Valentine slept --
it was Madame de Villefort.

On recognizing her step-mother,
Valentine could not repress a shudder,
which caused a vibration in the bed.
Madame de Villefort instantly stepped
back close to the wall, and there,
shaded by the bed-curtains, she silently
and attentively watched the slightest
movement of Valentine. The latter
recollected the terrible caution of
Monte Cristo; she fancied that the hand
not holding the phial clasped a long
sharp knife. Then collecting all her
remaining strength, she forced herself
to close her eyes; but this simple
operation upon the most delicate organs
of our frame, generally so easy to
accomplish, became almost impossible at
this moment, so much did curiosity
struggle to retain the eyelid open and
learn the truth. Madame de Villefort,
however, reassured by the silence, which
was alone disturbed by the regular
breathing of Valentine, again extended
her hand, and half hidden by the
curtains succeeded in emptying the
contents of the phial into the glass.
Then she retired so gently that
Valentine did not know she had left the
room. She only witnessed the withdrawal
of the arm -- the fair round arm of a
woman but twenty-five years old, and who
yet spread death around her.

It is impossible to describe the
sensations experienced by Valentine
during the minute and a half Madame de
Villefort remained in the room. The
grating against the library-door aroused
the young girl from the stupor in which
she was plunged, and which almost
amounted to insensibility. She raised
her head with an effort. The noiseless
door again turned on its hinges, and the
Count of Monte Cristo reappeared.
"Well," said he, "do you still doubt?"

"Oh," murmured the young girl.

"Have you seen?"

"Alas!"

"Did you recognize?" Valentine groaned.
"Oh, yes;" she said, "I saw, but I
cannot believe!"

"Would you rather die, then, and cause
Maximilian's death?"

"Oh," repeated the young girl, almost
bewildered, "can I not leave the
house? -- can I not escape?"

"Valentine, the hand which now threatens
you will pursue you everywhere; your
servants will be seduced with gold, and
death will be offered to you disguised
in every shape. You will find it in the
water you drink from the spring, in the
fruit you pluck from the tree."

"But did you not say that my kind
grandfather's precaution had neutralized
the poison?"

"Yes, but not against a strong dose; the
poison will be changed, and the quantity
increased." He took the glass and raised
it to his lips. "It is already done," he
said; "brucine is no longer employed,
but a simple narcotic! I can recognize
the flavor of the alcohol in which it
has been dissolved. If you had taken
what Madame de Villefort has poured into
your glass, Valentine -- Valentine --
you would have been doomed!"

"But," exclaimed the young girl, "why am
I thus pursued?"

"Why? -- are you so kind -- so good --
so unsuspicious of ill, that you cannot
understand, Valentine?"

"No, I have never injured her."

"But you are rich, Valentine; you have
200,000 livres a year, and you prevent
her son from enjoying these 200,000
livres."

"How so? The fortune is not her gift,
but is inherited from my relations."

"Certainly; and that is why M. and
Madame de Saint-Meran have died; that is
why M. Noirtier was sentenced the day he
made you his heir; that is why you, in
your turn, are to die -- it is because
your father would inherit your property,
and your brother, his only son, succeed
to his."

"Edward? Poor child! Are all these
crimes committed on his account?"

"Ah, then you at length understand?"

"Heaven grant that this may not be
visited upon him!"

"Valentine, you are an angel!"

"But why is my grandfather allowed to
live?"

"It was considered, that you dead, the
fortune would naturally revert to your
brother, unless he were disinherited;
and besides, the crime appearing
useless, it would be folly to commit
it."

"And is it possible that this frightful
combination of crimes has been invented
by a woman?"

"Do you recollect in the arbor of the
Hotel des Postes, at Perugia, seeing a
man in a brown cloak, whom your
stepmother was questioning upon aqua
tofana? Well, ever since then, the
infernal project has been ripening in
her brain."

"Ah, then, indeed, sir," said the sweet
girl, bathed in tears, "I see that I am
condemned to die!"

"No, Valentine, for I have foreseen all
their plots; no, your enemy is conquered
since we know her, and you will live,
Valentine -- live to be happy yourself,
and to confer happiness upon a noble
heart; but to insure this you must rely
on me."

"Command me, sir -- what am I to do?"

"You must blindly take what I give you."

"Alas, were it only for my own sake, I
should prefer to die!"

"You must not confide in any one -- not
even in your father."

"My father is not engaged in this
fearful plot, is he, sir?" asked
Valentine, clasping her hands.

"No; and yet your father, a man
accustomed to judicial accusations,
ought to have known that all these
deaths have not happened naturally; it
is he who should have watched over
you -- he should have occupied my
place -- he should have emptied that
glass -- he should have risen against
the assassin. Spectre against spectre!"
he murmured in a low voice, as he
concluded his sentence.

"Sir," said Valentine, "I will do all I
can to live. for there are two beings
whose existence depends upon mine -- my
grandfather and Maximilian."

"I will watch over them as I have over
you."

"Well, sir, do as you will with me;" and
then she added, in a low voice, "oh,
heavens, what will befall me?"

"Whatever may happen, Valentine, do not
be alarmed; though you suffer; though
you lose sight, hearing, consciousness,
fear nothing; though you should awake
and be ignorant where you are, still do
not fear; even though you should find
yourself in a sepulchral vault or
coffin. Reassure yourself, then, and say
to yourself: `At this moment, a friend,
a father, who lives for my happiness and
that of Maximilian, watches over me!'"

"Alas, alas, what a fearful extremity!"

"Valentine, would you rather denounce
your stepmother?"

"I would rather die a hundred times --
oh, yes, die!"

"No, you will not die; but will you
promise me, whatever happens, that you
will not complain, but hope?"

"I will think of Maximilian!"

"You are my own darling child,
Valentine! I alone can save you, and I
will." Valentine in the extremity of her
terror joined her hands, -- for she felt
that the moment had arrived to ask for
courage, -- and began to pray, and while
uttering little more than incoherent
words, she forgot that her white
shoulders had no other covering than her
long hair, and that the pulsations of
her heart could he seen through the lace
of her nightdress. Monte Cristo gently
laid his hand on the young girl's arm,
drew the velvet coverlet close to her
throat, and said with a paternal
smile, -- "My child, believe in my
devotion to you as you believe in the
goodness of providence and the love of
Maximilian."

Then he drew from his waistcoat-pocket
the little emerald box, raised the
golden lid, and took from it a pastille
about the size of a pea, which he placed
in her hand. She took it, and looked
attentively on the count; there was an
expression on the face of her intrepid
protector which commanded her
veneration. She evidently interrogated
him by her look. "Yes," said he.
Valentine carried the pastille to her
mouth, and swallowed it. "And now, my
dear child, adieu for the present. I
will try and gain a little sleep, for
you are saved."

"Go," said Valentine, "whatever happens,
I promise you not to fear."

Monte Cristo for some time kept his eyes
fixed on the young girl, who gradually
fell asleep, yielding to the effects of
the narcotic the count had given her.
Then he took the glass, emptied three
parts of the contents in the fireplace,
that it might be supposed Valentine had
taken it, and replaced it on the table;
then he disappeared, after throwing a
farewell glance on Valentine, who slept
with the confidence and innocence of an
angel.



Chapter 102 Valentine.

The night-light continued to burn on the
chimney-piece, exhausting the last drops
of oil which floated on the surface of
the water. The globe of the lamp
appeared of a reddish hue, and the
flame, brightening before it expired,
threw out the last flickerings which in
an inanimate object have been so often
compared with the convulsions of a human
creature in its final agonies. A dull
and dismal light was shed over the
bedclothes and curtains surrounding the
young girl. All noise in the streets had
ceased, and the silence was frightful.
It was then that the door of Edward's
room opened, and a head we have before
noticed appeared in the glass opposite;
it was Madame de Villefort, who came to
witness the effects of the drink she had
prepared. She stopped in the doorway,
listened for a moment to the flickering
of the lamp, the only sound in that
deserted room, and then advanced to the
table to see if Valentine's glass were
empty. It was still about a quarter
full, as we before stated. Madame de
Villefort emptied the contents into the
ashes, which she disturbed that they
might the more readily absorb the
liquid; then she carefully rinsed the
glass, and wiping it with her
handkerchief replaced it on the table.

If any one could have looked into the
room just then he would have noticed the
hesitation with which Madame de
Villefort approached the bed and looked
fixedly on Valentine. The dim light, the
profound silence, and the gloomy
thoughts inspired by the hour, and still
more by her own conscience, all combined
to produce a sensation of fear; the
poisoner was terrified at the
contemplation of her own work. At length
she rallied, drew aside the curtain, and
leaning over the pillow gazed intently
on Valentine. The young girl no longer
breathed, no breath issued through the
half-closed teeth; the white lips no
longer quivered -- the eyes were
suffused with a bluish vapor, and the
long black lashes rested on a cheek
white as wax. Madame de Villefort gazed
upon the face so expressive even in its
stillness; then she ventured to raise
the coverlet and press her hand upon the
young girl's heart. It was cold and
motionless. She only felt the pulsation
in her own fingers, and withdrew her
hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging
out of the bed; from shoulder to elbow
it was moulded after the arms of Germain
Pillon's "Graces,"* but the fore-arm
seemed to be slightly distorted by
convulsion, and the hand, so delicately
formed, was resting with stiff
outstretched fingers on the framework of
the bed. The nails, too, were turning
blue.

* Germain Pillon was a famous French
sculptor (1535-1598). His best known
work is "The Three Graces," now in the
Louvre.

Madame de Villefort had no longer any
doubt; all was over -- she had
consummated the last terrible work she
had to accomplish. There was no more to
do in the room, so the poisoner retired
stealthily, as though fearing to hear
the sound of her own footsteps; but as
she withdrew she still held aside the
curtain, absorbed in the irresistible
attraction always exerted by the picture
of death, so long as it is merely
mysterious and does not excite disgust.
Just then the lamp again flickered; the
noise startled Madame de Villefort, who
shuddered and dropped the curtain.
Immediately afterwards the light
expired, and the room was plunged in
frightful obscurity, while the clock at
that minute struck half-past four.
Overpowered with agitation, the poisoner
succeeded in groping her way to the
door, and reached her room in an agony
of fear.

The darkness lasted two hours longer;
then by degrees a cold light crept
through the Venetian blinds, until at
length it revealed the objects in the
room. About this time the nurse's cough
was heard on the stairs and the woman
entered the room with a cup in her hand.
To the tender eye of a father or a
lover, the first glance would have
sufficed to reveal Valentine's
condition; but to this hireling,
Valentine only appeared to sleep.
"Good," she exclaimed, approaching the
table, "she has taken part of her
draught; the glass is three-quarters
empty."

Then she went to the fireplace and lit
the fire, and although she had just left
her bed, she could not resist the
temptation offered by Valentine's sleep,
so she threw herself into an arm-chair
to snatch a little more rest. The clock
striking eight awoke her. Astonished at
the prolonged slumber of the patient,
and frightened to see that the arm was
still hanging out of the bed, she
advanced towards Valentine, and for the
first time noticed the white lips. She
tried to replace the arm, but it moved
with a frightful rigidity which could
not deceive a sick-nurse. She screamed
aloud; then running to the door
exclaimed, -- "Help, help!"

"What is the matter?" asked M.
d'Avrigny, at the foot of the stairs, it
being the hour he usually visited her.

"What is it?" asked Villefort, rushing
from his room. "Doctor, do you hear them
call for help?"

"Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in
Valentine's room." But before the doctor
and the father could reach the room, the
servants who were on the same floor had
entered, and seeing Valentine pale and
motionless on her bed, they lifted up
their hands towards heaven and stood
transfixed, as though struck by
lightening. "Call Madame de
Villefort! -- wake Madame de Villefort!"
cried the procureur from the door of his
chamber, which apparently he scarcely
dared to leave. But instead of obeying
him, the servants stood watching M.
d'Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and
raised her in his arms. "What? -- this
one, too?" he exclaimed. "Oh, where will
be the end?" Villefort rushed into the
room. "What are you saying, doctor?" he
exclaimed, raising his hands to heaven.

"I say that Valentine is dead!" replied
d'Avrigny, in a voice terrible in its
solemn calm.

M. de Villefort staggered and buried his
head in the bed. On the exclamation of
the doctor and the cry of the father,
the servants all fled with muttered
imprecations; they were heard running
down the stairs and through the long
passages, then there was a rush in the
court, afterwards all was still; they
had, one and all, deserted the accursed
house. Just then, Madame de Villefort,
in the act of slipping on her
dressing-gown, threw aside the drapery
and for a moment stood motionless, as
though interrogating the occupants of
the room, while she endeavored to call
up some rebellious tears. On a sudden
she stepped, or rather bounded, with
outstretched arms, towards the table.
She saw d'Avrigny curiously examining
the glass, which she felt certain of
having emptied during the night. It was
now a third full, just as it was when
she threw the contents into the ashes.
The spectre of Valentine rising before
the poisoner would have alarmed her
less. It was, indeed, the same color as
the draught she had poured into the
glass, and which Valentine had drank; it
was indeed the poison, which could not
deceive M. d'Avrigny, which he now
examined so closely; it was doubtless a
miracle from heaven, that,
notwithstanding her precautions, there
should be some trace, some proof
remaining to reveal the crime. While
Madame de Villefort remained rooted to
the spot like a statue of terror, and
Villefort, with his head hidden in the
bedclothes, saw nothing around him,
d'Avrigny approached the window, that he
might the better examine the contents of
the glass, and dipping the tip of his
finger in, tasted it. "Ah," he
exclaimed, "it is no longer brucine that
is used; let me see what it is!"

Then he ran to one of the cupboards in
Valentine's room, which had been
transformed into a medicine closet, and
taking from its silver case a small
bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little
of it into the liquor, which immediately
changed to a blood-red color. "Ah,"
exclaimed d'Avrigny, in a voice in which
the horror of a judge unveiling the
truth was mingled with the delight of a
student making a discovery. Madame de
Villefort was overpowered, her eyes
first flashed and then swam, she
staggered towards the door and
disappeared. Directly afterwards the
distant sound of a heavy weight falling
on the ground was heard, but no one paid
any attention to it; the nurse was
engaged in watching the chemical
analysis, and Villefort was still
absorbed in grief. M. d'Avrigny alone
had followed Madame de Villefort with
his eyes, and watched her hurried
retreat. He lifted up the drapery over
the entrance to Edward's room, and his
eye reaching as far as Madame de
Villefort's apartment, he beheld her
extended lifeless on the floor. "Go to
the assistance of Madame de Villefort,"
he said to the nurse. "Madame de
Villefort is ill."

"But Mademoiselle de Villefort " --
stammered the nurse.

"Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer
requires help," said d'Avrigny, "since
she is dead."

"Dead, -- dead!" groaned forth
Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief, which
was the more terrible from the novelty
of the sensation in the iron heart of
that man.

"Dead!" repeated a third voice. "Who
said Valentine was dead?"

The two men turned round, and saw Morrel
standing at the door, pale and
terror-stricken. This is what had
happened. At the usual time, Morrel had
presented himself at the little door
leading to Noirtier's room. Contrary to
custom, the door was open, and having no
occasion to ring he entered. He waited
for a moment in the hall and called for
a servant to conduct him to M. Noirtier;
but no one answered, the servants
having, as we know, deserted the house.
Morrel had no particular reason for
uneasiness; Monte Cristo had promised
him that Valentine should live, and so
far he had always fulfilled his word.
Every night the count had given him
news, which was the next morning
confirmed by Noirtier. Still this
extraordinary silence appeared strange
to him, and he called a second and third
time; still no answer. Then he
determined to go up. Noirtier's room was
opened, like all the rest. The first
thing he saw was the old man sitting in
his arm-chair in his usual place, but
his eyes expressed alarm, which was
confirmed by the pallor which overspread
his features.

"How are you, sir?" asked Morrel, with a
sickness of heart.

"Well," answered the old man, by closing
his eyes; but his appearance manifested
increasing uneasiness.

"You are thoughtful, sir," continued
Morrel; "you want something; shall I
call one of the servants?"

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

Morrel pulled the bell, but though he
nearly broke the cord no one answered.
He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor
and anguish expressed on his countenance
momentarily increased.

"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, "why do they not
come? Is any one ill in the house?" The
eyes of Noirtier seemed as though they
would start from their sockets. "What is
the matter? You alarm me. Valentine?
Valentine?"

"Yes, yes," signed Noirtier. Maximilian
tried to speak, but he could articulate
nothing; he staggered, and supported
himself against the wainscot. Then he
pointed to the door.

"Yes, yes, yes!" continued the old man.
Maximilian rushed up the little
staircase, while Noirtier's eyes seemed
to say, -- "Quicker, quicker!"

In a minute the young man darted through
several rooms, till at length he reached
Valentine's. There was no occasion to
push the door, it was wide open. A sob
was the only sound he heard. He saw as
though in a mist, a black figure
kneeling and buried in a confused mass
of white drapery. A terrible fear
transfixed him. It was then he heard a
voice exclaim "Valentine is dead!" and
another voice which, like an echo
repeated, -- "Dead, -- dead!"



Chapter 103 Maximilian.

Villefort rose, half ashamed of being
surprised in such a paroxysm of grief.
The terrible office he had held for
twenty-five years had succeeded in
making him more or less than man. His
glance, at first wandering, fixed itself
upon Morrel. "Who are you, sir," he
asked, "that forget that this is not the
manner to enter a house stricken with
death? Go, sir, go!" But Morrel remained
motionless; he could not detach his eyes
from that disordered bed, and the pale
corpse of the young girl who was lying
on it. "Go! -- do you hear?" said
Villefort, while d'Avrigny advanced to
lead Morrel out. Maximilian stared for a
moment at the corpse, gazed all around
the room, then upon the two men; he
opened his mouth to speak, but finding
it impossible to give utterance to the
innumerable ideas that occupied his
brain, he went out, thrusting his hands
through his hair in such a manner that
Villefort and d'Avrigny, for a moment
diverted from the engrossing topic,
exchanged glances, which seemed to
say, -- "He is mad!"

But in less than five minutes the
staircase groaned beneath an
extraordinary weight. Morrel was seen
carrying, with superhuman strength, the
arm-chair containing Noirtier up-stairs.
When he reached the landing he placed
the arm-chair on the floor and rapidly
rolled it into Valentine's room. This
could only have been accomplished by
means of unnatural strength supplied by
powerful excitement. But the most
fearful spectacle was Noirtier being
pushed towards the bed, his face
expressing all his meaning, and his eyes
supplying the want of every other
faculty. That pale face and flaming
glance appeared to Villefort like a
frightful apparition. Each time he had
been brought into contact with his
father, something terrible had happened.
"See what they have done!" cried Morrel,
with one hand leaning on the back of the
chair, and the other extended towards
Valentine. "See, my father, see!"

Villefort drew back and looked with
astonishment on the young man, who,
almost a stranger to him, called
Noirtier his father. At this moment the
whole soul of the old man seemed centred
in his eyes which became bloodshot; the
veins of the throat swelled; his cheeks
and temples became purple, as though he
was struck with epilepsy; nothing was
wanting to complete this but the
utterance of a cry. And the cry issued
from his pores, if we may thus speak --
a cry frightful in its silence.
D'Avrigny rushed towards the old man and
made him inhale a powerful restorative.

"Sir," cried Morrel, seizing the moist
hand of the paralytic, "they ask me who
I am, and what right I have to be here.
Oh, you know it, tell them, tell them!"
And the young man's voice was choked by
sobs. As for the old man, his chest
heaved with his panting respiration. One
could have thought that he was
undergoing the agonies preceding death.
At length, happier than the young man,
who sobbed without weeping, tears
glistened in the eyes of Noirtier. "Tell
them," said Morrel in a hoarse voice,
"tell them that I am her betrothed. Tell
them she was my beloved, my noble girl,
my only blessing in the world. Tell
them -- oh, tell them, that corpse
belongs to me!"

The young man overwhelmed by the weight
of his anguish, fell heavily on his
knees before the bed, which his fingers
grasped with convulsive energy.
D'Avrigny, unable to bear the sight of
this touching emotion, turned away; and
Villefort, without seeking any further
explanation, and attracted towards him
by the irresistible magnetism which
draws us towards those who have loved
the people for whom we mourn, extended
his hand towards the young man. But
Morrel saw nothing; he had grasped the
hand of Valentine, and unable to weep
vented his agony in groans as he bit the
sheets. For some time nothing was heard
in that chamber but sobs, exclamations,
and prayers. At length Villefort, the
most composed of all, spoke: "Sir," said
he to Maximilian, "you say you loved
Valentine, that you were betrothed to
her. I knew nothing of this engagement,
of this love, yet I, her father, forgive
you, for I see that your grief is real
and deep; and besides my own sorrow is
too great for anger to find a place in
my heart. But you see that the angel
whom you hoped for has left this
earth -- she has nothing more to do with
the adoration of men. Take a last
farewell, sir, of her sad remains; take
the hand you expected to possess once
more within your own, and then separate
yourself from her forever. Valentine now
requires only the ministrations of the
priest."

"You are mistaken, sir," exclaimed
Morrel, raising himself on one knee, his
heart pierced by a more acute pang than
any he had yet felt -- "you are
mistaken; Valentine, dying as she has,
not only requires a priest, but an
avenger. You, M. de Villefort, send for
the priest; I will be the avenger."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked
Villefort, trembling at the new idea
inspired by the delirium of Morrel.

"I tell you, sir, that two persons exist
in you; the father has mourned
sufficiently, now let the procureur
fulfil his office."

The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and
d'Avrigny approached.

"Gentlemen," said Morrel, reading all
that passed through the minds of the
witnesses to the scene, "I know what I
am saying, and you know as well as I do
what I am about to say -- Valentine has
been assassinated!" Villefort hung his
head, d'Avrigny approached nearer, and
Noirtier said "Yes" with his eyes. "Now,
sir," continued Morrel, "in these days
no one can disappear by violent means
without some inquiries being made as to
the cause of her disappearance, even
were she not a young, beautiful, and
adorable creature like Valentine. Mr.
Procureur," said Morrel with increasing
vehemence, "no mercy is allowed; I
denounce the crime; it is your place to
seek the assassin." The young man's
implacable eyes interrogated Villefort,
who, on his side, glanced from Noirtier
to d'Avrigny. But instead of finding
sympathy in the eyes of the doctor and
his father, he only saw an expression as
inflexible as that of Maximilian. "Yes,"
indicated the old man.

"Assuredly," said d'Avrigny.

"Sir," said Villefort, striving to
struggle against this triple force and
his own emotion, -- "sir, you are
deceived; no one commits crimes here. I
am stricken by fate. It is horrible,
indeed, but no one assassinates."

The eyes of Noirtier lighted up with
rage, and d'Avrigny prepared to speak.
Morrel, however, extended his arm, and
commanded silence. "And I say that
murders are committed here," said
Morrel, whose voice, though lower in
tone, lost none of its terrible
distinctness: "I tell you that this is
the fourth victim within the last four
months. I tell you, Valentine's life was
attempted by poison four days ago,
though she escaped, owing to the
precautions of M. Noirtier. I tell you
that the dose has been double, the
poison changed, and that this time it
has succeeded. I tell you that you know
these things as well as I do, since this
gentleman has forewarned you, both as a
doctor and as a friend."

"Oh, you rave, sir," exclaimed
Villefort, in vain endeavoring to escape
the net in which he was taken.

"I rave?" said Morrel; "well, then, I
appeal to M. d'Avrigny himself. Ask him,
sir, if he recollects the words he
uttered in the garden of this house on
the night of Madame de Saint-Meran's
death. You thought yourselves alone, and
talked about that tragical death, and
the fatality you mentioned then is the
same which has caused the murder of
Valentine." Villefort and d'Avrigny
exchanged looks. "Yes, yes," continued
Morrel; "recall the scene, for the words
you thought were only given to silence
and solitude fell into my ears.
Certainly, after witnessing the culpable
indolence manifested by M. de Villefort
towards his own relations, I ought to
have denounced him to the authorities;
then I should not have been an
accomplice to thy death, as I now am,
sweet, beloved Valentine; but the
accomplice shall become the avenger.
This fourth murder is apparent to all,
and if thy father abandon thee,
Valentine, it is I, and I swear it, that
shall pursue the assassin." And this
time, as though nature had at least
taken compassion on the vigorous frame,
nearly bursting with its own strength,
the words of Morrel were stifled in his
throat; his breast heaved; the tears, so
long rebellious, gushed from his eyes;
and he threw himself weeping on his
knees by the side of the bed.

Then d'Avrigny spoke. "And I, too," he
exclaimed in a low voice, "I unite with
M. Morrel in demanding justice for
crime; my blood boils at the idea of
having encouraged a murderer by my
cowardly concession."

"Oh, merciful heavens!" murmured
Villefort. Morrel raised his head, and
reading the eyes of the old man, which
gleamed with unnatural lustre, --
"Stay," he said, "M. Noirtier wishes to
speak."

"Yes," indicated Noirtier, with an
expression the more terrible, from all
his faculties being centred in his
glance.

"Do you know the assassin?" asked
Morrel.

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"And will you direct us?" exclaimed the
young man. "Listen, M. d'Avrigny,
listen!" Noirtier looked upon Morrel
with one of those melancholy smiles
which had so often made Valentine happy,
and thus fixed his attention. Then,
having riveted the eyes of his
interlocutor on his own, he glanced
towards the door.

"Do you wish me to leave?" said Morrel,
sadly.

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me!"

The old man's eyes remained fixed on the
door.

"May I, at least, return?" asked Morrel.

"Yes."

"Must I leave alone?"

"No."

"Whom am I to take with me? The
procureur?"

"No."

"The doctor?"

"Yes."

"You wish to remain alone with M. de
Villefort?"

"Yes."

"But can he understand you?"

"Yes."

"Oh," said Villefort, inexpressibly
delighted to think that the inquiries
were to be made by him alone, -- "oh, be
satisfied, I can understand my father."
D'Avrigny took the young man's arm, and
led him out of the room. A more than
deathlike silence then reigned in the
house. At the end of a quarter of an
hour a faltering footstep was heard, and
Villefort appeared at the door of the
apartment where d'Avrigny and Morrel had
been staying, one absorbed in
meditation, the other in grief. "You can
come," he said, and led them back to
Noirtier. Morrel looked attentively on
Villefort. His face was livid, large
drops rolled down his face, and in his
fingers he held the fragments of a quill
pen which he had torn to atoms.

"Gentlemen," he said in a hoarse voice,
"give me your word of honor that this
horrible secret shall forever remain
buried amongst ourselves!" The two men
drew back.

"I entreat you." -- continued Villefort.

"But," said Morrel, "the culprit -- the
murderer -- the assassin."

"Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice
will be done," said Villefort. "My
father has revealed the culprit's name;
my father thirsts for revenge as much as
you do, yet even he conjures you as I do
to keep this secret. Do you not,
father?"

"Yes," resolutely replied Noirtier.
Morrel suffered an exclamation of horror
and surprise to escape him. "Oh, sir,"
said Villefort, arresting Maximilian by
the arm, "if my father, the inflexible
man, makes this request, it is because
he knows, be assured, that Valentine
will be terribly revenged. Is it not so,
father?" The old man made a sign in the
affirmative. Villefort continued: "He
knows me, and I have pledged my word to
him. Rest assured, gentlemen, that
within three days, in a less time than
justice would demand, the revenge I
shall have taken for the murder of my
child will be such as to make the
boldest heart tremble;" and as he spoke
these words he ground his teeth, and
grasped the old man's senseless hand.

"Will this promise be fulfilled, M.
Noirtier?" asked Morrel, while d'Avrigny
looked inquiringly.

"Yes," replied Noirtier with an
expression of sinister joy.

"Swear, then," said Villefort, joining
the hands of Morrel and d'Avrigny,
"swear that you will spare the honor of
my house, and leave me to avenge my
child." D'Avrigny turned round and
uttered a very feeble "Yes," but Morrel,
disengaging his hand, rushed to the bed,
and after having pressed the cold lips
of Valentine with his own, hurriedly
left, uttering a long, deep groan of
despair and anguish. We have before
stated that all the servants had fled.
M. de Villefort was therefore obliged to
request M. d'Avrigny to superintend all
the arrangements consequent upon a death
in a large city, more especially a death
under such suspicious circumstances.

It was something terrible to witness the
silent agony, the mute despair of
Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled
down his cheeks. Villefort retired to
his study, and d'Avrigny left to summon
the doctor of the mayoralty, whose
office it is to examine bodies after
decease, and who is expressly named "the
doctor of the dead." M. Noirtier could
not be persuaded to quit his grandchild.
At the end of a quarter of an hour M.
d'Avrigny returned with his associate;
they found the outer gate closed, and
not a servant remaining in the house;
Villefort himself was obliged to open to
them. But he stopped on the landing; he
had not the courage to again visit the
death chamber. The two doctors,
therefore, entered the room alone.
Noirtier was near the bed, pale,
motionless, and silent as the corpse.
The district doctor approached with the
indifference of a man accustomed to
spend half his time amongst the dead; he
then lifted the sheet which was placed
over the face, and just unclosed the
lips.

"Alas," said d'Avrigny, "she is indeed
dead, poor child!"

"Yes," answered the doctor laconically,
dropping the sheet he had raised.
Noirtier uttered a kind of hoarse,
rattling sound; the old man's eyes
sparkled, and the good doctor understood
that he wished to behold his child. He
therefore approached the bed, and while
his companion was dipping the fingers
with which he had touched the lips of
the corpse in chloride of lime, he
uncovered the calm and pale face, which
looked like that of a sleeping angel. A
tear, which appeared in the old man's
eye, expressed his thanks to the doctor.
The doctor of the dead then laid his
permit on the corner of the table, and
having fulfilled his duty, was conducted
out by d'Avrigny. Villefort met them at
the door of his study; having in a few
words thanked the district doctor, he
turned to d'Avrigny, and said, -- "And
now the priest."

"Is there any particular priest you wish
to pray with Valentine?" asked
d'Avrigny.

"No." said Villefort; "fetch the
nearest."

"The nearest," said the district doctor,
"is a good Italian abbe, who lives next
door to you. Shall I call on him as I
pass?"

"D'Avrigny," said Villefort, "be so
kind, I beseech you, as to accompany
this gentleman. Here is the key of the
door, so that you can go in and out as
you please; you will bring the priest
with you, and will oblige me by
introducing him into my child's room."

"Do you wish to see him?"

"I only wish to be alone. You will
excuse me, will you not? A priest can
understand a father's grief." And M. de
Villefort, giving the key to d'Avrigny,
again bade farewell to the strange
doctor, and retired to his study, where
he began to work. For some temperaments
work is a remedy for all afflictions. As
the doctors entered the street, they saw
a man in a cassock standing on the
threshold of the next door. "This is the
abbe of whom I spoke," said the doctor
to d'Avrigny. D'Avrigny accosted the
priest. "Sir," he said, "are you
disposed to confer a great obligation on
an unhappy father who has just lost his
daughter? I mean M. de Villefort, the
king's attorney."

"Ah," said the priest, in a marked
Italian accent; "yes, I have heard that
death is in that house."

"Then I need not tell you what kind of
service he requires of you."

"I was about to offer myself, sir," said
the priest; "it is our mission to
forestall our duties."

"It is a young girl."

"I know it, sir; the servants who fled
from the house informed me. I also know
that her name is Valentine, and I have
already prayed for her."

"Thank you, sir," said d'Avrigny; "since
you have commenced your sacred office,
deign to continue it. Come and watch by
the dead, and all the wretched family
will be grateful to you."

"I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate
to say that no prayers will be more
fervent than mine." D'Avrigny took the
priest's hand, and without meeting
Villefort, who was engaged in his study,
they reached Valentine's room, which on
the following night was to be occupied
by the undertakers. On entering the
room, Noirtier's eyes met those of the
abbe, and no doubt he read some
particular expression in them, for he
remained in the room. D'Avrigny
recommended the attention of the priest
to the living as well as to the dead,
and the abbe promised to devote his
prayers to Valentine and his attentions
to Noirtier. In order, doubtless, that
he might not be disturbed while
fulfilling his sacred mission, the
priest rose as soon as d'Avrigny
departed, and not only bolted the door
through which the doctor had just left,
but also that leading to Madame de
Villefort's room.



Chapter 104 Danglars Signature.

The next morning dawned dull and cloudy.
During the night the undertakers had
executed their melancholy office, and
wrapped the corpse in the winding-sheet,
which, whatever may be said about the
equality of death, is at least a last
proof of the luxury so pleasing in life.
This winding-sheet was nothing more than
a beautiful piece of cambric, which the
young girl had bought a fortnight
before. During the evening two men,
engaged for the purpose, had carried
Noirtier from Valentine's room into his
own, and contrary to all expectation
there was no difficulty in withdrawing
him from his child. The Abbe Busoni had
watched till daylight, and then left
without calling any one. D'Avrigny
returned about eight o'clock in the
morning; he met Villefort on his way to
Noirtier's room, and accompanied him to
see how the old man had slept. They
found him in the large arm-chair, which
served him for a bed, enjoying a calm,
nay, almost a smiling sleep. They both
stood in amazement at the door.

"See," said d'Avrigny to Villefort,
"nature knows how to alleviate the
deepest sorrow. No one can say that M.
Noirtier did not love his child, and yet
he sleeps."

"Yes, you are right," replied Villefort,
surprised; "he sleeps, indeed! And this
is the more strange, since the least
contradiction keeps him awake all
night."

"Grief has stunned him," replied
d'Avrigny; and they both returned
thoughtfully to the procureur's study.

"See, I have not slept," said Villefort,
showing his undisturbed bed; "grief does
not stun me. I have not been in bed for
two nights; but then look at my desk;
see what I have written during these two
days and nights. I have filled those
papers, and have made out the accusation
against the assassin Benedetto. Oh,
work, work, -- my passion, my joy, my
delight, -- it is for thee to alleviate
my sorrows!" and he convulsively grasped
the hand of d'Avrigny.

"Do you require my services now?" asked
d'Avrigny.

"No," said Villefort; "only return again
at eleven o'clock; at twelve the --
the -- oh, heavens, my poor, poor
child!" and the procureur again becoming
a man, lifted up his eyes and groaned.

"Shall you be present in the reception
room?"

"No; I have a cousin who has undertaken
this sad office. I shall work, doctor --
when I work I forget everything." And,
indeed, no sooner had the doctor left
the room, than he was again absorbed in
study. On the doorsteps d'Avrigny met
the cousin whom Villefort had mentioned,
a personage as insignificant in our
story as in the world he occupied -- one
of those beings designed from their
birth to make themselves useful to
others. He was punctual, dressed in
black, with crape around his hat, and
presented himself at his cousin's with a
face made up for the occasion, and which
he could alter as might be required. At
twelve o'clock the mourning-coaches
rolled into the paved court, and the Rue
du Faubourg Saint-Honore was filled with
a crowd of idlers, equally pleased to
witness the festivities or the mourning
of the rich, and who rush with the same
avidity to a funeral procession as to
the marriage of a duchess.

Gradually the reception-room filled, and
some of our old friends made their
appearance -- we mean Debray,
Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp,
accompanied by all the leading men of
the day at the bar, in literature, or
the army, for M. de Villefort moved in
the first Parisian circles, less owing
to his social position than to his
personal merit. The cousin standing at
the door ushered in the guests, and it
was rather a relief to the indifferent
to see a person as unmoved as
themselves, and who did not exact a
mournful face or force tears, as would
have been the case with a father, a
brother, or a lover. Those who were
acquainted soon formed into little
groups. One of them was made of Debray,
Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp.

"Poor girl," said Debray, like the rest,
paying an involuntary tribute to the sad
event, -- "poor girl, so young, so rich,
so beautiful! Could you have imagined
this scene, Chateau-Renaud, when we saw
her, at the most three weeks ago, about
to sign that contract?"

"Indeed, no," said Chateau-Renaud --
"Did you know her?"

"I spoke to her once or twice at Madame
de Morcerf's, among the rest; she
appeared to me charming, though rather
melancholy. Where is her stepmother? Do
you know?"

"She is spending the day with the wife
of the worthy gentleman who is receiving
us."

"Who is he?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"The gentleman who receives us? Is he a
deputy?"

"Oh, no. I am condemned to witness those
gentlemen every day," said Beauchamp;
"but he is perfectly unknown to me."

"Have you mentioned this death in your
paper?"

"It has been mentioned, but the article
is not mine; indeed, I doubt if it will
please M. Villefort, for it says that if
four successive deaths had happened
anywhere else than in the house of the
king's attorney, he would have
interested himself somewhat more about
it."

"Still," said Chateau-Renaud, "Dr.
d'Avrigny, who attends my mother,
declares he is in despair about it. But
whom are you seeking, Debray?"

"I am seeking the Count of Monte Cristo"
said the young man.

"I met him on the boulevard, on my way
here," said Beauchamp. "I think he is
about to leave Paris; he was going to
his banker."

"His banker? Danglars is his banker, is
he not?" asked Chateau-Renaud of Debray.

"I believe so," replied the secretary
with slight uneasiness. "But Monte
Cristo is not the only one I miss here;
I do not see Morrel."

"Morrel? Do they know him?" asked
Chateau-Renaud. "I think he has only
been introduced to Madame de Villefort."

"Still, he ought to have been here,"
said Debray; "I wonder what will be
talked about to-night; this funeral is
the news of the day. But hush, here
comes our minister of justice; he will
feel obliged to make some little speech
to the cousin," and the three young men
drew near to listen. Beauchamp told the
truth when he said that on his way to
the funeral he had met Monte Cristo, who
was directing his steps towards the Rue
de la Chausse d'Antin, to M. Danglars'.

The banker saw the carriage of the count
enter the court yard, and advanced to
meet him with a sad, though affable
smile. "Well," said he, extending his
hand to Monte Cristo, "I suppose you
have come to sympathize with me, for
indeed misfortune has taken possession
of my house. When I perceived you, I was
just asking myself whether I had not
wished harm towards those poor Morcerfs,
which would have justified the proverb
of `He who wishes misfortunes to happen
to others experiences them himself.'
Well, on my word of honor, I answered,
`No!' I wished no ill to Morcerf; he was
a little proud, perhaps, for a man who
like myself has risen from nothing; but
we all have our faults. Do you know,
count, that persons of our time of
life -- not that you belong to the
class, you are still a young man, -- but
as I was saying, persons of our time of
life have been very unfortunate this
year. For example, look at the
puritanical procureur, who has just lost
his daughter, and in fact nearly all his
family, in so singular a manner; Morcerf
dishonored and dead; and then myself
covered with ridicule through the
villany of Benedetto; besides" --

"Besides what?" asked the Count.

"Alas, do you not know?"

"What new calamity?"

"My daughter" --

"Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Eugenie has left us!"

"Good heavens, what are you telling me?"

"The truth, my dear count. Oh, how happy
you must be in not having either wife or
children!"

"Do you think so?"

"Indeed I do."

"And so Mademoiselle Danglars" --

"She could not endure the insult offered
to us by that wretch, so she asked
permission to travel."

"And is she gone?"

"The other night she left."

"With Madame Danglars?"

"No, with a relation. But still, we have
quite lost our dear Eugenie; for I doubt
whether her pride will ever allow her to
return to France."

"Still, baron," said Monte Cristo,
"family griefs, or indeed any other
affliction which would crush a man whose
child was his only treasure, are
endurable to a millionaire. Philosophers
may well say, and practical men will
always support the opinion, that money
mitigates many trials; and if you admit
the efficacy of this sovereign balm, you
ought to be very easily consoled -- you,
the king of finance, the focus of
immeasurable power."

Danglars looked at him askance, as
though to ascertain whether he spoke
seriously. "Yes," he answered, "if a
fortune brings consolation, I ought to
be consoled; I am rich."

"So rich, dear sir, that your fortune
resembles the pyramids; if you wished to
demolish them you could not, and if it
were possible, you would not dare!"
Danglars smiled at the good-natured
pleasantry of the count. "That reminds
me," he said, "that when you entered I
was on the point of signing five little
bonds; I have already signed two: will
you allow me to do the same to the
others?"

"Pray do so."

There was a moment's silence, during
which the noise of the banker's pen was
alone heard, while Monte Cristo examined
the gilt mouldings on the ceiling. "Are
they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan
bonds?" said Monte Cristo. "No," said
Danglars, smiling, "they are bonds on
the bank of France, payable to bearer.
Stay, count," he added, "you, who may he
called the emperor, if I claim the title
of king of finance, have you many pieces
of paper of this size, each worth a
million?" The count took into his hands
the papers, which Danglars had so
proudly presented to him, and read: --

"To the Governor of the Bank. Please pay
to my order, from the fund deposited by
me, the sum of a million, and charge the
same to my account.

"Baron Danglars."

"One, two, three, four, five," said
Monte Cristo; "five millions -- why what
a Croesus you are!"

"This is how I transact business," said
Danglars.

"It is really wonderful," said the
count; "above all, if, as I suppose, it
is payable at sight."

"It is, indeed, said Danglars.

"It is a fine thing to have such credit;
really, it is only in France these
things are done. Five millions on five
little scraps of paper! -- it must be
seen to be believed."

"You do not doubt it?"

"No!"

"You say so with an accent -- stay, you
shall be convinced; take my clerk to the
bank, and you will see him leave it with
an order on the Treasury for the same
sum."

"No," said Monte Cristo folding the five
notes, "most decidedly not; the thing is
so curious, I will make the experiment
myself. I am credited on you for six
millions. I have drawn nine hundred
thousand francs, you therefore still owe
me five millions and a hundred thousand
francs. I will take the five scraps of
paper that I now hold as bonds, with
your signature alone, and here is a
receipt in full for the six millions
between us. I had prepared it
beforehand, for I am much in want of
money to-day." And Monte Cristo placed
the bonds in his pocket with one hand,
while with the other he held out the
receipt to Danglars. If a thunderbolt
had fallen at the banker's feet, he
could not have experienced greater
terror.

"What," he stammered, "do you mean to
keep that money? Excuse me, excuse me,
but I owe this money to the charity
fund, -- a deposit which I promised to
pay this morning."

"Oh, well, then," said Monte Cristo, "I
am not particular about these five
notes, pay me in a different form; I
wished, from curiosity, to take these,
that I might be able to say that without
any advice or preparation the house of
Danglars had paid me five millions
without a minute's delay; it would have
been remarkable. But here are your
bonds; pay me differently;" and he held
the bonds towards Danglars, who seized
them like a vulture extending its claws
to withhold the food that is being
wrested from its grasp. Suddenly he
rallied, made a violent effort to
restrain himself, and then a smile
gradually widened the features of his
disturbed countenance.

"Certainly," he said, "your receipt is
money."

"Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome,
the house of Thomson & French would make
no more difficulty about paying the
money on my receipt than you have just
done."

"Pardon me, count, pardon me."

"Then I may keep this money?"

"Yes," said Danglars, while the
perspiration started from the roots of
his hair. "Yes, keep it -- keep it."

Monte Cristo replaced the notes in his
pocket with that indescribable
expression which seemed to say, "Come,
reflect; if you repent there is till
time."

"No," said Danglars, "no, decidedly no;
keep my signatures. But you know none
are so formal as bankers in transacting
business; I intended this money for the
charity fund, and I seemed to be robbing
them if I did not pay them with these
precise bonds. How absurd -- as if one
crown were not as good as another.
Excuse me;" and he began to laugh
loudly, but nervously.

"Certainly, I excuse you," said Monte
Cristo graciously, "and pocket them."
And he placed the bonds in his
pocket-book.

"But," said Danglars, "there is still a
sum of one hundred thousand francs?"

"Oh, a mere nothing," said Monte Cristo.
"The balance would come to about that
sum; but keep it, and we shall be
quits."

"Count." said Danglars, "are you
speaking seriously?"

"I never joke with bankers," said Monte
Cristo in a freezing manner, which
repelled impertinence; and he turned to
the door, just as the valet de chambre
announced, -- "M. de Boville,
receiver-general of the charities."

"Ma foi," said Monte Cristo; "I think I
arrived just in time to obtain your
signatures, or they would have been
disputed with me."

Danglars again became pale, and hastened
to conduct the count out. Monte Cristo
exchanged a ceremonious bow with M. de
Boville, who was standing in the
waiting-room, and who was introduced
into Danglars' room as soon as the count
had left. The count's sad face was
illumined by a faint smile, as he
noticed the portfolio which the
receiver-general held in his hand. At
the door he found his carriage, and was
immediately driven to the bank.
Meanwhile Danglars, repressing all
emotion, advanced to meet the
receiver-general. We need not say that a
smile of condescension was stamped upon
his lips. "Good-morning, creditor," said
he; "for I wager anything it is the
creditor who visits me."

"You are right, baron," answered M. de
Boville; "the charities present
themselves to you through me: the widows
and orphans depute me to receive alms to
the amount of five millions from you."

"And yet they say orphans are to be
pitied," said Danglars, wishing to
prolong the jest. "Poor things!"

"Here I am in their name," said M. de
Boville; "but did you receive my letter
yesterday?"

"Yes."

"I have brought my receipt."

"My dear M. de Boville, your widows and
orphans must oblige me by waiting
twenty-four hours, since M. de Monte
Cristo whom you just saw leaving here --
you did see him, I think?"

"Yes; well?"

"Well, M. de Monte Cristo has just
carried off their five millions."

"How so?"

"The count has an unlimited credit upon
me; a credit opened by Thomson & French,
of Rome; he came to demand five millions
at once, which I paid him with checks on
the bank. My funds are deposited there,
and you can understand that if I draw
out ten millions on the same day it will
appear rather strange to the governor.
Two days will be a different thing,"
said Danglars, smiling.

"Come," said Boville, with a tone of
entire incredulity, "five millions to
that gentleman who just left, and who
bowed to me as though he knew me?"

"Perhaps he knows you, though you do not
know him; M. de Monte Cristo knows
everybody."

"Five millions!"

"Here is his receipt. Believe your own
eyes." M. de Boville took the paper
Danglars presented him, and read: --

"Received of Baron Danglars the sum of
five million one hundred thousand
francs, to be repaid on demand by the
house of Thomson & French of Rome."

"It is really true," said M. de Boville.

"Do you know the house of Thomson &
French?"

"Yes, I once had business to transact
with it to the amount of 200,000 francs;
but since then I have not heard it
mentioned."

"It is one of the best houses in
Europe," said Danglars, carelessly
throwing down the receipt on his desk.

"And he had five millions in your hands
alone! Why, this Count of Monte Cristo
must be a nabob?"

"Indeed I do not know what he is; he has
three unlimited credits -- one on me,
one on Rothschild, one on Lafitte; and,
you see," he added carelessly, "he has
given me the preference, by leaving a
balance of 100,000 francs." M. de
Boville manifested signs of
extraordinary admiration. "I must visit
him," he said, "and obtain some pious
grant from him."

"Oh, you may make sure of him; his
charities alone amount to 20,000 francs
a month."

"It is magnificent! I will set before
him the example of Madame de Morcerf and
her son."

"What example?"

"They gave all their fortune to the
hospitals."

"What fortune?"

"Their own -- M. de Morcerf's, who is
deceased."

"For what reason?"

"Because they would not spend money so
guiltily acquired."

"And what are they to live upon?"

"The mother retires into the country,
and the son enters the army."

"Well, I must confess, these are
scruples."

"I registered their deed of gift
yesterday."

"And how much did they possess?"

"Oh, not much -- from twelve to thirteen
hundred thousand francs. But to return
to our millions."

"Certainly," said Danglars, in the most
natural tone in the world. "Are you then
pressed for this money?"

"Yes; for the examination of our cash
takes place to-morrow."

"To-morrow? Why did you not tell me so
before? Why, it is as good as a century!
At what hour does the examination take
place?"

"At two o'clock."

"Send at twelve," said Danglars,
smiling. M. de Boville said nothing, but
nodded his head, and took up the
portfolio. "Now I think of it, you can
do better," said Danglars.

"How do you mean?"

"The receipt of M. de Monte Cristo is as
good as money; take it to Rothschild's
or Lafitte's, and they will take it off
your hands at once."

"What, though payable at Rome?"

"Certainly; it will only cost you a
discount of 5,000 or 6,000 francs." The
receiver started back. "Ma foi," he
said, "I prefer waiting till to-morrow.
What a proposition!"

"I thought, perhaps," said Danglars with
supreme impertinence, "that you had a
deficiency to make up?"

"Indeed," said the receiver.

"And if that were the case it would be
worth while to make some sacrifice."

"Thank you, no, sir "

"Then it will be to-morrow."

"Yes; but without fail."

"Ah, you are laughing at me; send
to-morrow at twelve, and the bank shall
be notified."

"I will come myself."

"Better still, since it will afford me
the pleasure of seeing you." They shook
hands. "By the way," said M. de Boville,
"are you not going to the funeral of
poor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I
met on my road here?"

"No," said the banker; "I have appeared
rather ridiculous since that affair of
Benedetto, so I remain in the
background."

"Bah, you are wrong. How were you to
blame in that affair?"

"Listen -- when one bears an
irreproachable name, as I do, one is
rather sensitive."

"Everybody pities you, sir; and, above
all, Mademoiselle Danglars!"

"Poor Eugenie!" said Danglars; "do you
know she is going to embrace a religious
life?"

"No."

"Alas, it is unhappily but too true. The
day after the event, she decided on
leaving Paris with a nun of her
acquaintance; they are gone to seek a
very strict convent in Italy or Spain."

"Oh, it is terrible!" and M. de Boville
retired with this exclamation, after
expressing acute sympathy with the
father. But he had scarcely left before
Danglars, with an energy of action those
can alone understand who have seen
Robert Macaire represented by Frederic,*
exclaimed, -- "Fool!" Then enclosing
Monte Cristo's receipt in a little
pocket-book, he added: -- "Yes, come at
twelve o'clock; I shall then be far
away." Then he double-locked his door,
emptied all his drawers, collected about
fifty thousand francs in bank-notes,
burned several papers, left others
exposed to view, and then commenced
writing a letter which he addressed:

"To Madame la Baronne Danglars."

* Frederic Lemaitre -- French actor
(1800-1876). Robert Macaire is the hero
of two favorite melodramas -- "Chien de
Montargis" and "Chien d'Aubry" -- and
the name is applied to bold criminals as
a term of derision.

"I will place it on her table myself
to-night," he murmured. Then taking a
passport from his drawer he said, --
"Good, it is available for two months
longer."



Chapter 105 The Cemetery of
Pere-la-Chaise.

M. de Boville had indeed met the funeral
procession which was taking Valentine to
her last home on earth. The weather was
dull and stormy, a cold wind shook the
few remaining yellow leaves from the
boughs of the trees, and scattered them
among the crowd which filled the
boulevards. M. de Villefort, a true
Parisian, considered the cemetery of
Pere-la-Chaise alone worthy of receiving
the mortal remains of a Parisian family;
there alone the corpses belonging to him
would be surrounded by worthy
associates. He had therefore purchased a
vault, which was quickly occupied by
members of his family. On the front of
the monument was inscribed: "The
families of Saint-Meran and Villefort,"
for such had been the last wish
expressed by poor Renee, Valentine's
mother. The pompous procession therefore
wended its way towards Pere-la-Chaise
from the Faubourg Saint-Honore. Having
crossed Paris, it passed through the
Faubourg du Temple, then leaving the
exterior boulevards, it reached the
cemetery. More than fifty private
carriages followed the twenty
mourning-coaches, and behind them more
than five hundred persons joined in the
procession on foot.

These last consisted of all the young
people whom Valentine's death had struck
like a thunderbolt, and who,
notwithstanding the raw chilliness of
the season, could not refrain from
paying a last tribute to the memory of
the beautiful, chaste, and adorable
girl, thus cut off in the flower of her
youth. As they left Paris, an equipage
with four horses, at full speed, was
seen to draw up suddenly; it contained
Monte Cristo. The count left the
carriage and mingled in the crowd who
followed on foot. Chateau-Renaud
perceived him and immediately alighting
from his coupe, joined him.

The count looked attentively through
every opening in the crowd; he was
evidently watching for some one, but his
search ended in disappointment. "Where
is Morrel?" he asked; "do either of
these gentlemen know where he is?"

"We have already asked that question,"
said Chateau-Renaud, "for none of us has
seen him." The count was silent, but
continued to gaze around him. At length
they arrived at the cemetery. The
piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced
through clusters of bushes and trees,
and was soon relieved from all anxiety,
for seeing a shadow glide between the
yew-trees, Monte Cristo recognized him
whom he sought. One funeral is generally
very much like another in this
magnificent metropolis. Black figures
are seen scattered over the long white
avenues; the silence of earth and heaven
is alone broken by the noise made by the
crackling branches of hedges planted
around the monuments; then follows the
melancholy chant of the priests, mingled
now and then with a sob of anguish,
escaping from some woman concealed
behind a mass of flowers.

The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed
passed rapidly behind the tomb of
Abelard and Heloise, placed itself close
to the heads of the horses belonging to
the hearse, and following the
undertaker's men, arrived with them at
the spot appointed for the burial. Each
person's attention was occupied. Monte
Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which
no one else observed. Twice the count
left the ranks to see whether the object
of his interest had any concealed weapon
beneath his clothes. When the procession
stopped, this shadow was recognized as
Morrel, who, with his coat buttoned up
to his throat, his face livid, and
convulsively crushing his hat between
his fingers, leaned against a tree,
situated on an elevation commanding the
mausoleum, so that none of the funeral
details could escape his observation.
Everything was conducted in the usual
manner. A few men, the least impressed
of all by the scene, pronounced a
discourse, some deploring this premature
death, others expatiating on the grief
of the father, and one very ingenious
person quoting the fact that Valentine
had solicited pardon of her father for
criminals on whom the arm of justice was
ready to fall -- until at length they
exhausted their stores of metaphor and
mournful speeches.

Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or
rather he only saw Morrel, whose
calmness had a frightful effect on those
who knew what was passing in his heart.
"See," said Beauchamp, pointing out
Morrel to Debray. "What is he doing up
there?" And they called Chateau-Renaud's
attention to him.

"How pale he is!" said Chateau-Renaud,
shuddering.

"He is cold," said Debray.

"Not at all," said Chateau-Renaud,
slowly; "I think he is violently
agitated. He is very susceptible."

"Bah," said Debray; "he scarcely knew
Mademoiselle de Villefort; you said so
yourself."

"True. Still I remember he danced three
times with her at Madame de Morcerf's.
Do you recollect that ball, count, where
you produced such an effect?"

"No, I do not," replied Monte Cristo,
without even knowing of what or to whom
he was speaking, so much was he occupied
in watching Morrel, who was holding his
breath with emotion. "The discourse is
over; farewell, gentlemen," said the
count. And he disappeared without anyone
seeing whither he went. The funeral
being over, the guests returned to
Paris. Chateau-Renaud looked for a
moment for Morrel; but while they were
watching the departure of the count,
Morrel had quitted his post, and
Chateau-Renaud, failing in his search,
joined Debray and Beauchamp.

Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a
large tomb and awaited the arrival of
Morrel, who by degrees approached the
tomb now abandoned by spectators and
workmen. Morrel threw a glance around,
but before it reached the spot occupied
by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced
yet nearer, still unperceived. The young
man knelt down. The count, with
outstretched neck and glaring eyes,
stood in an attitude ready to pounce
upon Morrel upon the first occasion.
Morrel bent his head till it touched the
stone, then clutching the grating with
both hands, he murmured, -- "Oh,
Valentine!" The count's heart was
pierced by the utterance of these two
words; he stepped forward, and touching
the young man's shoulder, said, -- "I
was looking for you, my friend." Monte
Cristo expected a burst of passion, but
he was deceived, for Morrel turning
round, said calmly, --

"You see I was praying." The
scrutinizing glance of the count
searched the young man from head to
foot. He then seemed more easy.

"Shall I drive you back to Paris?" he
asked.

"No, thank you."

"Do you wish anything?"

"Leave me to pray." The count withdrew
without opposition, but it was only to
place himself in a situation where he
could watch every movement of Morrel,
who at length arose, brushed the dust
from his knees, and turned towards
Paris, without once looking back. He
walked slowly down the Rue de la
Roquette. The count, dismissing his
carriage, followed him about a hundred
paces behind. Maximilian crossed the
canal and entered the Rue Meslay by the
boulevards. Five minutes after the door
had been closed on Morrel's entrance, it
was again opened for the count. Julie
was at the entrance of the garden, where
she was attentively watching Penelon,
who, entering with zeal into his
profession of gardener, was very busy
grafting some Bengal roses. "Ah, count,"
she exclaimed, with the delight
manifested by every member of the family
whenever he visited the Rue Meslay.

"Maximilian has just returned, has he
not, madame?" asked the count.

"Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray,
call Emmanuel."

"Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to
Maximilian's room this instant," replied
Monte Cristo, "I have something of the
greatest importance to tell him."

"Go, then," she said with a charming
smile, which accompanied him until he
had disappeared. Monte Cristo soon ran
up the staircase conducting from the
ground-floor to Maximilian's room; when
he reached the landing he listened
attentively, but all was still. Like
many old houses occupied by a single
family, the room door was panelled with
glass; but it was locked, Maximilian was
shut in, and it was impossible to see
what was passing in the room, because a
red curtain was drawn before the glass.
The count's anxiety was manifested by a
bright color which seldom appeared on
the face of that imperturbable man.

"What shall I do!" he uttered, and
reflected for a moment; "shall I ring?
No, the sound of a bell, announcing a
visitor, will but accelerate the
resolution of one in Maximilian's
situation, and then the bell would be
followed by a louder noise." Monte
Cristo trembled from head to foot and as
if his determination had been taken with
the rapidity of lightning, he struck one
of the panes of glass with his elbow;
the glass was shivered to atoms, then
withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel,
who had been writing at his desk, bound
from his seat at the noise of the broken
window.

"I beg a thousand pardons," said the
count, "there is nothing the matter, but
I slipped down and broke one of your
panes of glass with my elbow. Since it
is opened, I will take advantage of it
to enter your room; do not disturb
yourself -- do not disturb yourself!"
And passing his hand through the broken
glass, the count opened the door.
Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to
meet Monte Cristo less with the
intention of receiving him than to
exclude his entry. "Ma foi," said Monte
Cristo, rubbing his elbow, "it's all
your servant's fault; your stairs are so
polished, it is like walking on glass."

"Are you hurt, sir?" coldly asked
Morrel.

"I believe not. But what are you about
there? You were writing."

"I?"

"Your fingers are stained with ink."

"Ah, true, I was writing. I do
sometimes, soldier though I am."

Monte Cristo advanced into the room;
Maximilian was obliged to let him pass,
but he followed him. "You were writing?"
said Monte Cristo with a searching look.

"I have already had the honor of telling
you I was," said Morrel.

The count looked around him. "Your
pistols are beside your desk," said
Monte Cristo, pointing with his finger
to the pistols on the table.

"I am on the point of starting on a
journey," replied Morrel disdainfully.

"My friend," exclaimed Monte Cristo in a
tone of exquisite sweetness.

"Sir?"

"My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not
make a hasty resolution, I entreat you."

"I make a hasty resolution?" said
Morrel, shrugging his shoulders; "is
there anything extraordinary in a
journey?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "let us
both lay aside the mask we have assumed.
You no more deceive me with that false
calmness than I impose upon you with my
frivolous solicitude. You can
understand, can you not, that to have
acted as I have done, to have broken
that glass, to have intruded on the
solitude of a friend -- you can
understand that, to have done all this,
I must have been actuated by real
uneasiness, or rather by a terrible
conviction. Morrel, you are going to
destroy yourself!"

"Indeed, count," said Morrel,
shuddering; "what has put this into your
head?"

"I tell you that you are about to
destroy yourself," continued the count,
"and here is proof of what I say;" and,
approaching the desk, he removed the
sheet of paper which Morrel had placed
over the letter he had begun, and took
the latter in his hands.

Morrel rushed forward to tear it from
him, but Monte Cristo perceiving his
intention, seized his wrist with his
iron grasp. "You wish to destroy
yourself," said the count; "you have
written it."

"Well," said Morrel, changing his
expression of calmness for one of
violence -- "well, and if I do intend to
turn this pistol against myself, who
shall prevent me -- who will dare
prevent me? All my hopes are blighted,
my heart is broken, my life a burden,
everything around me is sad and
mournful; earth has become distasteful
to me, and human voices distract me. It
is a mercy to let me die, for if I live
I shall lose my reason and become mad.
When, sir, I tell you all this with
tears of heartfelt anguish, can you
reply that I am wrong, can you prevent
my putting an end to my miserable
existence? Tell me, sir, could you have
the courage to do so?"

"Yes, Morrel," said Monte Cristo, with a
calmness which contrasted strangely with
the young man's excitement; "yes, I
would do so."

"You?" exclaimed Morrel, with increasing
anger and reproach -- "you, who have
deceived me with false hopes, who have
cheered and soothed me with vain
promises, when I might, if not have
saved her, at least have seen her die in
my arms! You, who pretend to understand
everything, even the hidden sources of
knowledge, -- and who enact the part of
a guardian angel upon earth, and could
not even find an antidote to a poison
administered to a young girl! Ah, sir,
indeed you would inspire me with pity,
were you not hateful in my eyes."

"Morrel" --

"Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask,
and I will do so, be satisfied! When you
spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered
you -- my heart was softened; when you
arrived here, I allowed you to enter.
But since you abuse my confidence, since
you have devised a new torture after I
thought I had exhausted them all, then,
Count of Monte Cristo my pretended
benefactor -- then, Count of Monte
Cristo, the universal guardian, be
satisfied, you shall witness the death
of your friend;" and Morrel, with a
maniacal laugh, again rushed towards the
pistols.

"And I again repeat, you shall not
commit suicide."

"Prevent me, then!" replied Morrel, with
another struggle, which, like the first,
failed in releasing him from the count's
iron grasp.

"I will prevent you."

"And who are you, then, that arrogate to
yourself this tyrannical right over free
and rational beings?"

"Who am I?" repeated Monte Cristo.
"Listen; I am the only man in the world
having the right to say to you, `Morrel,
your father's son shall not die
to-day;'" and Monte Cristo, with an
expression of majesty and sublimity,
advanced with arms folded toward the
young man, who, involuntarily overcome
by the commanding manner of this man,
recoiled a step.

"Why do you mention my father?"
stammered he; "why do you mingle a
recollection of him with the affairs of
today?"

"Because I am he who saved your father's
life when he wished to destroy himself,
as you do to-day -- because I am the man
who sent the purse to your young sister,
and the Pharaon to old Morrel -- because
I am the Edmond Dantes who nursed you, a
child, on my knees." Morrel made another
step back, staggering, breathless,
crushed; then all his strength give way,
and he fell prostrate at the feet of
Monte Cristo. Then his admirable nature
underwent a complete and sudden
revulsion; he arose, rushed out of the
room and to the stairs, exclaiming
energetically, "Julie, Julie --
Emmanuel, Emmanuel!"

Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave,
but Maximilian would have died rather
than relax his hold of the handle of the
door, which he closed upon the count.
Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the
servants, ran up in alarm on hearing the
cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized their
hands, and opening the door exclaimed in
a voice choked with sobs, "On your
knees -- on your knees -- he is our
benefactor -- the saviour of our father!
He is" --

He would have added "Edmond Dantes," but
the count seized his arm and prevented
him. Julie threw herself into the arms
of the count; Emmanuel embraced him as a
guardian angel; Morrel again fell on his
knees, and struck the ground with his
forehead. Then the iron-hearted man felt
his heart swell in his breast; a flame
seemed to rush from his throat to his
eyes, he bent his head and wept. For a
while nothing was heard in the room but
a succession of sobs, while the incense
from their grateful hearts mounted to
heaven. Julie had scarcely recovered
from her deep emotion when she rushed
out of the room, descended to the next
floor, ran into the drawing-room with
childlike joy and raised the crystal
globe which covered the purse given by
the unknown of the Allees de Meillan.
Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice
said to the count, "Oh, count, how could
you, hearing us so often speak of our
unknown benefactor, seeing us pay such
homage of gratitude and adoration to his
memory, -- how could you continue so
long without discovering yourself to us?
Oh, it was cruel to us, and -- dare I
say it? -- to you also."

"Listen, my friends," said the count --
"I may call you so since we have really
been friends for the last eleven
years -- the discovery of this secret
has been occasioned by a great event
which you must never know. I wish to
bury it during my whole life in my own
bosom, but your brother Maximilian
wrested it from me by a violence he
repents of now, I am sure." Then turning
around, and seeing that Morrel, still on
his knees, had thrown himself into an
arm-chair, be added in a low voice,
pressing Emmanuel's hand significantly,
"Watch over him."

"Why so?" asked the young man,
surprised.

"I cannot explain myself; but watch over
him." Emmanuel looked around the room
and caught sight of the pistols; his
eyes rested on the weapons, and he
pointed to them. Monte Cristo bent his
head. Emmanuel went towards the pistols.
"Leave them," said Monte Cristo. Then
walking towards Morrel, he took his
hand; the tumultuous agitation of the
young man was succeeded by a profound
stupor. Julie returned, holding the
silken purse in her hands, while tears
of joy rolled down her cheeks, like
dewdrops on the rose.

"Here is the relic," she said; "do not
think it will be less dear to us now we
are acquainted with our benefactor!"

"My child," said Monte Cristo, coloring,
"allow me to take back that purse? Since
you now know my face, I wish to be
remembered alone through the affection I
hope you will grant me.

"Oh," said Julie, pressing the purse to
her heart, "no, no, I beseech you do not
take it, for some unhappy day you will
leave us, will you not?"

"You have guessed rightly, madame,"
replied Monte Cristo, smiling; "in a
week I shall have left this country,
where so many persons who merit the
vengeance of heaven lived happily, while
my father perished of hunger and grief."
While announcing his departure, the
count fixed his eyes on Morrel, and
remarked that the words, "I shall have
left this country," had failed to rouse
him from his lethargy. He then saw that
he must make another struggle against
the grief of his friend, and taking the
hands of Emmanuel and Julie, which he
pressed within his own, he said with the
mild authority of a father, "My kind
friends, leave me alone with
Maximilian." Julie saw the means offered
of carrying off her precious relic,
which Monte Cristo had forgotten. She
drew her husband to the door. "Let us
leave them," she said. The count was
alone with Morrel, who remained
motionless as a statue.

"Come," said Monte-Cristo, touching his
shoulder with his finger, "are you a man
again, Maximilian?"

"Yes; for I begin to suffer again."

The count frowned, apparently in gloomy
hesitation.

"Maximilian, Maximilian," he said, "the
ideas you yield to are unworthy of a
Christian."

"Oh, do not fear, my friend," said
Morrel, raising his head, and smiling
with a sweet expression on the count; "I
shall no longer attempt my life."

"Then we are to have no more pistols --
no more despair?"

"No; I have found a better remedy for my
grief than either a bullet or a knife."

"Poor fellow, what is it?"

"My grief will kill me of itself."

"My friend," said Monte Cristo, with an
expression of melancholy equal to his
own, "listen to me. One day, in a moment
of despair like yours, since it led to a
similar resolution, I also wished to
kill myself; one day your father,
equally desperate, wished to kill
himself too. If any one had said to your
father, at the moment he raised the
pistol to his head -- if any one had
told me, when in my prison I pushed back
the food I had not tasted for three
days -- if anyone had said to either of
us then, `Live -- the day will come when
you will be happy, and will bless
life!' -- no matter whose voice had
spoken, we should have heard him with
the smile of doubt, or the anguish of
incredulity, -- and yet how many times
has your father blessed life while
embracing you -- how often have I
myself" --

"Ah," exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the
count, "you had only lost your liberty,
my father had only lost his fortune, but
I have lost Valentine."

"Look at me," said Monte Cristo, with
that expression which sometimes made him
so eloquent and persuasive -- "look at
me. There are no tears in my eyes, nor
is there fever in my veins, yet I see
you suffer -- you, Maximilian, whom I
love as my own son. Well, does not this
tell you that in grief, as in life,
there is always something to look
forward to beyond? Now, if I entreat, if
I order you to live, Morrel, it is in
the conviction that one day you will
thank me for having preserved your
life."

"Oh, heavens," said the young man, "oh,
heavens -- what are you saying, count?
Take care. But perhaps you have never
loved!"

"Child!" replied the count.

"I mean, as I love. You see, I have been
a soldier ever since I attained manhood.
I reached the age of twenty-nine without
loving, for none of the feelings I
before then experienced merit the
apellation of love. Well, at twenty-nine
I saw Valentine; for two years I have
loved her, for two years I have seen
written in her heart, as in a book, all
the virtues of a daughter and wife.
Count, to possess Valentine would have
been a happiness too infinite, too
ecstatic, too complete, too divine for
this world, since it has been denied me;
but without Valentine the earth is
desolate."

"I have told you to hope," said the
count.

"Then have a care, I repeat, for you
seek to persuade me, and if you succeed
I should lose my reason, for I should
hope that I could again behold
Valentine." The count smiled. "My
friend, my father," said Morrel with
excitement, "have a care, I again
repeat, for the power you wield over me
alarms me. Weigh your words before you
speak, for my eyes have already become
brighter, and my heart beats strongly;
be cautious, or you will make me believe
in supernatural agencies. I must obey
you, though you bade me call forth the
dead or walk upon the water."

"Hope, my friend," repeated the count.

"Ah," said Morrel, falling from the
height of excitement to the abyss of
despair -- "ah, you are playing with me,
like those good, or rather selfish
mothers who soothe their children with
honeyed words, because their screams
annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong
to caution you; do not fear, I will bury
my grief so deep in my heart, I will
disguise it so, that you shall not even
care to sympathize with me. Adieu, my
friend, adieu!"

"On the contrary," said the count,
"after this time you must live with
me -- you must not leave me, and in a
week we shall have left France behind
us."

"And you still bid me hope?"

"I tell you to hope, because I have a
method of curing you."

"Count, you render me sadder than
before, if it be possible. You think the
result of this blow has been to produce
an ordinary grief, and you would cure it
by an ordinary remedy -- change of
scene." And Morrel dropped his head with
disdainful incredulity. "What can I say
more?" asked Monte Cristo. "I have
confidence in the remedy I propose, and
only ask you to permit me to assure you
of its efficacy."

"Count, you prolong my agony."

"Then," said the count, "your feeble
spirit will not even grant me the trial
I request? Come -- do you know of what
the Count of Monte Cristo is capable? do
you know that he holds terrestrial
beings under his control? nay, that he
can almost work a miracle? Well, wait
for the miracle I hope to accomplish,
or" --

"Or?" repeated Morrel.

"Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you
ungrateful."

"Have pity on me, count!"

"I feel so much pity towards you,
Maximilian, that -- listen to me
attentively -- if I do not cure you in a
month, to the day, to the very hour,
mark my words, Morrel, I will place
loaded pistols before you, and a cup of
the deadliest Italian poison -- a poison
more sure and prompt than that which has
killed Valentine."

"Will you promise me?"

"Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered
like yourself, and also contemplated
suicide; indeed, often since misfortune
has left me I have longed for the
delights of an eternal sleep."

"But you are sure you will promise me
this?" said Morrel, intoxicated. "I not
only promise, but swear it!" said Monte
Cristo extending his hand.

"In a month, then, on your honor, if I
am not consoled, you will let me take my
life into my own hands, and whatever may
happen you will not call me ungrateful?"

"In a month, to the day, the very hour
and the date are sacred, Maximilian. I
do not know whether you remember that
this is the 5th of September; it is ten
years to-day since I saved your father's
life, who wished to die." Morrel seized
the count's hand and kissed it; the
count allowed him to pay the homage he
felt due to him. "In a month you will
find on the table, at which we shall be
then sitting, good pistols and a
delicious draught; but, on the other
hand, you must promise me not to attempt
your life before that time."

"Oh, I also swear it!" Monte Cristo drew
the young man towards him, and pressed
him for some time to his heart. "And
now," he said, "after to-day, you will
come and live with me; you can occupy
Haidee's apartment, and my daughter will
at least be replaced by my son."

"Haidee?" said Morrel, "what has become
of her?"

"She departed last night."

"To leave you?"

"To wait for me. Hold yourself ready
then to join me at the Champs Elysees,
and lead me out of this house without
any one seeing my departure." Maximilian
hung his head, and obeyed with childlike
reverence.



Chapter 106 Dividing the Proceeds.

The apartment on the second floor of the
house in the Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres,
where Albert de Morcerf had selected a
home for his mother, was let to a very
mysterious person. This was a man whose
face the concierge himself had never
seen, for in the winter his chin was
buried in one of the large red
handkerchiefs worn by gentlemen's
coachmen on a cold night, and in the
summer he made a point of always blowing
his nose just as he approached the door.
Contrary to custom, this gentleman had
not been watched, for as the report ran
that he was a person of high rank, and
one who would allow no impertinent
interference, his incognito was strictly
respected.

His visits were tolerably regular,
though occasionally he appeared a little
before or after his time, but generally,
both in summer and winter, he took
possession of his apartment about four
o'clock, though he never spent the night
there. At half-past three in the winter
the fire was lighted by the discreet
servant, who had the superintendence of
the little apartment, and in the summer
ices were placed on the table at the
same hour. At four o'clock, as we have
already stated, the mysterious personage
arrived. Twenty minutes afterwards a
carriage stopped at the house, a lady
alighted in a black or dark blue dress,
and always thickly veiled; she passed
like a shadow through the lodge, and ran
up-stairs without a sound escaping under
the touch of her light foot. No one ever
asked her where she was going. Her face,
therefore, like that of the gentleman,
was perfectly unknown to the two
concierges, who were perhaps unequalled
throughout the capital for discretion.
We need not say she stopped at the
second floor. Then she tapped in a
peculiar manner at a door, which after
being opened to admit her was again
fastened, and curiosity penetrated no
farther. They used the same precautions
in leaving as in entering the house. The
lady always left first, and as soon as
she had stepped into her carriage, it
drove away, sometimes towards the right
hand, sometimes to the left; then about
twenty minutes afterwards the gentleman
would also leave, buried in his cravat
or concealed by his handkerchief.

The day after Monte Cristo had called
upon Danglars, the mysterious lodger
entered at ten o'clock in the morning
instead of four in the afternoon. Almost
directly afterwards, without the usual
interval of time, a cab arrived, and the
veiled lady ran hastily up-stairs. The
door opened, but before it could be
closed, the lady exclaimed: "Oh,
Lucien -- oh, my friend!" The concierge
therefore heard for the first time that
the lodger's name was Lucien; still, as
he was the very perfection of a
door-keeper, he made up his mind not to
tell his wife. "Well, what is the
matter, my dear?" asked the gentleman
whose name the lady's agitation
revealed; "tell me what is the matter."

"Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you?"

"Of course, you know you can do so. But
what can be the matter? Your note of
this morning has completely bewildered
me. This precipitation -- this unusual
appointment. Come, ease me of my
anxiety, or else frighten me at once."

"Lucien, a great event has happened!"
said the lady, glancing inquiringly at
Lucien, -- "M. Danglars left last
night!"

"Left? -- M. Danglars left? Where has he
gone?"

"I do not know."

"What do you mean? Has he gone intending
not to return?"

"Undoubtedly; -- at ten o'clock at night
his horses took him to the barrier of
Charenton; there a post-chaise was
waiting for him -- he entered it with
his valet de chambre, saying that he was
going to Fontainebleau."

"Then what did you mean" --

"Stay -- he left a letter for me."

"A letter?"

"Yes; read it." And the baroness took
from her pocket a letter which she gave
to Debray. Debray paused a moment before
reading, as if trying to guess its
contents, or perhaps while making up his
mind how to act, whatever it might
contain. No doubt his ideas were
arranged in a few minutes, for he began
reading the letter which caused so much
uneasiness in the heart of the baroness,
and which ran as follows: --

"Madame and most faithful wife."

Debray mechanically stopped and looked
at the baroness, whose face became
covered with blushes. "Read," she said.

Debray continued: --

"When you receive this, you will no
longer have a husband. Oh, you need not
be alarmed, you will only have lost him
as you have lost your daughter; I mean
that I shall be travelling on one of the
thirty or forty roads leading out of
France. I owe you some explanations for
my conduct, and as you are a woman that
can perfectly understand me, I will give
them. Listen, then. I received this
morning five millions which I paid away;
almost directly afterwards another
demand for the same sum was presented to
me; I put this creditor off till
to-morrow and I intend leaving to-day,
to escape that to-morrow, which would be
rather too unpleasant for me to endure.
You understand this, do you not, my most
precious wife? I say you understand
this, because you are as conversant with
my affairs as I am; indeed, I think you
understand them better, since I am
ignorant of what has become of a
considerable portion of my fortune, once
very tolerable, while I am sure, madame,
that you know perfectly well. For women
have infallible instincts; they can even
explain the marvellous by an algebraic
calculation they have invented; but I,
who only understand my own figures, know
nothing more than that one day these
figures deceived me. Have you admired
the rapidity of my fall? Have you been
slightly dazzled at the sudden fusion of
my ingots? I confess I have seen nothing
but the fire; let us hope you have found
some gold among the ashes. With this
consoling idea, I leave you, madame, and
most prudent wife, without any
conscientious reproach for abandoning
you; you have friends left, and the
ashes I have already mentioned, and
above all the liberty I hasten to
restore to you. And here, madame, I must
add another word of explanation. So long
as I hoped you were working for the good
of our house and for the fortune of our
daughter, I philosophically closed my
eyes; but as you have transformed that
house into a vast ruin I will not be the
foundation of another man's fortune. You
were rich when I married you, but little
respected. Excuse me for speaking so
very candidly, but as this is intended
only for ourselves, I do not see why I
should weigh my words. I have augmented
our fortune, and it has continued to
increase during the last fifteen years,
till extraordinary and unexpected
catastrophes have suddenly overturned
it, -- without any fault of mine, I can
honestly declare. You, madame, have only
sought to increase your own, and I am
convinced that you have succeeded. I
leave you, therefore, as I took you, --
rich, but little respected. Adieu! I
also intend from this time to work on my
own account. Accept my acknowledgments
for the example you have set me, and
which I intend following.

"Your very devoted husband,

"Baron Danglars."

The baroness had watched Debray while he
read this long and painful letter, and
saw him, notwithstanding his
self-control, change color once or
twice. When he had ended the perusal, he
folded the letter and resumed his
pensive attitude. "Well?" asked Madame
Danglars, with an anxiety easy to be
understood.

"Well, madame?" unhesitatingly repeated
Debray.

"With what ideas does that letter
inspire you?"

"Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it
inspires me with the idea that M.
Danglars has left suspiciously."

"Certainly; but is this all you have to
say to me?"

"I do not understand you," said Debray
with freezing coldness.

"He is gone! Gone, never to return!"

"Oh, madame, do not think that!"

"I tell you he will never return. I know
his character; he is inflexible in any
resolutions formed for his own
interests. If he could have made any use
of me, he would have taken me with him;
he leaves me in Paris, as our separation
will conduce to his benefit; --
therefore he has gone, and I am free
forever," added Madame Danglars, in the
same supplicating tone. Debray, instead
of answering, allowed her to remain in
an attitude of nervous inquiry. "Well?"
she said at length, "do you not answer
me?"

"I have but one question to ask you, --
what do you intend to do?"

"I was going to ask you," replied the
baroness with a beating heart.

"Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of
me?"

"Yes; I do wish to ask your advice,"
said Madame Danglars with anxious
expectation.

"Then if you wish to take my advice,"
said the young man coldly, "I would
recommend you to travel."

"To travel!" she murmured.

"Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are
rich, and perfectly free. In my opinion,
a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely
necessary after the double catastrophe
of Mademoiselle Danglars' broken
contract and M. Danglars' disappearance.
The world will think you abandoned and
poor, for the wife of a bankrupt would
never be forgiven, were she to keep up
an appearance of opulence. You have only
to remain in Paris for about a
fortnight, telling the world you are
abandoned, and relating the details of
this desertion to your best friends, who
will soon spread the report. Then you
can quit your house, leaving your jewels
and giving up your jointure, and every
one's mouth will be filled with praises
of your disinterestedness. They will
know you are deserted, and think you
also poor, for I alone know your real
financial position, and am quite ready
to give up my accounts as an honest
partner." The dread with which the pale
and motionless baroness listened to
this, was equalled by the calm
indifference with which Debray had
spoken. "Deserted?" she repeated; "ah,
yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are
right, sir, and no one can doubt my
position." These were the only words
that this proud and violently enamoured
woman could utter in response to Debray.

"But then you are rich, -- very rich,
indeed," continued Debray, taking out
some papers from his pocket-book, which
he spread upon the table. Madame
Danglars did not see them; she was
engaged in stilling the beatings of her
heart, and restraining the tears which
were ready to gush forth. At length a
sense of dignity prevailed, and if she
did not entirely master her agitation,
she at least succeeded in preventing the
fall of a single tear. "Madame," said
Debray, "it is nearly six months since
we have been associated. You furnished a
principal of 100,000 francs. Our
partnership began in the month of April.
In May we commenced operations, and in
the course of the month gained 450,000
francs. In June the profit amounted to
900,000. In July we added 1,700,000
francs, -- it was, you know, the month
of the Spanish bonds. In August we lost
300,000 francs at the beginning of the
month, but on the 13th we made up for
it, and we now find that our accounts,
reckoning from the first day of
partnership up to yesterday, when I
closed them, showed a capital of
2,400,000 francs, that is, 1,200,000 for
each of us. Now, madame," said Debray,
delivering up his accounts in the
methodical manner of a stockbroker,
"there are still 80,000 francs, the
interest of this money, in my hands."

"But," said the baroness, "I thought you
never put the money out to interest."

"Excuse me, madame," said Debray coldly,
"I had your permission to do so, and I
have made use of it. There are, then,
40,000 francs for your share, besides
the 100,000 you furnished me to begin
with, making in all 1,340,000 francs for
your portion. Now, madame, I took the
precaution of drawing out your money the
day before yesterday; it is not long
ago, you see, and I was in continual
expectation of being called on to
deliver up my accounts. There is your
money, -- half in bank-notes, the other
half in checks payable to bearer. I say
there, for as I did not consider my
house safe enough, or lawyers
sufficiently discreet, and as landed
property carries evidence with it, and
moreover since you have no right to
possess anything independent of your
husband, I have kept this sum, now your
whole fortune, in a chest concealed
under that closet, and for greater
security I myself concealed it there.

"Now, madame," continued Debray, first
opening the closet, then the chest; --
"now, madame, here are 800 notes of
1,000 francs each, resembling, as you
see, a large book bound in iron; to this
I add a certificate in the funds of
25,000 francs; then, for the odd cash,
making I think about 110,000 francs,
here is a check upon my banker, who, not
being M. Danglars, will pay you the
amount, you may rest assured." Madame
Danglars mechanically took the check,
the bond, and the heap of bank-notes.
This enormous fortune made no great
appearance on the table. Madame
Danglars, with tearless eyes, but with
her breast heaving with concealed
emotion, placed the bank-notes in her
bag, put the certificate and check into
her pocket-book, and then, standing pale
and mute, awaited one kind word of
consolation. But she waited in vain.

"Now, madame," said Debray, "you have a
splendid fortune, an income of about
60,000 livres a year, which is enormous
for a woman who cannot keep an
establishment here for a year, at least.
You will be able to indulge all your
fancies; besides, should you find your
income insufficient, you can, for the
sake of the past, madame, make use of
mine; and I am ready to offer you all I
possess, on loan."

"Thank you, sir -- thank you," replied
the baroness; "you forget that what you
have just paid me is much more than a
poor woman requires, who intends for
some time, at least, to retire from the
world."

Debray was, for a moment, surprised, but
immediately recovering himself, he bowed
with an air which seemed to say, "As you
please, madame."

Madame Danglars had until then, perhaps,
hoped for something; but when she saw
the careless bow of Debray, and the
glance by which it was accompanied,
together with his significant silence,
she raised her head, and without passion
or violence or even hesitation, ran
down-stairs, disdaining to address a
last farewell to one who could thus part
from her. "Bah," said Debray, when she
had left, "these are fine projects! She
will remain at home, read novels, and
speculate at cards, since she can no
longer do so on the Bourse." Then taking
up his account book, he cancelled with
the greatest care all the entries of the
amounts he had just paid away. "I have
1,060,000 francs remaining," he said.
"What a pity Mademoiselle de Villefort
is dead! She suited me in every respect,
and I would have married her." And he
calmly waited until the twenty minutes
had elapsed after Madame Danglars'
departure before he left the house.
During this time he occupied himself in
making figures, with his watch by his
side.

Asmodeus -- that diabolical personage,
who would have been created by every
fertile imagination if Le Sage had not
acquired the priority in his great
masterpiece -- would have enjoyed a
singular spectacle, if he had lifted up
the roof of the little house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Pres, while Debray was
casting up his figures. Above the room
in which Debray had been dividing two
millions and a half with Madame Danglars
was another, inhabited by persons who
have played too prominent a part in the
incidents we have related for their
appearance not to create some interest.
Mercedes and Albert were in that room.
Mercedes was much changed within the
last few days; not that even in her days
of fortune she had ever dressed with the
magnificent display which makes us no
longer able to recognize a woman when
she appears in a plain and simple
attire; nor indeed, had she fallen into
that state of depression where it is
impossible to conceal the garb of
misery; no, the change in Mercedes was
that her eye no longer sparkled, her
lips no longer smiled, and there was now
a hesitation in uttering the words which
formerly sprang so fluently from her
ready wit.

It was not poverty which had broken her
spirit; it was not a want of courage
which rendered her poverty burdensome.
Mercedes, although deposed from the
exalted position she had occupied, lost
in the sphere she had now chosen, like a
person passing from a room splendidly
lighted into utter darkness, appeared
like a queen, fallen from her palace to
a hovel, and who, reduced to strict
necessity, could neither become
reconciled to the earthen vessels she
was herself forced to place upon the
table, nor to the humble pallet which
had become her bed. The beautiful
Catalane and noble countess had lost
both her proud glance and charming
smile, because she saw nothing but
misery around her; the walls were hung
with one of the gray papers which
economical landlords choose as not
likely to show the dirt; the floor was
uncarpeted; the furniture attracted the
attention to the poor attempt at luxury;
indeed, everything offended eyes
accustomed to refinement and elegance.

Madame de Morcerf had lived there since
leaving her house; the continual silence
of the spot oppressed her; still, seeing
that Albert continually watched her
countenance to judge the state of her
feelings, she constrained herself to
assume a monotonous smile of the lips
alone, which, contrasted with the sweet
and beaming expression that usually
shone from her eyes, seemed like
"moonlight on a statue," -- yielding
light without warmth. Albert, too, was
ill at ease; the remains of luxury
prevented him from sinking into his
actual position. If he wished to go out
without gloves, his hands appeared too
white; if he wished to walk through the
town, his boots seemed too highly
polished. Yet these two noble and
intelligent creatures, united by the
indissoluble ties of maternal and filial
love, had succeeded in tacitly
understanding one another, and
economizing their stores, and Albert had
been able to tell his mother without
extorting a change of countenance, --
"Mother, we have no more money."

Mercedes had never known misery; she had
often, in her youth, spoken of poverty,
but between want and necessity, those
synonymous words, there is a wide
difference. Amongst the Catalans,
Mercedes wished for a thousand things,
but still she never really wanted any.
So long as the nets were good, they
caught fish; and so long as they sold
their fish, they were able to buy twine
for new nets. And then, shut out from
friendship, having but one affection,
which could not be mixed up with her
ordinary pursuits, she thought of
herself -- of no one but herself. Upon
the little she earned she lived as well
as she could; now there were two to be
supported, and nothing to live upon.

Winter approached. Mercedes had no fire
in that cold and naked room -- she, who
was accustomed to stoves which heated
the house from the hall to the boudoir;
she had not even one little flower --
she whose apartment had been a
conservatory of costly exotics. But she
had her son. Hitherto the excitement of
fulfilling a duty had sustained them.
Excitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes
renders us unconscious to the things of
earth. But the excitement had calmed
down, and they felt themselves obliged
to descend from dreams to reality; after
having exhausted the ideal, they found
they must talk of the actual.

"Mother," exclaimed Albert, just as
Madame Danglars was descending the
stairs, "let us reckon our riches, if
you please; I want capital to build my
plans upon."

"Capital -- nothing!" replied Mercedes
with a mournful smile.

"No, mother, -- capital 3,000 francs.
And I have an idea of our leading a
delightful life upon this 3,000 francs."

"Child!" sighed Mercedes.

"Alas, dear mother," said the young man,
"I have unhappily spent too much of your
money not to know the value of it. These
3,000 francs are enormous, and I intend
building upon this foundation a
miraculous certainty for the future."

"You say this, my dear boy; but do you
think we ought to accept these 3,000
francs?" said Mercedes, coloring.

"I think so," answered Albert in a firm
tone. "We will accept them the more
readily, since we have them not here;
you know they are buried in the garden
of the little house in the Allees de
Meillan, at Marseilles. With 200 francs
we can reach Marseilles."

"With 200 francs? -- are you sure,
Albert?"

"Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries
respecting the diligences and
steamboats, and my calculations are
made. You will take your place in the
coupe to Chalons. You see, mother, I
treat you handsomely for thirty-five
francs." Albert then took a pen, and
wrote: --

                                           Frs.
Coupe, thirty-five francs ............................ 35
From Chalons to Lyons you will go on by the steamboat
-- six francs ......................................... 6
From Lyons to Avignon (still by steamboat),
sixteen francs ....................................... 16
From Avignon to Marseilles, seven franc................ 7
Expenses on the road, about fifty francs ............. 50
Total................................................ 114 frs.

"Let us put down 120," added Albert,
smiling. "You see I am generous, am I
not, mother?"

"But you, my poor child?"

"I? do you not see that I reserve eighty
francs for myself? A young man does not
require luxuries; besides, I know what
travelling is."

"With a post-chaise and valet de
chambre?"

"Any way, mother."

"Well, be it so. But these 200 francs?"

"Here they are, and 200 more besides.
See, I have sold my watch for 100
francs, and the guard and seals for 300.
How fortunate that the ornaments were
worth more than the watch. Still the
same story of superfluities! Now I think
we are rich, since instead of the 114
francs we require for the journey we
find ourselves in possession of 250."

"But we owe something in this house?"

"Thirty francs; but I pay that out of my
150 francs, -- that is understood, --
and as I require only eighty francs for
my journey, you see I am overwhelmed
with luxury. But that is not all. What
do you say to this, mother?"

And Albert took out of a little
pocket-book with golden clasps, a
remnant of his old fancies, or perhaps a
tender souvenir from one of the
mysterious and veiled ladies who used to
knock at his little door, -- Albert took
out of this pocket-book a note of 1,000
francs.

"What is this?" asked Mercedes.

"A thousand francs."

"But whence have you obtained them?"

"Listen to me, mother, and do not yield
too much to agitation." And Albert,
rising, kissed his mother on both
cheeks, then stood looking at her. "You
cannot imagine, mother, how beautiful I
think you!" said the young man,
impressed with a profound feeling of
filial love. "You are, indeed, the most
beautiful and most noble woman I ever
saw!"

"Dear child!" said Mercedes, endeavoring
in vain to restrain a tear which
glistened in the corner of her eye.
"Indeed, you only wanted misfortune to
change my love for you to admiration. I
am not unhappy while I possess my son!"

"Ah, just so," said Albert; "here begins
the trial. Do you know the decision we
have come to, mother?"

"Have we come to any?"

"Yes; it is decided that you are to live
at Marseilles, and that I am to leave
for Africa, where I will earn for myself
the right to use the name I now bear,
instead of the one I have thrown aside."
Mercedes sighed. "Well, mother, I
yesterday engaged myself as substitute
in the Spahis,"* added the young man,
lowering his eyes with a certain feeling
of shame, for even he was unconscious of
the sublimity of his self-abasement. "I
thought my body was my own, and that I
might sell it. I yesterday took the
place of another. I sold myself for more
than I thought I was worth," he added,
attempting to smile; "I fetched 2,000
francs."

* The Spahis are French cavalry reserved
for service in Africa.

"Then these 1,000 francs" -- said
Mercedes, shuddering --

"Are the half of the sum, mother; the
other will be paid in a year."

Mercedes raised her eyes to heaven with
an expression it would be impossible to
describe, and tears, which had hitherto
been restrained, now yielded to her
emotion, and ran down her cheeks.

"The price of his blood!" she murmured.

"Yes, if I am killed," said Albert,
laughing. "But I assure you, mother, I
have a strong intention of defending my
person, and I never felt half so strong
an inclination to live as I do now."

"Merciful heavens!"

"Besides, mother, why should you make up
your mind that I am to be killed? Has
Lamoriciere, that Ney of the South, been
killed? Has Changarnier been killed? Has
Bedeau been killed? Has Morrel, whom we
know, been killed? Think of your joy,
mother, when you see me return with an
embroidered uniform! I declare, I expect
to look magnificent in it, and chose
that regiment only from vanity."
Mercedes sighed while endeavoring to
smile; the devoted mother felt that she
ought not to allow the whole weight of
the sacrifice to fall upon her son.
"Well, now you understand, mother!"
continued Albert; "here are more than
4,000 francs settled on you; upon these
you can live at least two years."

"Do you think so?" said Mercedes. These
words were uttered in so mournful a tone
that their real meaning did not escape
Albert; he felt his heart beat, and
taking his mother's hand within his own
he said, tenderly, --

"Yes, you will live!"

"I shall live! -- then you will not
leave me, Albert?"

"Mother, I must go," said Albert in a
firm, calm voice; "you love me too well
to wish me to remain useless and idle
with you; besides, I have signed."

"You will obey your own wish and the
will of heaven!"

"Not my own wish, mother, but reason --
necessity. Are we not two despairing
creatures? What is life to you? --
Nothing. What is life to me? -- Very
little without you, mother; for believe
me, but for you I should have ceased to
live on the day I doubted my father and
renounced his name. Well, I will live,
if you promise me still to hope; and if
you grant me the care of your future
prospects, you will redouble my
strength. Then I will go to the governor
of Algeria; he has a royal heart, and is
essentially a soldier; I will tell him
my gloomy story. I will beg him to turn
his eyes now and then towards me, and if
he keep his word and interest himself
for me, in six months I shall be an
officer, or dead. If I am an officer,
your fortune is certain, for I shall
have money enough for both, and,
moreover, a name we shall both be proud
of, since it will be our own. If I am
killed -- well then mother, you can also
die, and there will be an end of our
misfortunes."

"It is well," replied Mercedes, with her
eloquent glance; "you are right, my
love; let us prove to those who are
watching our actions that we are worthy
of compassion."

"But let us not yield to gloomy
apprehensions," said the young man; "I
assure you we are, or rather we shall
be, very happy. You are a woman at once
full of spirit and resignation; I have
become simple in my tastes, and am
without passion, I hope. Once in
service, I shall be rich -- once in M.
Dantes' house, you will be at rest. Let
us strive, I beseech you, -- let us
strive to be cheerful."

"Yes, let us strive, for you ought to
live, and to be happy, Albert."

"And so our division is made, mother,"
said the young man, affecting ease of
mind. "We can now part; come, I shall
engage your passage."

"And you, my dear boy?"

"I shall stay here for a few days
longer; we must accustom ourselves to
parting. I want recommendations and some
information relative to Africa. I will
join you again at Marseilles."

"Well, be it so -- let us part," said
Mercedes, folding around her shoulders
the only shawl she had taken away, and
which accidentally happened to be a
valuable black cashmere. Albert gathered
up his papers hastily, rang the bell to
pay the thirty francs he owed to the
landlord, and offering his arm to his
mother, they descended the stairs. Some
one was walking down before them, and
this person, hearing the rustling of a
silk dress, turned around. "Debray!"
muttered Albert.

"You, Morcerf?" replied the secretary,
resting on the stairs. Curiosity had
vanquished the desire of preserving his
incognito, and he was recognized. It
was, indeed, strange in this unknown
spot to find the young man whose
misfortunes had made so much noise in
Paris.

"Morcerf!" repeated Debray. Then
noticing in the dim light the still
youthful and veiled figure of Madame de
Morcerf: -- "Pardon me," he added with a
smile, "I leave you, Albert." Albert
understood his thoughts. "Mother," he
said, turning towards Mercedes, "this is
M. Debray, secretary of the minister for
the interior, once a friend of mine."

"How once?" stammered Debray; "what do
you mean?"

"I say so, M. Debray, because I have no
friends now, and I ought not to have
any. I thank you for having recognized
me, sir." Debray stepped forward, and
cordially pressed the hand of his
interlocutor. "Believe me, dear Albert,"
he said, with all the emotion he was
capable of feeling, -- "believe me, I
feel deeply for your misfortunes, and if
in any way I can serve you, I am yours."

"Thank you, sir," said Albert, smiling.
"In the midst of our misfortunes, we are
still rich enough not to require
assistance from any one. We are leaving
Paris, and when our journey is paid, we
shall have 5,000 francs left." The blood
mounted to the temples of Debray, who
held a million in his pocket-book, and
unimaginative as he was he could not
help reflecting that the same house had
contained two women, one of whom, justly
dishonored, had left it poor with
1,500,000 francs under her cloak, while
the other, unjustly stricken, but
sublime in her misfortune, was yet rich
with a few deniers. This parallel
disturbed his usual politeness, the
philosophy he witnessed appalled him, he
muttered a few words of general civility
and ran down-stairs.

That day the minister's clerks and the
subordinates had a great deal to put up
with from his ill-humor. But that same
night, he found himself the possessor of
a fine house, situated on the Boulevard
de la Madeleine, and an income of 50,000
livres. The next day, just as Debray was
signing the deed, that is about five
o'clock in the afternoon, Madame de
Morcerf, after having affectionately
embraced her son, entered the coupe of
the diligence, which closed upon her. A
man was hidden in Lafitte's
banking-house, behind one of the little
arched windows which are placed above
each desk; he saw Mercedes enter the
diligence, and he also saw Albert
withdraw. Then he passed his hand across
his forehead, which was clouded with
doubt. "Alas," he exclaimed, "how can I
restore the happiness I have taken away
from these poor innocent creatures? God
help me!"



Chapter 107 The Lions' Den.

One division of La Force, in which the
most dangerous and desperate prisoners
are confined, is called the court of
Saint-Bernard. The prisoners, in their
expressive language, have named it the
"Lions' Den," probably because the
captives possess teeth which frequently
gnaw the bars, and sometimes the keepers
also. It is a prison within a prison;
the walls are double the thickness of
the rest. The gratings are every day
carefully examined by jailers, whose
herculean proportions and cold pitiless
expression prove them to have been
chosen to reign over their subjects for
their superior activity and
intelligence. The court-yard of this
quarter is enclosed by enormous walls,
over which the sun glances obliquely,
when it deigns to penetrate into this
gulf of moral and physical deformity. On
this paved yard are to be seen, --
pacing to and fro from morning till
night, pale, careworn, and haggard, like
so many shadows, -- the men whom justice
holds beneath the steel she is
sharpening. There, crouched against the
side of the wall which attracts and
retains the most heat, they may be seen
sometimes talking to one another, but
more frequently alone, watching the
door, which sometimes opens to call
forth one from the gloomy assemblage, or
to throw in another outcast from
society.

The court of Saint-Bernard has its own
particular apartment for the reception
of guests; it is a long rectangle,
divided by two upright gratings placed
at a distance of three feet from one
another to prevent a visitor from
shaking hands with or passing anything
to the prisoners. It is a wretched,
damp, nay, even horrible spot, more
especially when we consider the
agonizing conferences which have taken
place between those iron bars. And yet,
frightful though this spot may be, it is
looked upon as a kind of paradise by the
men whose days are numbered; it is so
rare for them to leave the Lions' Den
for any other place than the barrier
Saint-Jacques or the galleys!

In the court which we have attempted to
describe, and from which a damp vapor
was rising, a young man with his hands
in his pockets, who had excited much
curiosity among the inhabitants of the
"Den," might be seen walking. The cut of
his clothes would have made him pass for
an elegant man, if those clothes had not
been torn to shreds; still they did not
show signs of wear, and the fine cloth,
beneath the careful hands of the
prisoner, soon recovered its gloss in
the parts which were still perfect, for
the wearer tried his best to make it
assume the appearance of a new coat. He
bestowed the same attention upon the
cambric front of a shirt, which had
considerably changed in color since his
entrance into the prison, and he
polished his varnished boots with the
corner of a handkerchief embroidered
with initials surmounted by a coronet.
Some of the inmates of the "Lions' Den"
were watching the operations of the
prisoner's toilet with considerable
interest. "See, the prince is pluming
himself," said one of the thieves. "He's
a fine looking fellow," said another;
"if he had only a comb and hair-grease,
he'd take the shine off the gentlemen in
white kids."

"His coat looks almost new, and his
boots shine like a nigger's face. It's
pleasant to have such well-dressed
comrades; but didn't those gendarmes
behave shameful? -- must 'a been
jealous, to tear such clothes!"

"He looks like a big-bug," said another;
"dresses in fine style. And, then, to be
here so young! Oh, what larks!"
Meanwhile the object of this hideous
admiration approached the wicket,
against which one of the keepers was
leaning. "Come, sir," he said, "lend me
twenty francs; you will soon be paid;
you run no risks with me. Remember, I
have relations who possess more millions
than you have deniers. Come, I beseech
you, lend me twenty francs, so that I
may buy a dressing-gown; it is
intolerable always to be in a coat and
boots! And what a coat, sir, for a
prince of the Cavalcanti!" The keeper
turned his back, and shrugged his
shoulders; he did not even laugh at what
would have caused any one else to do so;
he had heard so many utter the same
things, -- indeed, he heard nothing
else.

"Come," said Andrea, "you are a man void
of compassion; I'll have you turned
out." This made the keeper turn around,
and he burst into a loud laugh. The
prisoners then approached and formed a
circle. "I tell you that with that
wretched sum," continued Andrea, "I
could obtain a coat, and a room in which
to receive the illustrious visitor I am
daily expecting."

"Of course -- of course," said the
prisoners; -- "any one can see he's a
gentleman!"

"Well, then, lend him the twenty
francs," said the keeper, leaning on the
other shoulder; "surely you will not
refuse a comrade!"

"I am no comrade of these people," said
the young man, proudly, "you have no
right to insult me thus."

The thieves looked at one another with
low murmurs, and a storm gathered over
the head of the aristocratic prisoner,
raised less by his own words than by the
manner of the keeper. The latter, sure
of quelling the tempest when the waves
became too violent, allowed them to rise
to a certain pitch that he might be
revenged on the importunate Andrea, and
besides it would afford him some
recreation during the long day. The
thieves had already approached Andrea,
some screaming, "La savate -- La
savate!"* a cruel operation, which
consists in cuffing a comrade who may
have fallen into disgrace, not with an
old shoe, but with an iron-heeled one.
Others proposed the "anguille," another
kind of recreation, in which a
handkerchief is filled with sand,
pebbles, and two-sous pieces, when they
have them, which the wretches beat like
a flail over the head and shoulders of
the unhappy sufferer. "Let us horsewhip
the fine gentleman!" said others.

* Savate: an old shoe.

But Andrea, turning towards them, winked
his eyes, rolled his tongue around his
cheeks, and smacked his lips in a manner
equivalent to a hundred words among the
bandits when forced to be silent. It was
a Masonic sign Caderousse had taught
him. He was immediately recognized as
one of them; the handkerchief was thrown
down, and the iron-heeled shoe replaced
on the foot of the wretch to whom it
belonged. Some voices were heard to say
that the gentleman was right; that he
intended to be civil, in his way, and
that they would set the example of
liberty of conscience, -- and the mob
retired. The keeper was so stupefied at
this scene that he took Andrea by the
hands and began examining his person,
attributing the sudden submission of the
inmates of the Lions' Den to something
more substantial than mere fascination.
Andrea made no resistance, although he
protested against it. Suddenly a voice
was heard at the wicket. "Benedetto!"
exclaimed an inspector. The keeper
relaxed his hold. "I am called," said
Andrea. "To the visitors' room!" said
the same voice.

"You see some one pays me a visit. Ah,
my dear sir, you will see whether a
Cavalcanti is to be treated like a
common person!" And Andrea, gliding
through the court like a black shadow,
rushed out through the wicket, leaving
his comrades, and even the keeper, lost
in wonder. Certainly a call to the
visitors' room had scarcely astonished
Andrea less than themselves, for the
wily youth, instead of making use of his
privilege of waiting to be claimed on
his entry into La Force, had maintained
a rigid silence. "Everything," he said,
"proves me to be under the protection of
some powerful person, -- this sudden
fortune, the facility with which I have
overcome all obstacles, an unexpected
family and an illustrious name awarded
to me, gold showered down upon me, and
the most splendid alliances about to be
entered into. An unhappy lapse of
fortune and the absence of my protector
have cast me down, certainly, but not
forever. The hand which has retreated
for a while will be again stretched
forth to save me at the very moment when
I shall think myself sinking into the
abyss. Why should I risk an imprudent
step? It might alienate my protector. He
has two means of extricating me from
this dilemma, -- the one by a mysterious
escape, managed through bribery; the
other by buying off my judges with gold.
I will say and do nothing until I am
convinced that he has quite abandoned
me, and then" --

Andrea had formed a plan which was
tolerably clever. The unfortunate youth
was intrepid in the attack, and rude in
the defence. He had borne with the
public prison, and with privations of
all sorts; still, by degrees nature, or
rather custom, had prevailed, and he
suffered from being naked, dirty, and
hungry. It was at this moment of
discomfort that the inspector's voice
called him to the visiting-room. Andrea
felt his heart leap with joy. It was too
soon for a visit from the examining
magistrate, and too late for one from
the director of the prison, or the
doctor; it must, then, be the visitor he
hoped for. Behind the grating of the
room into which Andrea had been led, he
saw, while his eyes dilated with
surprise, the dark and intelligent face
of M. Bertuccio, who was also gazing
with sad astonishment upon the iron
bars, the bolted doors, and the shadow
which moved behind the other grating.

"Ah," said Andrea, deeply affected.

"Good morning, Benedetto," said
Bertuccio, with his deep, hollow voice.

"You -- you?" said the young man,
looking fearfully around him.

"Do you not recognize me, unhappy
child?"

"Silence, -- be silent!" said Andrea,
who knew the delicate sense of hearing
possessed by the walls; "for heaven's
sake, do not speak so loud!"

"You wish to speak with me alone, do you
not?" said Bertuccio.

"Oh, yes."

"That is well." And Bertuccio, feeling
in his pocket, signed to a keeper whom
he saw through the window of the wicket.

"Read?" he said.

"What is that?" asked Andrea.

"An order to conduct you to a room, and
to leave you there to talk to me."

"Oh," cried Andrea, leaping with joy.
Then he mentally added, -- "Still my
unknown protector! I am not forgotten.
They wish for secrecy, since we are to
converse in a private room. I
understand, Bertuccio has been sent by
my protector."

The keeper spoke for a moment with an
official, then opened the iron gates and
conducted Andrea to a room on the first
floor. The room was whitewashed, as is
the custom in prisons, but it looked
quite brilliant to a prisoner, though a
stove, a bed, a chair, and a table
formed the whole of its sumptuous
furniture. Bertuccio sat down upon the
chair, Andrea threw himself upon the
bed; the keeper retired.

"Now," said the steward, "what have you
to tell me?"

"And you?" said Andrea.

"You speak first."

"Oh, no. You must have much to tell me,
since you have come to seek me."

"Well, be it so. You have continued your
course of villany; you have robbed --
you have assassinated."

"Well, I should say! If you had me taken
to a private room only to tell me this,
you might have saved yourself the
trouble. I know all these things. But
there are some with which, on the
contrary, I am not acquainted. Let us
talk of those, if you please. Who sent
you?"

"Come, come, you are going on quickly,
M. Benedetto!"

"Yes, and to the point. Let us dispense
with useless words. Who sends you?"

"No one."

"How did you know I was in prison?"

"I recognized you, some time since, as
the insolent dandy who so gracefully
mounted his horse in the Champs
Elysees."

"Oh, the Champs Elysees? Ah, yes; we
burn, as they say at the game of
pincette. The Champs Elysees? Come, let
us talk a little about my father."

"Who, then, am I?"

"You, sir? -- you are my adopted father.
But it was not you, I presume, who
placed at my disposal 100,000 francs,
which I spent in four or five months; it
was not you who manufactured an Italian
gentleman for my father; it was not you
who introduced me into the world, and
had me invited to a certain dinner at
Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating at
this moment, in company with the most
distinguished people in Paris -- amongst
the rest with a certain procureur, whose
acquaintance I did very wrong not to
cultivate, for he would have been very
useful to me just now; -- it was not
you, in fact, who bailed me for one or
two millions, when the fatal discovery
of my little secret took place. Come,
speak, my worthy Corsican, speak!"

"What do you wish me to say?"

"I will help you. You were speaking of
the Champs Elysees just now, worthy
foster-father."

"Well?"

"Well, in the Champs Elysees there
resides a very rich gentleman."

"At whose house you robbed and murdered,
did you not?"

"I believe I did."

"The Count of Monte Cristo?"

"'Tis you who have named him, as M.
Racine says. Well, am I to rush into his
arms, and strain him to my heart,
crying, `My father, my father!' like
Monsieur Pixerecourt."*

"Do not let us jest," gravely replied
Bertuccio, "and dare not to utter that
name again as you have pronounced it."

* Guilbert de Pixerecourt, French
dramatist (1775-1844).

"Bah," said Andrea, a little overcome,
by the solemnity of Bertuccio's manner,
"why not?"

"Because the person who bears it is too
highly favored by heaven to be the
father of such a wretch as you."

"Oh, these are fine words."

"And there will be fine doings, if you
do not take care."

"Menaces -- I do not fear them. I will
say" --

"Do you think you are engaged with a
pygmy like yourself?" said Bertuccio, in
so calm a tone, and with so steadfast a
look, that Andrea was moved to the very
soul. "Do you think you have to do with
galley-slaves, or novices in the world?
Benedetto, you are fallen into terrible
hands; they are ready to open for you --
make use of them. Do not play with the
thunderbolt they have laid aside for a
moment, but which they can take up again
instantly, if you attempt to intercept
their movements."

"My father -- I will know who my father
is," said the obstinate youth; "I will
perish if I must, but I will know it.
What does scandal signify to me? What
possessions, what reputation, what
`pull,' as Beauchamp says, -- have I?
You great people always lose something
by scandal, notwithstanding your
millions. Come, who is my father?"

"I came to tell you."

"Ah," cried Benedetto, his eyes
sparkling with joy. Just then the door
opened, and the jailer, addressing
himself to Bertuccio, said, -- "Excuse
me, sir, but the examining magistrate is
waiting for the prisoner."

"And so closes our interview," said
Andrea to the worthy steward; "I wish
the troublesome fellow were at the
devil!"

"I will return to-morrow," said
Bertuccio.

"Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service.
Ah, sir, do leave a few crowns for me at
the gate that I may have some things I
am in need of!"

"It shall be done," replied Bertuccio.
Andrea extended his hand; Bertuccio kept
his own in his pocket, and merely
jingled a few pieces of money. "That's
what I mean," said Andrea, endeavoring
to smile, quite overcome by the strange
tranquillity of Bertuccio. "Can I be
deceived?" he murmured, as he stepped
into the oblong and grated vehicle which
they call "the salad basket." "Never
mind, we shall see! To-morrow, then!" he
added, turning towards Bertuccio.

"To-morrow!" replied the steward.



Chapter 108 The Judge.

We remember that the Abbe Busoni
remained alone with Noirtier in the
chamber of death, and that the old man
and the priest were the sole guardians
of the young girl's body. Perhaps it was
the Christian exhortations of the abbe,
perhaps his kind charity, perhaps his
persuasive words, which had restored the
courage of Noirtier, for ever since he
had conversed with the priest his
violent despair had yielded to a calm
resignation which surprised all who knew
his excessive affection for Valentine.
M. de Villefort had not seen his father
since the morning of the death. The
whole establishment had been changed;
another valet was engaged for himself, a
new servant for Noirtier, two women had
entered Madame de Villefort's
service, -- in fact, everywhere, to the
concierge and coachmen, new faces were
presented to the different masters of
the house, thus widening the division
which had always existed between the
members of the same family.

The assizes, also, were about to begin,
and Villefort, shut up in his room,
exerted himself with feverish anxiety in
drawing up the case against the murderer
of Caderousse. This affair, like all
those in which the Count of Monte Cristo
had interfered, caused a great sensation
in Paris. The proofs were certainly not
convincing, since they rested upon a few
words written by an escaped galley-slave
on his death-bed, and who might have
been actuated by hatred or revenge in
accusing his companion. But the mind of
the procureur was made up; he felt
assured that Benedetto was guilty, and
he hoped by his skill in conducting this
aggravated case to flatter his
self-love, which was about the only
vulnerable point left in his frozen
heart.

The case was therefore prepared owing to
the incessant labor of Villefort, who
wished it to be the first on the list in
the coming assizes. He had been obliged
to seclude himself more than ever, to
evade the enormous number of
applications presented to him for the
purpose of obtaining tickets of
admission to the court on the day of
trial. And then so short a time had
elapsed since the death of poor
Valentine, and the gloom which
overshadowed the house was so recent,
that no one wondered to see the father
so absorbed in his professional duties,
which were the only means he had of
dissipating his grief.

Once only had Villefort seen his father;
it was the day after that upon which
Bertuccio had paid his second visit to
Benedetto, when the latter was to learn
his father's name. The magistrate,
harassed and fatigued, had descended to
the garden of his house, and in a gloomy
mood, similar to that in which Tarquin
lopped off the tallest poppies, he began
knocking off with his cane the long and
dying branches of the rose-trees, which,
placed along the avenue, seemed like the
spectres of the brilliant flowers which
had bloomed in the past season. More
than once he had reached that part of
the garden where the famous boarded gate
stood overlooking the deserted
enclosure, always returning by the same
path, to begin his walk again, at the
same pace and with the same gesture,
when he accidentally turned his eyes
towards the house, whence he heard the
noisy play of his son, who had returned
from school to spend the Sunday and
Monday with his mother. While doing so,
he observed M. Noirtier at one of the
open windows, where the old man had been
placed that he might enjoy the last rays
of the sun which yet yielded some heat,
and was now shining upon the dying
flowers and red leaves of the creeper
which twined around the balcony.

The eye of the old man was riveted upon
a spot which Villefort could scarcely
distinguish. His glance was so full of
hate, of ferocity, and savage
impatience, that Villefort turned out of
the path he had been pursuing, to see
upon what person this dark look was
directed. Then he saw beneath a thick
clump of linden-trees, which were nearly
divested of foliage, Madame de Villefort
sitting with a book in her hand, the
perusal of which she frequently
interrupted to smile upon her son, or to
throw back his elastic ball, which he
obstinately threw from the drawing-room
into the garden. Villefort became pale;
he understood the old man's meaning.
Noirtier continued to look at the same
object, but suddenly his glance was
transferred from the wife to the
husband, and Villefort himself had to
submit to the searching investigation of
eyes, which, while changing their
direction and even their language, had
lost none of their menacing expression.
Madame de Villefort, unconscious of the
passions that exhausted their fire over
her head, at that moment held her son's
ball, and was making signs to him to
reclaim it with a kiss. Edward begged
for a long while, the maternal kiss
probably not offering sufficient
recompense for the trouble he must take
to obtain it; however at length he
decided, leaped out of the window into a
cluster of heliotropes and daisies, and
ran to his mother, his forehead
streaming with perspiration. Madame de
Villefort wiped his forehead, pressed
her lips upon it, and sent him back with
the ball in one hand and some bonbons in
the other.

Villefort, drawn by an irresistible
attraction, like that of the bird to the
serpent, walked towards the house. As he
approached it, Noirtier's gaze followed
him, and his eyes appeared of such a
fiery brightness that Villefort felt
them pierce to the depths of his heart.
In that earnest look might be read a
deep reproach, as well as a terrible
menace. Then Noirtier raised his eyes to
heaven, as though to remind his son of a
forgotten oath. "It is well, sir,"
replied Villefort from below, -- "it is
well; have patience but one day longer;
what I have said I will do." Noirtier
seemed to be calmed by these words, and
turned his eyes with indifference to the
other side. Villefort violently
unbuttoned his great-coat, which seemed
to strangle him, and passing his livid
hand across his forehead, entered his
study.

The night was cold and still; the family
had all retired to rest but Villefort,
who alone remained up, and worked till
five o'clock in the morning, reviewing
the last interrogatories made the night
before by the examining magistrates,
compiling the depositions of the
witnesses, and putting the finishing
stroke to the deed of accusation, which
was one of the most energetic and best
conceived of any he had yet delivered.

The next day, Monday, was the first
sitting of the assizes. The morning
dawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort
saw the dim gray light shine upon the
lines he had traced in red ink. The
magistrate had slept for a short time
while the lamp sent forth its final
struggles; its flickerings awoke him,
and he found his fingers as damp and
purple as though they had been dipped in
blood. He opened the window; a bright
yellow streak crossed the sky, and
seemed to divide in half the poplars,
which stood out in black relief on the
horizon. In the clover-fields beyond the
chestnut-trees, a lark was mounting up
to heaven, while pouring out her clear
morning song. The damps of the dew
bathed the head of Villefort, and
refreshed his memory. "To-day," he said
with an effort, -- "to-day the man who
holds the blade of justice must strike
wherever there is guilt." Involuntarily
his eyes wandered towards the window of
Noirtier's room, where he had seen him
the preceding night. The curtain was
drawn, and yet the image of his father
was so vivid to his mind that he
addressed the closed window as though it
had been open, and as if through the
opening he had beheld the menacing old
man. "Yes," he murmured, -- "yes, be
satisfied."

His head dropped upon his chest, and in
this position he paced his study; then
he threw himself, dressed as he was,
upon a sofa, less to sleep than to rest
his limbs, cramped with cold and study.
By degrees every one awoke. Villefort,
from his study, heard the successive
noises which accompany the life of a
house, -- the opening and shutting of
doors, the ringing of Madame de
Villefort's bell, to summon the
waiting-maid, mingled with the first
shouts of the child, who rose full of
the enjoyment of his age. Villefort also
rang; his new valet brought him the
papers, and with them a cup of
chocolate.

"What are you bringing me?" said he.

"A cup of chocolate."

"I did not ask for it. Who has paid me
this attention?"

"My mistress, sir. She said you would
have to speak a great deal in the murder
case, and that you should take something
to keep up your strength;" and the valet
placed the cup on the table nearest to
the sofa, which was, like all the rest,
covered with papers. The valet then left
the room. Villefort looked for an
instant with a gloomy expression, then,
suddenly, taking it up with a nervous
motion, he swallowed its contents at one
draught. It might have been thought that
he hoped the beverage would be mortal,
and that he sought for death to deliver
him from a duty which he would rather
die than fulfil. He then rose, and paced
his room with a smile it would have been
terrible to witness. The chocolate was
inoffensive, for M. de Villefort felt no
effects. The breakfast-hour arrived, but
M. de Villefort was not at table. The
valet re-entered.

"Madame de Villefort wishes to remind
you, sir," he said, "that eleven o'clock
has just struck, and that the trial
commences at twelve."

"Well," said Villefort, "what then?"

"Madame de Villefort is dressed; she is
quite ready, and wishes to know if she
is to accompany you, sir?"

"Where to?"

"To the Palais."

"What to do?"

"My mistress wishes much to be present
at the trial."

"Ah," said Villefort, with a startling
accent; "does she wish that?" -- The man
drew back and said, "If you wish to go
alone, sir, I will go and tell my
mistress." Villefort remained silent for
a moment, and dented his pale cheeks
with his nails. "Tell your mistress," he
at length answered, "that I wish to
speak to her, and I beg she will wait
for me in her own room."

"Yes, sir."

"Then come to dress and shave me."

"Directly, sir." The valet re-appeared
almost instantly, and, having shaved his
master, assisted him to dress entirely
in black. When he had finished, he
said, --

"My mistress said she should expect you,
sir, as soon as you had finished
dressing."

"I am going to her." And Villefort, with
his papers under his arm and hat in
hand, directed his steps toward the
apartment of his wife. At the door he
paused for a moment to wipe his damp,
pale brow. He then entered the room.
Madame de Villefort was sitting on an
ottoman and impatiently turning over the
leaves of some newspapers and pamphlets
which young Edward, by way of amusing
himself, was tearing to pieces before
his mother could finish reading them.
She was dressed to go out, her bonnet
was placed beside her on a chair, and
her gloves were on her hands.

"Ah, here you are, monsieur," she said
in her naturally calm voice; "but how
pale you are! Have you been working all
night? Why did you not come down to
breakfast? Well, will you take me, or
shall I take Edward?" Madame de
Villefort had multiplied her questions
in order to gain one answer, but to all
her inquiries M. de Villefort remained
mute and cold as a statue. "Edward,"
said Villefort, fixing an imperious
glance on the child, "go and play in the
drawing-room, my dear; I wish to speak
to your mamma." Madame de Villefort
shuddered at the sight of that cold
countenance, that resolute tone, and the
awfully strange preliminaries. Edward
raised his head, looked at his mother,
and then, finding that she did not
confirm the order, began cutting off the
heads of his leaden soldiers.

"Edward," cried M. de Villefort, so
harshly that the child started up from
the floor, "do you hear me? -- Go!" The
child, unaccustomed to such treatment,
arose, pale and trembling; it would be
difficult to say whether his emotion
were caused by fear or passion. His
father went up to him, took him in his
arms, and kissed his forehead. "Go," he
said: "go, my child." Edward ran out. M.
de Villefort went to the door, which he
closed behind the child, and bolted.
"Dear me!" said the young woman,
endeavoring to read her husband's inmost
thoughts, while a smile passed over her
countenance which froze the
impassibility of Villefort; "what is the
matter?"

"Madame, where do you keep the poison
you generally use?" said the magistrate,
without any introduction, placing
himself between his wife and the door.

Madame de Villefort must have
experienced something of the sensation
of a bird which, looking up, sees the
murderous trap closing over its head. A
hoarse, broken tone, which was neither a
cry nor a sigh, escaped from her, while
she became deadly pale. "Monsieur," she
said, "I -- I do not understand you."
And, in her first paroxysm of terror,
she had raised herself from the sofa, in
the next, stronger very likely than the
other, she fell down again on the
cushions. "I asked you," continued
Villefort, in a perfectly calm tone,
"where you conceal the poison by the aid
of which you have killed my
father-in-law, M. de Saint-Meran, my
mother-in-law, Madame de Saint-Meran,
Barrois, and my daughter Valentine."

"Ah, sir," exclaimed Madame de
Villefort, clasping her hands, "what do
you say?"

"It is not for you to interrogate, but
to answer."

"Is it to the judge or to the husband?"
stammered Madame de Villefort. "To the
judge -- to the judge, madame!" It was
terrible to behold the frightful pallor
of that woman, the anguish of her look,
the trembling of her whole frame. "Ah,
sir," she muttered, "ah, sir," and this
was all.

"You do not answer, madame!" exclaimed
the terrible interrogator. Then he
added, with a smile yet more terrible
than his anger, "It is true, then; you
do not deny it!" She moved forward. "And
you cannot deny it!" added Villefort,
extending his hand toward her, as though
to seize her in the name of justice.
"You have accomplished these different
crimes with impudent address, but which
could only deceive those whose
affections for you blinded them. Since
the death of Madame de Saint-Meran, I
have known that a poisoner lived in my
house. M. d'Avrigny warned me of it.
After the death of Barrois my suspicions
were directed towards an angel, -- those
suspicions which, even when there is no
crime, are always alive in my heart; but
after the death of Valentine, there has
been no doubt in my mind, madame, and
not only in mine, but in those of
others; thus your crime, known by two
persons, suspected by many, will soon
become public, and, as I told you just
now, you no longer speak to the husband,
but to the judge."

The young woman hid her face in her
hands. "Oh, sir," she stammered, "I
beseech you, do not believe
appearances."

"Are you, then, a coward?" cried
Villefort, in a contemptuous voice. "But
I have always observed that poisoners
were cowards. Can you be a coward, --
you who have had the courage to witness
the death of two old men and a young
girl murdered by you?"

"Sir! sir!"

"Can you be a coward?" continued
Villefort, with increasing excitement,
"you, who could count, one by one, the
minutes of four death agonies? You, who
have arranged your infernal plans, and
removed the beverages with a talent and
precision almost miraculous? Have you,
then, who have calculated everything
with such nicety, have you forgotten to
calculate one thing -- I mean where the
revelation of your crimes will lead you
to? Oh, it is impossible -- you must
have saved some surer, more subtle and
deadly poison than any other, that you
might escape the punishment that you
deserve. You have done this -- I hope
so, at least." Madame de Villefort
stretched out her hands, and fell on her
knees.

"I understand," he said, "you confess;
but a confession made to the judges, a
confession made at the last moment,
extorted when the crime cannot be
denied, diminishes not the punishment
inflicted on the guilty!"

"The punishment?" exclaimed Madame de
Villefort, "the punishment, monsieur?
Twice you have pronounced that word!"

"Certainly. Did you hope to escape it
because you were four times guilty? Did
you think the punishment would be
withheld because you are the wife of him
who pronounces it? -- No, madame, no;
the scaffold awaits the poisoner,
whoever she may be, unless, as I just
said, the poisoner has taken the
precaution of keeping for herself a few
drops of her deadliest potion." Madame
de Villefort uttered a wild cry, and a
hideous and uncontrollable terror spread
over her distorted features. "Oh, do not
fear the scaffold, madame," said the
magistrate; "I will not dishonor you,
since that would be dishonor to myself;
no, if you have heard me distinctly, you
will understand that you are not to die
on the scaffold."

"No, I do not understand; what do you
mean?" stammered the unhappy woman,
completely overwhelmed. "I mean that the
wife of the first magistrate in the
capital shall not, by her infamy, soil
an unblemished name; that she shall not,
with one blow, dishonor her husband and
her child."

"No, no -- oh, no!"

"Well, madame, it will be a laudable
action on your part, and I will thank
you for it!"

"You will thank me -- for what?"

"For what you have just said."

"What did I say? Oh, my brain whirls; I
no longer understand anything. Oh, my
God, my God!" And she rose, with her
hair dishevelled, and her lips foaming.

"Have you answered the question I put to
you on entering the room? -- where do
you keep the poison you generally use,
madame?" Madame de Villefort raised her
arms to heaven, and convulsively struck
one hand against the other. "No, no,"
she vociferated, "no, you cannot wish
that!"

"What I do not wish, madame, is that you
should perish on the scaffold. Do you
understand?" asked Villefort.

"Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur!"

"What I require is, that justice be
done. I am on the earth to punish,
madame," he added, with a flaming
glance; "any other woman, were it the
queen herself, I would send to the
executioner; but to you I shall be
merciful. To you I will say, `Have you
not, madame, put aside some of the
surest, deadliest, most speedy poison?'"

"Oh, pardon me, sir; let me live!"

"She is cowardly," said Villefort.

"Reflect that I am your wife!"

"You are a poisoner."

"In the name of heaven!"

"No!"

"In the name of the love you once bore
me!"

"No, no!"

"In the name of our child! Ah, for the
sake of our child, let me live!"

"No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I
allow you to live, you will perhaps kill
him, as you have the others!"

"I? -- I kill my boy?" cried the
distracted mother, rushing toward
Villefort; "I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!"
and a frightful, demoniac laugh finished
the sentence, which was lost in a hoarse
rattle. Madame de Villefort fell at her
husband's feet. He approached her.
"Think of it, madame," he said; "if, on
my return, justice his not been
satisfied, I will denounce you with my
own mouth, and arrest you with my own
hands!" She listened, panting,
overwhelmed, crushed; her eye alone
lived, and glared horribly. "Do you
understand me?" he said. "I am going
down there to pronounce the sentence of
death against a murderer. If I find you
alive on my return, you shall sleep
to-night in the conciergerie." Madame de
Villefort sighed; her nerves gave way,
and she sunk on the carpet. The king's
attorney seemed to experience a
sensation of pity; he looked upon her
less severely, and, bowing to her, said
slowly, "Farewell, madame, farewell!"
That farewell struck Madame de Villefort
like the executioner's knife. She
fainted. The procureur went out, after
having double-locked the door.



Chapter 109 The Assizes.

The Benedetto affair, as it was called
at the Palais, and by people in general,
had produced a tremendous sensation.
Frequenting the Cafe de Paris, the
Boulevard de Gand, and the Bois de
Boulogne, during his brief career of
splendor, the false Cavalcanti had
formed a host of acquaintances. The
papers had related his various
adventures, both as the man of fashion
and the galley-slave; and as every one
who had been personally acquainted with
Prince Andrea Cavalcanti experienced a
lively curiosity in his fate, they all
determined to spare no trouble in
endeavoring to witness the trial of M.
Benedetto for the murder of his comrade
in chains. In the eyes of many,
Benedetto appeared, if not a victim to,
at least an instance of, the fallibility
of the law. M. Cavalcanti, his father,
had been seen in Paris, and it was
expected that he would re-appear to
claim the illustrious outcast. Many,
also, who were not aware of the
circumstances attending his withdrawal
from Paris, were struck with the worthy
appearance, the gentlemanly bearing, and
the knowledge of the world displayed by
the old patrician, who certainly played
the nobleman very well, so long as he
said nothing, and made no arithmetical
calculations. As for the accused
himself, many remembered him as being so
amiable, so handsome, and so liberal,
that they chose to think him the victim
of some conspiracy, since in this world
large fortunes frequently excite the
malevolence and jealousy of some unknown
enemy. Every one, therefore, ran to the
court; some to witness the sight, others
to comment upon it. From seven o'clock
in the morning a crowd was stationed at
the iron gates, and an hour before the
trial commenced the hall was full of the
privileged. Before the entrance of the
magistrates, and indeed frequently
afterwards, a court of justice, on days
when some especial trial is to take
place, resembles a drawing-room where
many persons recognize each other and
converse if they can do so without
losing their seats; or, if they are
separated by too great a number of
lawyers, communicate by signs.

It was one of the magnificent autumn
days which make amends for a short
summer; the clouds which M. de Villefort
had perceived at sunrise had all
disappeared as if by magic, and one of
the softest and most brilliant days of
September shone forth in all its
splendor.

Beauchamp, one of the kings of the
press, and therefore claiming the right
of a throne everywhere, was eying
everybody through his monocle. He
perceived Chateau-Renaud and Debray, who
had just gained the good graces of a
sergeant-at-arms, and who had persuaded
the latter to let them stand before,
instead of behind him, as they ought to
have done. The worthy sergeant had
recognized the minister's secretary and
the millionnaire, and, by way of paying
extra attention to his noble neighbors,
promised to keep their places while they
paid a visit to Beauchamp.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "we shall see
our friend!"

"Yes, indeed!" replied Debray. "That
worthy prince. Deuce take those Italian
princes!"

"A man, too, who could boast of Dante
for a genealogist, and could reckon back
to the `Divine Comedy.'"

"A nobility of the rope!" said
Chateau-Renaud phlegmatically.

"He will be condemned, will he not?"
asked Debray of Beauchamp.

"My dear fellow, I think we should ask
you that question; you know such news
much better than we do. Did you see the
president at the minister's last night?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"Something which will surprise you."

"Oh, make haste and tell me, then; it is
a long time since that has happened."

"Well, he told me that Benedetto, who is
considered a serpent of subtlety and a
giant of cunning, is really but a very
commonplace, silly rascal, and
altogether unworthy of the experiments
that will be made on his phrenological
organs after his death."

"Bah," said Beauchamp, "he played the
prince very well."

"Yes, for you who detest those unhappy
princes, Beauchamp, and are always
delighted to find fault with them; but
not for me, who discover a gentleman by
instinct, and who scent out an
aristocratic family like a very
bloodhound of heraldry."

"Then you never believed in the
principality?"

"Yes. -- in the principality, but not in
the prince."

"Not so bad," said Beauchamp; "still, I
assure you, he passed very well with
many people; I saw him at the ministers'
houses."

"Ah, yes," said Chateau-Renaud. "The
idea of thinking ministers understand
anything about princes!"

"There is something in what you have
just said," said Beauchamp, laughing.

"But," said Debray to Beauchamp, "if I
spoke to the president, you must have
been with the procureur."

"It was an impossibility; for the last
week M. de Villefort has secluded
himself. It is natural enough; this
strange chain of domestic afflictions,
followed by the no less strange death of
his daughter" --

"Strange? What do you mean, Beauchamp?"

"Oh, yes; do you pretend that all this
has been unobserved at the minister's?"
said Beauchamp, placing his eye-glass in
his eye, where he tried to make it
remain.

"My dear sir," said Chateau-Renaud,
"allow me to tell you that you do not
understand that manoeuvre with the
eye-glass half so well as Debray. Give
him a lesson, Debray."

"Stay," said Beauchamp, "surely I am not
deceived."

"What is it?"

"It is she!"

"Whom do you mean?"

"They said she had left."

"Mademoiselle Eugenie?" said
Chateau-Renaud; "has she returned?"

"No, but her mother."

"Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible!"
said Chateau-Renaud; "only ten days
after the flight of her daughter, and
three days from the bankruptcy of her
husband?"

Debray colored slightly, and followed
with his eyes the direction of
Beauchamp's glance. "Come," he said, "it
is only a veiled lady, some foreign
princess, perhaps the mother of
Cavalcanti. But you were just speaking
on a very interesting topic, Beauchamp."

"I?"

"Yes; you were telling us about the
extraordinary death of Valentine."

"Ah, yes, so I was. But how is it that
Madame de Villefort is not here?"

"Poor, dear woman," said Debray, "she is
no doubt occupied in distilling balm for
the hospitals, or in making cosmetics
for herself or friends. Do you know she
spends two or three thousand crowns a
year in this amusement? But I wonder she
is not here. I should have been pleased
to see her, for I like her very much."

"And I hate her," said Chateau-Renaud.

"Why?"

"I do not know. Why do we love? Why do
we hate? I detest her, from antipathy."

"Or, rather, by instinct."

"Perhaps so. But to return to what you
were saying, Beauchamp."

"Well, do you know why they die so
multitudinously at M. de Villefort's?"

"`Multitudinously' [drv] is good," said
Chateau-Renaud.

"My good fellow, you'll find the word in
Saint-Simon."

"But the thing itself is at M. de
Villefort's; but let's get back to the
subject."

"Talking of that," said Debray, "Madame
was making inquiries about that house,
which for the last three months has been
hung with black."

"Who is Madame?" asked Chateau-Renaud.

"The minister's wife, pardieu!"

"Oh, your pardon! I never visit
ministers; I leave that to the princes."

"Really, You were only before sparkling,
but now you are brilliant; take
compassion on us, or, like Jupiter, you
will wither us up."

"I will not speak again," said
Chateau-Renaud; "pray have compassion
upon me, and do not take up every word I
say."

"Come, let us endeavor to get to the end
of our story, Beauchamp; I told you that
yesterday Madame made inquiries of me
upon the subject; enlighten me, and I
will then communicate my information to
her."

"Well, gentlemen, the reason people die
so multitudinously (I like the word) at
M. de Villefort's is that there is an
assassin in the house!" The two young
men shuddered, for the same idea had
more than once occurred to them. "And
who is the assassin;" they asked
together.

"Young Edward!" A burst of laughter from
the auditors did not in the least
disconcert the speaker, who
continued, -- "Yes, gentlemen; Edward,
the infant phenomenon, who is quite an
adept in the art of killing."

"You are jesting."

"Not at all. I yesterday engaged a
servant, who had just left M. de
Villefort -- I intend sending him away
to-morrow, for he eats so enormously, to
make up for the fast imposed upon him by
his terror in that house. Well, now
listen."

"We are listening."

"It appears the dear child has obtained
possession of a bottle containing some
drug, which he every now and then uses
against those who have displeased him.
First, M. and Madame de Saint-Meran
incurred his displeasure, so he poured
out three drops of his elixir -- three
drops were sufficient; then followed
Barrois, the old servant of M. Noirtier,
who sometimes rebuffed this little
wretch -- he therefore received the same
quantity of the elixir; the same
happened to Valentine, of whom he was
jealous; he gave her the same dose as
the others, and all was over for her as
well as the rest."

"Why, what nonsense are you telling us?"
said Chateau-Renaud.

"Yes, it is an extraordinary story,"
said Beauchamp; "is it not?"

"It is absurd," said Debray.

"Ah," said Beauchamp, "you doubt me?
Well, you can ask my servant, or rather
him who will no longer be my servant
to-morrow, it was the talk of the
house."

"And this elixir, where is it? what is
it?"

"The child conceals it."

"But where did he find it?"

"In his mother's laboratory."

"Does his mother then, keep poisons in
her laboratory?"

"How can I tell? You are questioning me
like a king's attorney. I only repeat
what I have been told, and like my
informant I can do no more. The poor
devil would eat nothing, from fear."

"It is incredible!"

"No, my dear fellow, it is not at all
incredible. You saw the child pass
through the Rue Richelieu last year, who
amused himself with killing his brothers
and sisters by sticking pins in their
ears while they slept. The generation
who follow us are very precocious."

"Come, Beauchamp," said Chateau-Renaud,
"I will bet anything you do not believe
a word of all you have been telling us."

"I do not see the Count of Monte Cristo
here."

"He is worn out," said Debray; "besides,
he could not well appear in public,
since he has been the dupe of the
Cavalcanti, who, it appears, presented
themselves to him with false letters of
credit, and cheated him out of 100,000
francs upon the hypothesis of this
principality."

"By the way, M. de Chateau-Renaud,"
asked Beauchamp, "how is Morrel?"

"Ma foi, I have called three times
without once seeing him. Still, his
sister did not seem uneasy, and told me
that though she had not seen him for two
or three days, she was sure he was
well."

"Ah, now I think of it, the Count of
Monte Cristo cannot appear in the hall,"
said Beauchamp.

"Why not?"

"Because he is an actor in the drama."

"Has he assassinated any one, then?"

"No, on the contrary, they wished to
assassinate him. You know that it was in
leaving his house that M. de Caderousse
was murdered by his friend Benedetto.
You know that the famous waistcoat was
found in his house, containing the
letter which stopped the signature of
the marriage-contract. Do you see the
waistcoat? There it is, all
blood-stained, on the desk, as a
testimony of the crime."

"Ah, very good."

"Hush, gentlemen, here is the court; let
us go back to our places." A noise was
heard in the hall; the sergeant called
his two patrons with an energetic "hem!"
and the door-keeper appearing, called
out with that shrill voice peculiar to
his order, ever since the days of
Beaumarchais, "The court, gentlemen!"



Chapter 110 The Indictment.

The judges took their places in the
midst of the most profound silence; the
jury took their seats; M. de Villefort,
the object of unusual attention, and we
had almost said of general admiration,
sat in the arm-chair and cast a tranquil
glance around him. Every one looked with
astonishment on that grave and severe
face, whose calm expression personal
griefs had been unable to disturb, and
the aspect of a man who was a stranger
to all human emotions excited something
very like terror.

"Gendarmes," said the president, "lead
in the accused."

At these words the public attention
became more intense, and all eyes were
turned towards the door through which
Benedetto was to enter. The door soon
opened and the accused appeared. The
same impression was experienced by all
present, and no one was deceived by the
expression of his countenance. His
features bore no sign of that deep
emotion which stops the beating of the
heart and blanches the cheek. His hands,
gracefully placed, one upon his hat, the
other in the opening of his white
waistcoat, were not at all tremulous;
his eye was calm and even brilliant.
Scarcely had he entered the hall when he
glanced at the whole body of magistrates
and assistants; his eye rested longer on
the president, and still more so on the
king's attorney. By the side of Andrea
was stationed the lawyer who was to
conduct his defence, and who had been
appointed by the court, for Andrea
disdained to pay any attention to those
details, to which he appeared to attach
no importance. The lawyer was a young
man with light hair whose face expressed
a hundred times more emotion than that
which characterized the prisoner.

The president called for the indictment,
revised as we know, by the clever and
implacable pen of Villefort. During the
reading of this, which was long, the
public attention was continually drawn
towards Andrea, who bore the inspection
with Spartan unconcern. Villefort had
never been so concise and eloquent. The
crime was depicted in the most vivid
colors; the former life of the prisoner,
his transformation, a review of his life
from the earliest period, were set forth
with all the talent that a knowledge of
human life could furnish to a mind like
that of the procureur. Benedetto was
thus forever condemned in public opinion
before the sentence of the law could be
pronounced. Andrea paid no attention to
the successive charges which were
brought against him. M. de Villefort,
who examined him attentively, and who no
doubt practiced upon him all the
psychological studies he was accustomed
to use, in vain endeavored to make him
lower his eyes, notwithstanding the
depth and profundity of his gaze. At
length the reading of the indictment was
ended.

"Accused," said the president, "your
name and surname?" Andrea arose. "Excuse
me, Mr. President," he said, in a clear
voice, "but I see you are going to adopt
a course of questions through which I
cannot follow you. I have an idea, which
I will explain by and by, of making an
exception to the usual form of
accusation. Allow me, then, if you
please, to answer in different order, or
I will not do so at all." The astonished
president looked at the jury, who in
turn looked at Villefort. The whole
assembly manifested great surprise, but
Andrea appeared quite unmoved. "Your
age?" said the president; "will you
answer that question?"

"I will answer that question, as well as
the rest, Mr. President, but in its
turn."

"Your age?" repeated the president.

"I am twenty-one years old, or rather I
shall be in a few days, as I was born
the night of the 27th of September,
1817." M. de Villefort, who was busy
taking down some notes, raised his head
at the mention of this date. "Where were
you born?" continued the president.

"At Auteuil, near Paris." M. de
Villefort a second time raised his head,
looked at Benedetto as if he had been
gazing at the head of Medusa, and became
livid. As for Benedetto, he gracefully
wiped his lips with a fine cambric
pocket-handkerchief. "Your profession?"

"First I was a forger," answered Andrea,
as calmly as possible; "then I became a
thief, and lately have become an
assassin." A murmur, or rather storm, of
indignation burst from all parts of the
assembly. The judges themselves appeared
to be stupefied, and the jury manifested
tokens of disgust for cynicism so
unexpected in a man of fashion. M. de
Villefort pressed his hand upon his
brow, which, at first pale, had become
red and burning; then he suddenly arose
and looked around as though he had lost
his senses -- he wanted air.

"Are you looking for anything, Mr.
Procureur?" asked Benedetto, with his
most ingratiating smile. M. de Villefort
answered nothing, but sat, or rather
threw himself down again upon his chair.
"And now, prisoner, will you consent to
tell your name?" said the president.
"The brutal affectation with which you
have enumerated and classified your
crimes calls for a severe reprimand on
the part of the court, both in the name
of morality, and for the respect due to
humanity. You appear to consider this a
point of honor, and it may be for this
reason, that you have delayed
acknowledging your name. You wished it
to be preceded by all these titles."

"It is quite wonderful, Mr. President,
how entirely you have read my thoughts,"
said Benedetto, in his softest voice and
most polite manner. "This is, indeed,
the reason why I begged you to alter the
order of the questions." The public
astonishment had reached its height.
There was no longer any deceit or
bravado in the manner of the accused.
The audience felt that a startling
revelation was to follow this ominous
prelude.

"Well," said the president; "your name?"

"I cannot tell you my name, since I do
not know it; but I know my father's, and
can tell it to you."

A painful giddiness overwhelmed
Villefort; great drops of acrid sweat
fell from his face upon the papers which
he held in his convulsed hand.

"Repeat your father's name," said the
president. Not a whisper, not a breath,
was heard in that vast assembly; every
one waited anxiously.

"My father is king's attorney," replied
Andrea calmly.

"King's attorney?" said the president,
stupefied, and without noticing the
agitation which spread over the face of
M. de Villefort; "king's attorney?"

"Yes; and if you wish to know his name,
I will tell it, -- he is named
Villefort." The explosion, which had
been so long restrained from a feeling
of respect to the court of justice, now
burst forth like thunder from the
breasts of all present; the court itself
did not seek to restrain the feelings of
the audience. The exclamations, the
insults addressed to Benedetto, who
remained perfectly unconcerned, the
energetic gestures, the movement of the
gendarmes, the sneers of the scum of the
crowd always sure to rise to the surface
in case of any disturbance -- all this
lasted five minutes, before the
door-keepers and magistrates were able
to restore silence. In the midst of this
tumult the voice of the president was
heard to exclaim, -- "Are you playing
with justice, accused, and do you dare
set your fellow-citizens an example of
disorder which even in these times his
never been equalled?"

Several persons hurried up to M. de
Villefort, who sat half bowed over in
his chair, offering him consolation,
encouragement, and protestations of zeal
and sympathy. Order was re-established
in the hall, except that a few people
still moved about and whispered to one
another. A lady, it was said, had just
fainted; they had supplied her with a
smelling-bottle, and she had recovered.
During the scene of tumult, Andrea had
turned his smiling face towards the
assembly; then, leaning with one hand on
the oaken rail of the dock, in the most
graceful attitude possible, he said:
"Gentlemen, I assure you I had no idea
of insulting the court, or of making a
useless disturbance in the presence of
this honorable assembly. They ask my
age; I tell it. They ask where I was
born; I answer. They ask my name, I
cannot give it, since my parents
abandoned me. But though I cannot give
my own name, not possessing one, I can
tell them my father's. Now I repeat, my
father is named M. de Villefort, and I
am ready to prove it."

There was an energy, a conviction, and a
sincerity in the manner of the young
man, which silenced the tumult. All eyes
were turned for a moment towards the
procureur, who sat as motionless as
though a thunderbolt had changed him
into a corpse. "Gentlemen," said Andrea,
commanding silence by his voice and
manner; "I owe you the proofs and
explanations of what I have said."

"But," said the irritated president,
"you called yourself Benedetto, declared
yourself an orphan, and claimed Corsica
as your country."

"I said anything I pleased, in order
that the solemn declaration I have just
made should not be withheld, which
otherwise would certainly have been the
case. I now repeat that I was born at
Auteuil on the night of the 27th of
September, 1817, and that I am the son
of the procureur, M. de Villefort. Do
you wish for any further details? I will
give them. I was born in No. 28, Rue de
la Fontaine, in a room hung with red
damask; my father took me in his arms,
telling my mother I was dead, wrapped me
in a napkin marked with an H and an N,
and carried me into a garden, where he
buried me alive."

A shudder ran through the assembly when
they saw that the confidence of the
prisoner increased in proportion to the
terror of M. de Villefort. "But how have
you become acquainted with all these
details?" asked the president.

"I will tell you, Mr. President. A man
who had sworn vengeance against my
father, and had long watched his
opportunity to kill him, had introduced
himself that night into the garden in
which my father buried me. He was
concealed in a thicket; he saw my father
bury something in the ground, and
stabbed him; then thinking the deposit
might contain some treasure he turned up
the ground, and found me still living.
The man carried me to the foundling
asylum, where I was registered under the
number 37. Three months afterwards, a
woman travelled from Rogliano to Paris
to fetch me, and having claimed me as
her son, carried me away. Thus, you see,
though born in Paris, I was brought up
in Corsica."

There was a moment's silence, during
which one could have fancied the hall
empty, so profound was the stillness.
"Proceed," said the president.

"Certainly, I might have lived happily
amongst those good people, who adored
me, but my perverse disposition
prevailed over the virtues which my
adopted mother endeavored to instil into
my heart. I increased in wickedness till
I committed crime. One day when I cursed
providence for making me so wicked, and
ordaining me to such a fate, my adopted
father said to me, `Do not blaspheme,
unhappy child, the crime is that of your
father, not yours, -- of your father,
who consigned you to hell if you died,
and to misery if a miracle preserved you
alive.' After that I ceased to
blaspheme, but I cursed my father. That
is why I have uttered the words for
which you blame me; that is why I have
filled this whole assembly with horror.
If I have committed an additional crime,
punish me, but if you will allow that
ever since the day of my birth my fate
has been sad, bitter, and lamentable,
then pity me."

"But your mother?" asked the president.

"My mother thought me dead; she is not
guilty. I did not even wish to know her
name, nor do I know it." Just then a
piercing cry, ending in a sob, burst
from the centre of the crowd, who
encircled the lady who had before
fainted, and who now fell into a violent
fit of hysterics. She was carried out of
the hall, the thick veil which concealed
her face dropped off, and Madame
Danglars was recognized. Notwithstanding
his shattered nerves, the ringing
sensation in his ears, and the madness
which turned his brain, Villefort rose
as he perceived her. "The proofs, the
proofs!" said the president; "remember
this tissue of horrors must be supported
by the clearest proofs "

"The proofs?" said Benedetto, laughing;
"do you want proofs?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, look at M. de Villefort,
and then ask me for proofs."

Every one turned towards the procureur,
who, unable to bear the universal gaze
now riveted on him alone, advanced
staggering into the midst of the
tribunal, with his hair dishevelled and
his face indented with the mark of his
nails. The whole assembly uttered a long
murmur of astonishment. "Father," said
Benedetto, "I am asked for proofs, do
you wish me to give them?"

"No, no, it is useless," stammered M. de
Villefort in a hoarse voice; "no, it is
useless!"

"How useless?" cried the president,
"what do you mean?"

"I mean that I feel it impossible to
struggle against this deadly weight
which crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I am
in the hands of an avenging God! We need
no proofs; everything relating to this
young man is true." A dull, gloomy
silence, like that which precedes some
awful phenomenon of nature, pervaded the
assembly, who shuddered in dismay.
"What, M. de Villefort," cried the
president, "do you yield to an
hallucination? What, are you no longer
in possession of your senses? This
strange, unexpected, terrible accusation
has disordered your reason. Come,
recover."

The procureur dropped his head; his
teeth chattered like those of a man
under a violent attack of fever, and yet
he was deadly pale.

"I am in possession of all my senses,
sir," he said; "my body alone suffers,
as you may suppose. I acknowledge myself
guilty of all the young man has brought
against me, and from this hour hold
myself under the authority of the
procureur who will succeed me."

And as he spoke these words with a
hoarse, choking voice, he staggered
towards the door, which was mechanically
opened by a door-keeper. The whole
assembly were dumb with astonishment at
the revelation and confession which had
produced a catastrophe so different from
that which had been expected during the
last fortnight by the Parisian world.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "let them now
say that drama is unnatural!"

"Ma foi!" said Chateau-Renaud, "I would
rather end my career like M. de Morcerf;
a pistol-shot seems quite delightful
compared with this catastrophe."

"And moreover, it kills," said
Beauchamp.

"And to think that I had an idea of
marrying his daughter," said Debray.
"She did well to die, poor girl!"

"The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen,"
said the president; "fresh inquiries
will be made, and the case will be tried
next session by another magistrate." As
for Andrea, who was calm and more
interesting than ever, he left the hall,
escorted by gendarmes, who involuntarily
paid him some attention. "Well, what do
you think of this, my fine fellow?"
asked Debray of the sergeant-at-arms,
slipping a louis into his hand. "There
will be extenuating circumstances," he
replied.



Chapter 111 Expiation.

Notwithstanding the density of the
crowd, M. de Villefort saw it open
before him. There is something so
awe-inspiring in great afflictions that
even in the worst times the first
emotion of a crowd has generally been to
sympathize with the sufferer in a great
catastrophe. Many people have been
assassinated in a tumult, but even
criminals have rarely been insulted
during trial. Thus Villefort passed
through the mass of spectators and
officers of the Palais, and withdrew.
Though he had acknowledged his guilt, he
was protected by his grief. There are
some situations which men understand by
instinct, but which reason is powerless
to explain; in such cases the greatest
poet is he who gives utterance to the
most natural and vehement outburst of
sorrow. Those who hear the bitter cry
are as much impressed as if they
listened to an entire poem, and when the
sufferer is sincere they are right in
regarding his outburst as sublime.

It would be difficult to describe the
state of stupor in which Villefort left
the Palais. Every pulse beat with
feverish excitement, every nerve was
strained, every vein swollen, and every
part of his body seemed to suffer
distinctly from the rest, thus
multiplying his agony a thousand-fold.
He made his way along the corridors
through force of habit; he threw aside
his magisterial robe, not out of
deference to etiquette, but because it
was an unbearable burden, a veritable
garb of Nessus, insatiate in torture.
Having staggered as far as the Rue
Dauphine, he perceived his carriage,
awoke his sleeping coachman by opening
the door himself, threw himself on the
cushions, and pointed towards the
Faubourg Saint-Honore; the carriage
drove on. The weight of his fallen
fortunes seemed suddenly to crush him;
he could not foresee the consequences;
he could not contemplate the future with
the indifference of the hardened
criminal who merely faces a contingency
already familiar. God was still in his
heart. "God," he murmured, not knowing
what he said, -- "God -- God!" Behind
the event that had overwhelmed him he
saw the hand of God. The carriage rolled
rapidly onward. Villefort, while turning
restlessly on the cushions, felt
something press against him. He put out
his hand to remove the object; it was a
fan which Madame de Villefort had left
in the carriage; this fan awakened a
recollection which darted through his
mind like lightning. He thought of his
wife.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, as though a redhot
iron were piercing his heart. During the
last hour his own crime had alone been
presented to his mind; now another
object, not less terrible, suddenly
presented itself. His wife! He had just
acted the inexorable judge with her, he
had condemned her to death, and she,
crushed by remorse, struck with terror,
covered with the shame inspired by the
eloquence of his irreproachable
virtue, -- she, a poor, weak woman,
without help or the power of defending
herself against his absolute and supreme
will, -- she might at that very moment,
perhaps, be preparing to die! An hour
had elapsed since her condemnation; at
that moment, doubtless, she was
recalling all her crimes to her memory;
she was asking pardon for her sins;
perhaps she was even writing a letter
imploring forgiveness from her virtuous
husband -- a forgiveness she was
purchasing with her death! Villefort
again groaned with anguish and despair.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "that woman became
criminal only from associating with me!
I carried the infection of crime with
me, and she has caught it as she would
the typhus fever, the cholera, the
plague! And yet I have punished her -- I
have dared to tell her -- I have --
`Repent and die!' But no, she must not
die; she shall live, and with me. We
will flee from Paris and go as far as
the earth reaches. I told her of the
scaffold; oh, heavens, I forgot that it
awaits me also! How could I pronounce
that word? Yes, we will fly; I will
confess all to her, -- I will tell her
daily that I also have committed a
crime! -- Oh, what an alliance -- the
tiger and the serpent; worthy wife of
such as I am! She must live that my
infamy may diminish hers." And Villefort
dashed open the window in front of the
carriage.

"Faster, faster!" he cried, in a tone
which electrified the coachman. The
horses, impelled by fear, flew towards
the house.

"Yes, yes," repeated Villefort, as he
approached his home -- "yes, that woman
must live; she must repent, and educate
my son, the sole survivor, with the
exception of the indestructible old man,
of the wreck of my house. She loves him;
it was for his sake she has committed
these crimes. We ought never to despair
of softening the heart of a mother who
loves her child. She will repent, and no
one will know that she has been guilty.
The events which have taken place in my
house, though they now occupy the public
mind, will be forgotten in time, or if,
indeed, a few enemies should persist in
remembering them, why then I will add
them to my list of crimes. What will it
signify if one, two, or three more are
added? My wife and child shall escape
from this gulf, carrying treasures with
them; she will live and may yet be
happy, since her child, in whom all her
love is centred, will be with her. I
shall have performed a good action, and
my heart will be lighter." And the
procureur breathed more freely than he
had done for some time.

The carriage stopped at the door of the
house. Villefort leaped out of the
carriage, and saw that his servants were
surprised at his early return; he could
read no other expression on their
features. Neither of them spoke to him;
they merely stood aside to let him pass
by, as usual, nothing more. As he passed
by M. Noirtier's room, he perceived two
figures through the half-open door; but
he experienced no curiosity to know who
was visiting his father: anxiety carried
him on further.

"Come," he said, as he ascended the
stairs leading to his wife's room,
"nothing is changed here." He then
closed the door of the landing. "No one
must disturb us," he said; "I must speak
freely to her, accuse myself, and
say" -- he approached the door, touched
the crystal handle, which yielded to his
hand. "Not locked," he cried; "that is
well." And he entered the little room in
which Edward slept; for though the child
went to school during the day, his
mother could not allow him to be
separated from her at night. With a
single glance Villefort's eye ran
through the room. "Not here," he said;
"doubtless she is in her bedroom." He
rushed towards the door, found it
bolted, and stopped, shuddering.
"Heloise!" he cried. He fancied he heard
the sound of a piece of furniture being
removed. "Heloise!" he repeated.

"Who is there?" answered the voice of
her he sought. He thought that voice
more feeble than usual.

"Open the door!" cried Villefort. "Open;
it is I." But notwithstanding this
request, notwithstanding the tone of
anguish in which it was uttered, the
door remained closed. Villefort burst it
open with a violent blow. At the
entrance of the room which led to her
boudoir, Madame de Villefort was
standing erect, pale, her features
contracted, and her eyes glaring
horribly. "Heloise, Heloise!" he said,
"what is the matter? Speak!" The young
woman extended her stiff white hands
towards him. "It is done, monsieur," she
said with a rattling noise which seemed
to tear her throat. "What more do you
want?" and she fell full length on the
floor. Villefort ran to her and seized
her hand, which convulsively clasped a
crystal bottle with a golden stopper.
Madame de Villefort was dead. Villefort,
maddened with horror, stepped back to
the threshhold of the door, fixing his
eyes on the corpse: "My son!" he
exclaimed suddenly, "where is my son? --
Edward, Edward!" and he rushed out of
the room, still crying, "Edward,
Edward!" The name was pronounced in such
a tone of anguish that the servants ran
up.

"Where is my son?" asked Villefort; "let
him be removed from the house, that he
may not see" --

"Master Edward is not down-stairs, sir,"
replied the valet.

"Then he must be playing in the garden;
go and see."

"No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for
him half an hour ago; he went into her
room, and has not been down-stairs
since." A cold perspiration burst out on
Villefort's brow; his legs trembled, and
his thoughts flew about madly in his
brain like the wheels of a disordered
watch. "In Madame de Villefort's room?"
he murmured and slowly returned, with
one hand wiping his forehead, and with
the other supporting himself against the
wall. To enter the room he must again
see the body of his unfortunate wife. To
call Edward he must reawaken the echo of
that room which now appeared like a
sepulchre; to speak seemed like
violating the silence of the tomb. His
tongue was paralyzed in his mouth.

"Edward!" he stammered -- "Edward!" The
child did not answer. Where, then, could
he be, if he had entered his mother's
room and not since returned? He stepped
forward. The corpse of Madame de
Villefort was stretched across the
doorway leading to the room in which
Edward must be; those glaring eyes
seemed to watch over the threshold, and
the lips bore the stamp of a terrible
and mysterious irony. Through the open
door was visible a portion of the
boudoir, containing an upright piano and
a blue satin couch. Villefort stepped
forward two or three paces, and beheld
his child lying -- no doubt asleep -- on
the sofa. The unhappy man uttered an
exclamation of joy; a ray of light
seemed to penetrate the abyss of despair
and darkness. He had only to step over
the corpse, enter the boudoir, take the
child in his arms, and flee far, far
away.

Villefort was no longer the civilized
man; he was a tiger hurt unto death,
gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no
longer feared realities, but phantoms.
He leaped over the corpse as if it had
been a burning brazier. He took the
child in his arms, embraced him, shook
him, called him, but the child made no
response. He pressed his burning lips to
the cheeks, but they were icy cold and
pale; he felt the stiffened limbs; he
pressed his hand upon the heart, but it
no longer beat, -- the child was dead. A
folded paper fell from Edward's breast.
Villefort, thunderstruck, fell upon his
knees; the child dropped from his arms,
and rolled on the floor by the side of
its mother. He picked up the paper, and,
recognizing his wife's writing, ran his
eyes rapidly over its contents; it ran
as follows: --

"You know that I was a good mother,
since it was for my son's sake I became
criminal. A good mother cannot depart
without her son."

Villefort could not believe his eyes, --
he could not believe his reason; he
dragged himself towards the child's
body, and examined it as a lioness
contemplates its dead cub. Then a
piercing cry escaped from his breast,
and he cried, "Still the hand of God."
The presence of the two victims alarmed
him; he could not bear solitude shared
only by two corpses. Until then he had
been sustained by rage, by his strength
of mind, by despair, by the supreme
agony which led the Titans to scale the
heavens, and Ajax to defy the gods. He
now arose, his head bowed beneath the
weight of grief, and, shaking his damp,
dishevelled hair, he who had never felt
compassion for any one determined to
seek his father, that he might have some
one to whom he could relate his
misfortunes, -- some one by whose side
he might weep. He descended the little
staircase with which we are acquainted,
and entered Noirtier's room. The old man
appeared to be listening attentively and
as affectionately as his infirmities
would allow to the Abbe Busoni, who
looked cold and calm, as usual.
Villefort, perceiving the abbe, passed
his hand across his brow. He recollected
the call he had made upon him after the
dinner at Auteuil, and then the visit
the abbe had himself paid to his house
on the day of Valentine's death. "You
here, sir!" he exclaimed; "do you, then,
never appear but to act as an escort to
death?"

Busoni turned around, and, perceiving
the excitement depicted on the
magistrate's face, the savage lustre of
his eyes, he understood that the
revelation had been made at the assizes;
but beyond this he was ignorant. "I came
to pray over the body of your daughter."

"And now why are you here?"

"I come to tell you that you have
sufficiently repaid your debt, and that
from this moment I will pray to God to
forgive you, as I do."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Villefort,
stepping back fearfully, "surely that is
not the voice of the Abbe Busoni!"

"No!" The abbe threw off his wig, shook
his head, and his hair, no longer
confined, fell in black masses around
his manly face.

"It is the face of the Count of Monte
Cristo!" exclaimed the procureur, with a
haggard expression.

"You are not exactly right, M.
Procureur; you must go farther back."

"That voice, that voice! -- where did I
first hear it?"

"You heard it for the first time at
Marseilles, twenty-three years ago, the
day of your marriage with Mademoiselle
de Saint-Meran. Refer to your papers."

"You are not Busoni? -- you are not
Monte Cristo? Oh, heavens -- you are,
then, some secret, implacable, and
mortal enemy! I must have wronged you in
some way at Marseilles. Oh, woe to me!"

"Yes; you are now on the right path,"
said the count, crossing his arms over
his broad chest; "search -- search!"

"But what have I done to you?" exclaimed
Villefort, whose mind was balancing
between reason and insanity, in that
cloud which is neither a dream nor
reality; "what have I done to you? Tell
me, then! Speak!"

"You condemned me to a horrible, tedious
death; you killed my father; you
deprived me of liberty, of love, and
happiness."

"Who are you, then? Who are you?"

"I am the spectre of a wretch you buried
in the dungeons of the Chateau d'If. God
gave that spectre the form of the Count
of Monte Cristo when he at length issued
from his tomb, enriched him with gold
and diamonds, and led him to you!"

"Ah, I recognize you -- I recognize
you!" exclaimed the king's attorney;
"you are" --

"I am Edmond Dantes!"

"You are Edmond Dantes," cried
Villefort, seizing the count by the
wrist; "then come here!" And up the
stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who,
ignorant of what had happened, followed
him in astonishment, foreseeing some new
catastrophe. "There, Edmond Dantes!" he
said, pointing to the bodies of his wife
and child, "see, are you well avenged?"
Monte Cristo became pale at this
horrible sight; he felt that he had
passed beyond the bounds of vengeance,
and that he could no longer say, "God is
for and with me." With an expression of
indescribable anguish he threw himself
upon the body of the child, reopened its
eyes, felt its pulse, and then rushed
with him into Valentine's room, of which
he double-locked the door. "My child,"
cried Villefort, "he carries away the
body of my child! Oh, curses, woe, death
to you!" and he tried to follow Monte
Cristo; but as though in a dream he was
transfixed to the spot, -- his eyes
glared as though they were starting
through the sockets; he griped the flesh
on his chest until his nails were
stained with blood; the veins of his
temples swelled and boiled as though
they would burst their narrow boundary,
and deluge his brain with living fire.
This lasted several minutes, until the
frightful overturn of reason was
accomplished; then uttering a loud cry
followed by a burst of laughter, he
rushed down the stairs.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the door
of Valentine's room opened, and Monte
Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye
and heavy heart, all the noble features
of that face, usually so calm and
serene, were overcast by grief. In his
arms he held the child, whom no skill
had been able to recall to life. Bending
on one knee, he placed it reverently by
the side of its mother, with its head
upon her breast. Then, rising, he went
out, and meeting a servant on the
stairs, he asked, "Where is M. de
Villefort?"

The servant, instead of answering,
pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo ran
down the steps, and advancing towards
the spot designated beheld Villefort,
encircled by his servants, with a spade
in his hand, and digging the earth with
fury. "It is not here!" he cried. "It is
not here!" And then he moved farther on,
and began again to dig.

Monte Cristo approached him, and said in
a low voice, with an expression almost
humble, "Sir, you have indeed lost a
son; but" --

Villefort interrupted him; he had
neither listened nor heard. "Oh, I will
find it," he cried; "you may pretend he
is not here, but I will find him, though
I dig forever!" Monte Cristo drew back
in horror. "Oh," he said, "he is mad!"
And as though he feared that the walls
of the accursed house would crumble
around him, he rushed into the street,
for the first time doubting whether he
had the right to do as he had done. "Oh,
enough of this, -- enough of this," he
cried; "let me save the last." On
entering his house, he met Morrel, who
wandered about like a ghost awaiting the
heavenly mandate for return to the tomb.
"Prepare yourself, Maximilian," he said
with a smile; "we leave Paris
to-morrow."

"Have you nothing more to do there?"
asked Morrel.

"No," replied Monte Cristo; "God grant I
may not have done too much already."

The next day they indeed left,
accompanied only by Baptistin. Haidee
had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio
remained with Noirtier.



Chapter 112 The Departure.

The recent event formed the theme of
conversation throughout all Paris.
Emmanuel and his wife conversed with
natural astonishment in their little
apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the
three successive, sudden, and most
unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf,
Danglars, and Villefort. Maximilian, who
was paying them a visit, listened to
their conversation, or rather was
present at it, plunged in his accustomed
state of apathy. "Indeed," said Julie,
"might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel,
that those people, so rich, so happy but
yesterday, had forgotten in their
prosperity that an evil genius -- like
the wicked fairies in Perrault's stories
who present themselves unbidden at a
wedding or baptism -- hovered over them,
and appeared all at once to revenge
himself for their fatal neglect?"

"What a dire misfortune!" said Emmanuel,
thinking of Morcerf and Danglars.

"What dreadful sufferings!" said Julie,
remembering Valentine, but whom, with a
delicacy natural to women, she did not
name before her brother.

"If the Supreme Being has directed the
fatal blow," said Emmanuel, "it must be
that he in his great goodness has
perceived nothing in the past lives of
these people to merit mitigation of
their awful punishment."

"Do you not form a very rash judgment,
Emmanuel?" said Julie. "When my father,
with a pistol in his hand, was once on
the point of committing suicide, had any
one then said, `This man deserves his
misery,' would not that person have been
deceived?"

"Yes; but your father was not allowed to
fall. A being was commissioned to arrest
the fatal hand of death about to descend
on him."

Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these
words when the sound of the bell was
heard, the well-known signal given by
the porter that a visitor had arrived.
Nearly at the same instant the door was
opened and the Count of Monte Cristo
appeared on the threshold. The young
people uttered a cry of joy, while
Maximilian raised his head, but let it
fall again immediately. "Maximilian,"
said the count, without appearing to
notice the different impressions which
his presence produced on the little
circle, "I come to seek you."

"To seek me?" repeated Morrel, as if
awakening from a dream.

"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "has it not
been agreed that I should take you with
me, and did I not tell you yesterday to
prepare for departure?"

"I am ready," said Maximilian; "I came
expressly to wish them farewell."

"Whither are you going, count?" asked
Julie.

"In the first instance to Marseilles,
madame."

"To Marseilles!" exclaimed the young
couple.

"Yes, and I take your brother with me."

"Oh, count." said Julie, "will you
restore him to us cured of his
melancholy?" -- Morrel turned away to
conceal the confusion of his
countenance.

"You perceive, then, that he is not
happy?" said the count. "Yes," replied
the young woman; "and fear much that he
finds our home but a dull one."

"I will undertake to divert him,"
replied the count.

"I am ready to accompany you, sir," said
Maximilian. "Adieu, my kind friends!
Emmanuel -- Julie -- farewell!"

"How farewell?" exclaimed Julie; "do you
leave us thus, so suddenly, without any
preparations for your journey, without
even a passport?"

"Needless delays but increase the grief
of parting," said Monte Cristo, "and
Maximilian has doubtless provided
himself with everything requisite; at
least, I advised him to do so."

"I have a passport, and my clothes are
ready packed," said Morrel in his
tranquil but mournful manner.

"Good," said Monte Cristo, smiling; "in
these prompt arrangements we recognize
the order of a well-disciplined
soldier."

"And you leave us," said Julie, "at a
moment's warning? you do not give us a
day -- no, not even an hour before your
departure?"

"My carriage is at the door, madame, and
I must be in Rome in five days."

"But does Maximilian go to Rome?"
exclaimed Emmanuel.

"I am going wherever it may please the
count to take me," said Morrel, with a
smile full of grief; "I am under his
orders for the next month."

"Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses
himself, count!" said Julie.

"Maximilian goes with me," said the
count, in his kindest and most
persuasive manner; "therefore do not
make yourself uneasy on your brother's
account."

"Once more farewell, my dear sister;
Emmanuel, adieu!" Morrel repeated.

"His carelessness and indifference touch
me to the heart," said Julie. "Oh,
Maximilian, Maximilian, you are
certainly concealing something from us."

"Pshaw!" said Monte Cristo, "you will
see him return to you gay, smiling, and
joyful."

Maximilian cast a look of disdain,
almost of anger, on the count.

"We must leave you," said Monte Cristo.

"Before you quit us, count," said Julie,
"will you permit us to express to you
all that the other day" --

"Madame," interrupted the count, taking
her two hands in his, "all that you
could say in words would never express
what I read in your eyes; the thoughts
of your heart are fully understood by
mine. Like benefactors in romances, I
should have left you without seeing you
again, but that would have been a virtue
beyond my strength, because I am a weak
and vain man, fond of the tender, kind,
and thankful glances of my
fellow-creatures. On the eve of
departure I carry my egotism so far as
to say, `Do not forget me, my kind
friends, for probably you will never see
me again.'"

"Never see you again?" exclaimed
Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled
down Julie's cheeks, "never behold you
again? It is not a man, then, but some
angel that leaves us, and this angel is
on the point of returning to heaven
after having appeared on earth to do
good."

"Say not so," quickly returned Monte
Cristo -- "say not so, my friends;
angels never err, celestial beings
remain where they wish to be. Fate is
not more powerful than they; it is they
who, on the contrary, overcome fate. No,
Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your
admiration is as unmerited as your words
are sacrilegious." And pressing his lips
on the hand of Julie, who rushed into
his arms, he extended his other hand to
Emmanuel; then tearing himself from this
abode of peace and happiness, he made a
sign to Maximilian, who followed him
passively, with the indifference which
had been perceptible in him ever since
the death of Valentine had so stunned
him. "Restore my brother to peace and
happiness," whispered Julie to Monte
Cristo. And the count pressed her hand
in reply, as he had done eleven years
before on the staircase leading to
Morrel's study.

"You still confide, then, in Sinbad the
Sailor?" asked he, smiling.

"Oh, yes," was the ready answer.

"Well, then, sleep in peace, and put
your trust in heaven." As we have before
said, the postchaise was waiting; four
powerful horses were already pawing the
ground with impatience, while Ali,
apparently just arrived from a long
walk, was standing at the foot of the
steps, his face bathed in perspiration.
"Well," asked the count in Arabic, "have
you been to see the old man?" Ali made a
sign in the affirmative.

"And have you placed the letter before
him, as I ordered you to do?"

The slave respectfully signalized that
he had. "And what did he say, or rather
do?" Ali placed himself in the light, so
that his master might see him
distinctly, and then imitating in his
intelligent manner the countenance of
the old man, he closed his eyes, as
Noirtier was in the custom of doing when
saying "Yes."

"Good; he accepts," said Monte Cristo.
"Now let us go."

These words had scarcely escaped him,
when the carriage was on its way, and
the feet of the horses struck a shower
of sparks from the pavement. Maximilian
settled himself in his corner without
uttering a word. Half an hour had passed
when the carriage stopped suddenly; the
count had just pulled the silken
check-string, which was fastened to
Ali's finger. The Nubian immediately
descended and opened the carriage door.
It was a lovely starlight night -- they
had just reached the top of the hill
Villejuif, from whence Paris appears
like a sombre sea tossing its millions
of phosphoric waves into light -- waves
indeed more noisy, more passionate, more
changeable, more furious, more greedy,
than those of the tempestuous ocean, --
waves which never rest as those of the
sea sometimes do, -- waves ever dashing,
ever foaming, ever ingulfing what falls
within their grasp. The count stood
alone, and at a sign from his hand, the
carriage went on for a short distance.
With folded arms, he gazed for some time
upon the great city. When he had fixed
his piercing look on this modern
Babylon, which equally engages the
contemplation of the religious
enthusiast, the materialist, and the
scoffer, -- "Great city," murmured he,
inclining his head, and joining his
hands as if in prayer, "less than six
months have elapsed since first I
entered thy gates. I believe that the
Spirit of God led my steps to thee and
that he also enables me to quit thee in
triumph; the secret cause of my presence
within thy walls I have confided alone
to him who only has had the power to
read my heart. God only knows that I
retire from thee without pride or
hatred, but not without many regrets; he
only knows that the power confided to me
has never been made subservient to my
personal good or to any useless cause.
Oh, great city, it is in thy palpitating
bosom that I have found that which I
sought; like a patient miner, I have dug
deep into thy very entrails to root out
evil thence. Now my work is
accomplished, my mission is terminated,
now thou canst neither afford me pain
nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu!"

His look wandered over the vast plain
like that of some genius of the night;
he passed his hand over his brow, got
into the carriage, the door was closed
on him, and the vehicle quickly
disappeared down the other side of the
hill in a whirlwind of noise and dust.

Ten leagues were passed and not a single
word was uttered.

Morrel was dreaming, and Monte Cristo
was looking at the dreamer.

"Morrel," said the count to him at
length, "do you repent having followed
me?"

"No, count; but to leave Paris" --

"If I thought happiness might await you
in Paris, Morrel, I would have left you
there."

"Valentine reposes within the walls of
Paris, and to leave Paris is like losing
her a second time."

"Maximilian," said the count, "the
friends that we have lost do not repose
in the bosom of the earth, but are
buried deep in our hearts, and it has
been thus ordained that we may always be
accompanied by them. I have two friends,
who in this way never depart from me;
the one who gave me being, and the other
who conferred knowledge and intelligence
on me. Their spirits live in me. I
consult them when doubtful, and if I
ever do any good, it is due to their
beneficent counsels. Listen to the voice
of your heart, Morrel, and ask it
whether you ought to preserve this
melancholy exterior towards me."

"My friend," said Maximilian, "the voice
of my heart is very sorrowful, and
promises me nothing but misfortune."

"It is the way of weakened minds to see
everything through a black cloud. The
soul forms its own horizons; your soul
is darkened, and consequently the sky of
the future appears stormy and
unpromising."

"That may possibly be true," said
Maximilian, and he again subsided into
his thoughtful mood.

The journey was performed with that
marvellous rapidity which the unlimited
power of the count ever commanded. Towns
fled from them like shadows on their
path, and trees shaken by the first
winds of autumn seemed like giants madly
rushing on to meet them, and retreating
as rapidly when once reached. The
following morning they arrived at
Chalons, where the count's steamboat
waited for them. Without the loss of an
instant, the carriage was placed on
board and the two travellers embarked
without delay. The boat was built for
speed; her two paddle-wheels were like
two wings with which she skimmed the
water like a bird. Morrel was not
insensible to that sensation of delight
which is generally experienced in
passing rapidly through the air, and the
wind which occasionally raised the hair
from his forehead seemed on the point of
dispelling momentarily the clouds
collected there.

As the distance increased between the
travellers and Paris, almost superhuman
serenity appeared to surround the count;
he might have been taken for an exile
about to revisit his native land. Ere
long Marseilles presented herself to
view, -- Marseilles, white, fervid, full
of life and energy, -- Marseilles, the
younger sister of Tyre and Carthage, the
successor to them in the empire of the
Mediterranean, -- Marseilles, old, yet
always young. Powerful memories were
stirred within them by the sight of the
round tower, Fort Saint-Nicolas, the
City Hall designed by Puget,* the port
with its brick quays, where they had
both played in childhood, and it was
with one accord that they stopped on the
Cannebiere. A vessel was setting sail
for Algiers, on board of which the
bustle usually attending departure
prevailed. The passengers and their
relations crowded on the deck, friends
taking a tender but sorrowful leave of
each other, some weeping, others noisy
in their grief, the whole forming a
spectacle that might be exciting even to
those who witnessed similar sights
daily, but which had no power to disturb
the current of thought that had taken
possession of the mind of Maximilian
from the moment he had set foot on the
broad pavement of the quay.

* Pierre Puget, the sculptor-architect,
was born at Marseilles in 1622.

"Here," said he, leaning heavily on the
arm of Monte Cristo, -- "here is the
spot where my father stopped, when the
Pharaon entered the port; it was here
that the good old man, whom you saved
from death and dishonor, threw himself
into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears
on my face, and his were not the only
tears shed, for many who witnessed our
meeting wept also." Monte Cristo gently
smiled and said, -- "I was there;" at
the same time pointing to the corner of
a street. As he spoke, and in the very
direction he indicated, a groan,
expressive of bitter grief, was heard,
and a woman was seen waving her hand to
a passenger on board the vessel about to
sail. Monte Cristo looked at her with an
emotion that must have been remarked by
Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on
the vessel.

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Morrel, "I do
not deceive myself -- that young man who
is waving his hat, that youth in the
uniform of a lieutenant, is Albert de
Morcerf!"

"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "I recognized
him."

"How so? -- you were looking the other
way." the count smiled, as he was in the
habit of doing when he did not want to
make any reply, and he again turned
towards the veiled woman, who soon
disappeared at the corner of the street.
Turning to his friend, -- "Dear
Maximilian," said the count, "have you
nothing to do in this land?"

"I have to weep over the grave of my
father," replied Morrel in a broken
voice.

"Well, then, go, -- wait for me there,
and I will soon join you."

"You leave me, then?"

"Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay."

Morrel allowed his hand to fall into
that which the count extended to him;
then with an inexpressibly sorrowful
inclination of the head he quitted the
count and bent his steps to the east of
the city. Monte Cristo remained on the
same spot until Maximilian was out of
sight; he then walked slowly towards the
Allees de Meillan to seek out a small
house with which our readers were made
familiar at the beginning of this story.
It yet stood, under the shade of the
fine avenue of lime-trees, which forms
one of the most frequent walks of the
idlers of Marseilles, covered by an
immense vine, which spreads its aged and
blackened branches over the stone front,
burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the
south. Two stone steps worn away by the
friction of many feet led to the door,
which was made of three planks; the door
had never been painted or varnished, so
great cracks yawned in it during the dry
season to close again when the rains
came on. The house, with all its
crumbling antiquity and apparent misery,
was yet cheerful and picturesque, and
was the same that old Dantes formerly
inhabited -- the only difference being
that the old man occupied merely the
garret, while the whole house was now
placed at the command of Mercedes by the
count.

The woman whom the count had seen leave
the ship with so much regret entered
this house; she had scarcely closed the
door after her when Monte Cristo
appeared at the corner of a street, so
that he found and lost her again almost
at the same instant. The worn out steps
were old acquaintances of his; he knew
better than any one else how to open
that weather-beaten door with the large
headed nail which served to raise the
latch within. He entered without
knocking, or giving any other intimation
of his presence, as if he had been a
friend or the master of the place. At
the end of a passage paved with bricks,
was a little garden, bathed in sunshine,
and rich in warmth and light. In this
garden Mercedes had found, at the place
indicated by the count, the sum of money
which he, through a sense of delicacy,
had described as having been placed
there twenty-four years previously. The
trees of the garden were easily seen
from the steps of the street-door. Monte
Cristo, on stepping into the house,
heard a sigh that was almost a deep sob;
he looked in the direction whence it
came, and there under an arbor of
Virginia jessamine,* with its thick
foliage and beautiful long purple
flowers, he saw Mercedes seated, with
her head bowed, and weeping bitterly.
She had raised her veil, and with her
face hidden by her hands was giving free
scope to the sighs and tears which had
been so long restrained by the presence
of her son. Monte Cristo advanced a few
steps, which were heard on the gravel.
Mercedes raised her head, and uttered a
cry of terror on beholding a man before
her.

* The Carolina -- not Virginia --
jessamine, gelsemium sempervirens
(properly speaking not a jessamine at
all) has yellow blossoms. The reference
is no doubt to the Wistaria
frutescens. -- Ed.

"Madame," said the count, "it is no
longer in my power to restore you to
happiness, but I offer you consolation;
will you deign to accept it as coming
from a friend?"

"I am, indeed, most wretched," replied
Mercedes. "Alone in the world, I had but
my son, and he has left me!"

"He possesses a noble heart, madame,"
replied the count, "and he has acted
rightly. He feels that every man owes a
tribute to his country; some contribute
their talents, others their industry;
these devote their blood, those their
nightly labors, to the same cause. Had
he remained with you, his life must have
become a hateful burden, nor would he
have participated in your griefs. He
will increase in strength and honor by
struggling with adversity, which he will
convert into prosperity. Leave him to
build up the future for you, and I
venture to say you will confide it to
safe hands."

"Oh," replied the wretched woman,
mournfully shaking her head, "the
prosperity of which you speak, and
which, from the bottom of my heart, I
pray God in his mercy to grant him, I
can never enjoy. The bitter cup of
adversity has been drained by me to the
very dregs, and I feel that the grave is
not far distant. You have acted kindly,
count, in bringing me back to the place
where I have enjoyed so much bliss. I
ought to meet death on the same spot
where happiness was once all my own."

"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "your words
sear and embitter my heart, the more so
as you have every reason to hate me. I
have been the cause of all your
misfortunes; but why do you pity,
instead of blaming me? You render me
still more unhappy" --

"Hate you, blame you -- you, Edmond!
Hate, reproach, the man that has spared
my son's life! For was it not your fatal
and sanguinary intention to destroy that
son of whom M. de Morcerf was so proud?
Oh, look at me closely, and discover if
you can even the semblance of a reproach
in me." The count looked up and fixed
his eyes on Mercedes, who arose partly
from her seat and extended both her
hands towards him. "Oh, look at me,"
continued she, with a feeling of
profound melancholy, "my eyes no longer
dazzle by their brilliancy, for the time
has long fled since I used to smile on
Edmond Dantes, who anxiously looked out
for me from the window of yonder garret,
then inhabited by his old father. Years
of grief have created an abyss between
those days and the present. I neither
reproach you nor hate you, my friend.
Oh, no, Edmond, it is myself that I
blame, myself that I hate! Oh, miserable
creature that I am!" cried she, clasping
her hands, and raising her eyes to
heaven. "I once possessed piety,
innocence, and love, the three
ingredients of the happiness of angels,
and now what am I?" Monte Cristo
approached her, and silently took her
hand. "No," said she, withdrawing it
gently -- "no, my friend, touch me not.
You have spared me, yet of all those who
have fallen under your vengeance I was
the most guilty. They were influenced by
hatred, by avarice, and by self-love;
but I was base, and for want of courage
acted against my judgment. Nay, do not
press my hand, Edmond; you are thinking,
I am sure, of some kind speech to
console me, but do not utter it to me,
reserve it for others more worthy of
your kindness. See" (and she exposed her
face completely to view) -- "see,
misfortune has silvered my hair, my eyes
have shed so many tears that they are
encircled by a rim of purple, and my
brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on the
contrary, -- you are still young,
handsome, dignified; it is because you
have had faith; because you have had
strength, because you have had trust in
God, and God has sustained you. But as
for me, I have been a coward; I have
denied God and he has abandoned me."

Mercedes burst into tears; her woman's
heart was breaking under its load of
memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and
imprinted a kiss on it; but she herself
felt that it was a kiss of no greater
warmth than he would have bestowed on
the hand of some marble statue of a
saint. "It often happens," continued
she, "that a first fault destroys the
prospects of a whole life. I believed
you dead; why did I survive you? What
good has it done me to mourn for you
eternally in the secret recesses of my
heart? -- only to make a woman of
thirty-nine look like a woman of fifty.
Why, having recognized you, and I the
only one to do so -- why was I able to
save my son alone? Ought I not also to
have rescued the man that I had accepted
for a husband, guilty though he were?
Yet I let him die! What do I say? Oh,
merciful heavens, was I not accessory to
his death by my supine insensibility, by
my contempt for him, not remembering, or
not willing to remember, that it was for
my sake he had become a traitor and a
perjurer? In what am I benefited by
accompanying my son so far, since I now
abandon him, and allow him to depart
alone to the baneful climate of Africa?
Oh, I have been base, cowardly, I tell
you; I have abjured my affections, and
like all renegades I am of evil omen to
those who surround me!"

"No, Mercedes," said Monte Cristo, "no;
you judge yourself with too much
severity. You are a noble-minded woman,
and it was your grief that disarmed me.
Still I was but an agent, led on by an
invisible and offended Deity, who chose
not to withhold the fatal blow that I
was destined to hurl. I take that God to
witness, at whose feet I have prostrated
myself daily for the last ten years,
that I would have sacrificed my life to
you, and with my life the projects that
were indissolubly linked with it. But --
and I say it with some pride,
Mercedes -- God needed me, and I lived.
Examine the past and the present, and
endeavor to dive into futurity, and then
say whether I am not a divine
instrument. The most dreadful
misfortunes, the most frightful
sufferings, the abandonment of all those
who loved me, the persecution of those
who did not know me, formed the trials
of my youth; when suddenly, from
captivity, solitude, misery, I was
restored to light and liberty, and
became the possessor of a fortune so
brilliant, so unbounded, so unheard-of,
that I must have been blind not to be
conscious that God had endowed me with
it to work out his own great designs.
From that time I looked upon this
fortune as something confided to me for
an especial purpose. Not a thought was
given to a life which you once,
Mercedes, had the power to render
blissful; not one hour of peaceful calm
was mine; but I felt myself driven on
like an exterminating angel. Like
adventurous captains about to embark on
some enterprise full of danger, I laid
in my provisions, I loaded my weapons, I
collected every means of attack and
defence; I inured my body to the most
violent exercises, my soul to the
bitterest trials; I taught my arm to
slay, my eyes to behold excruciating
sufferings, and my mouth to smile at the
most horrid spectacles. Good-natured,
confiding, and forgiving as I had been,
I became revengeful, cunning, and
wicked, or rather, immovable as fate.
Then I launched out into the path that
was opened to me. I overcame every
obstacle, and reached the goal; but woe
to those who stood in my pathway!"

"Enough," said Mercedes; "enough,
Edmond! Believe me, that she who alone
recognized you has been the only one to
comprehend you; and had she crossed your
path, and you had crushed her like
glass, still, Edmond, still she must
have admired you! Like the gulf between
me and the past, there is an abyss
between you, Edmond, and the rest of
mankind; and I tell you freely that the
comparison I draw between you and other
men will ever be one of my greatest
tortures. No, there is nothing in the
world to resemble you in worth and
goodness! But we must say farewell,
Edmond, and let us part."

"Before I leave you, Mercedes, have you
no request to make?" said the count.

"I desire but one thing in this world,
Edmond, -- the happiness of my son."

"Pray to the Almighty to spare his life,
and I will take upon myself to promote
his happiness."

"Thank you, Edmond."

"But have you no request to make for
yourself, Mercedes?"

"For myself I want nothing. I live, as
it were, between two graves. One is that
of Edmond Dantes, lost to me long, long
since. He had my love! That word ill
becomes my faded lip now, but it is a
memory dear to my heart, and one that I
would not lose for all that the world
contains. The other grave is that of the
man who met his death from the hand of
Edmond Dantes. I approve of the deed,
but I must pray for the dead."

"Your son shall be happy, Mercedes,"
repeated the count.

"Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as
this world can possibly confer."

"But what are your intentions?"

"To say that I shall live here, like the
Mercedes of other times, gaining my
bread by labor, would not be true, nor
would you believe me. I have no longer
the strength to do anything but to spend
my days in prayer. However, I shall have
no occasion to work, for the little sum
of money buried by you, and which I
found in the place you mentioned, will
be sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will
probably be busy respecting me, my
occupations, my manner of living -- that
will signify but little."

"Mercedes," said the count, "I do not
say it to blame you, but you made an
unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing
the whole of the fortune amassed by M.
de Morcerf; half of it at least by right
belonged to you, in virtue of your
vigilance and economy."

"I perceive what you are intending to
propose to me; but I cannot accept it,
Edmond -- my son would not permit it."

"Nothing shall be done without the full
approbation of Albert de Morcerf. I will
make myself acquainted with his
intentions and will submit to them. But
if he be willing to accept my offers,
will you oppose them?"

"You well know, Edmond, that I am no
longer a reasoning creature; I have no
will, unless it be the will never to
decide. I have been so overwhelmed by
the many storms that have broken over my
head, that I am become passive in the
hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in
the talons of an eagle. I live, because
it is not ordained for me to die. If
succor be sent to me, I will accept it."

"Ah, madame," said Monte Cristo, "you
should not talk thus! It is not so we
should evince our resignation to the
will of heaven; on the contrary, we are
all free agents."

"Alas!" exclaimed Mercedes, "if it were
so, if I possessed free-will, but
without the power to render that will
efficacious, it would drive me to
despair." Monte Cristo dropped his head
and shrank from the vehemence of her
grief. "Will you not even say you will
see me again?" he asked.

"On the contrary, we shall meet again,"
said Mercedes, pointing to heaven with
solemnity. "I tell you so to prove to
you that I still hope." And after
pressing her own trembling hand upon
that of the count, Mercedes rushed up
the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo
slowly left the house and turned towards
the quay. But Mercedes did not witness
his departure, although she was seated
at the little window of the room which
had been occupied by old Dantes. Her
eyes were straining to see the ship
which was carrying her son over the vast
sea; but still her voice involuntarily
murmured softly, "Edmond, Edmond,
Edmond!"



Chapter 113 The Past.

The count departed with a sad heart from
the house in which he had left Mercedes,
probably never to behold her again.
Since the death of little Edward a great
change had taken place in Monte Cristo.
Having reached the summit of his
vengeance by a long and tortuous path,
he saw an abyss of doubt yawning before
him. More than this, the conversation
which had just taken place between
Mercedes and himself had awakened so
many recollections in his heart that he
felt it necessary to combat with them. A
man of the count's temperament could not
long indulge in that melancholy which
can exist in common minds, but which
destroys superior ones. He thought he
must have made an error in his
calculations if he now found cause to
blame himself.

"I cannot have deceived myself," he
said; "I must look upon the past in a
false light. What!" he continued, "can I
have been following a false path? -- can
the end which I proposed be a mistaken
end? -- can one hour have sufficed to
prove to an architect that the work upon
which he founded all his hopes was an
impossible, if not a sacrilegious,
undertaking? I cannot reconcile myself
to this idea -- it would madden me. The
reason why I am now dissatisfied is that
I have not a clear appreciation of the
past. The past, like the country through
which we walk, becomes indistinct as we
advance. My position is like that of a
person wounded in a dream; he feels the
wound, though he cannot recollect when
he received it. Come, then, thou
regenerate man, thou extravagant
prodigal, thou awakened sleeper, thou
all-powerful visionary, thou invincible
millionaire, -- once again review thy
past life of starvation and
wretchedness, revisit the scenes where
fate and misfortune conducted, and where
despair received thee. Too many
diamonds, too much gold and splendor,
are now reflected by the mirror in which
Monte Cristo seeks to behold Dantes.
Hide thy diamonds, bury thy gold, shroud
thy splendor, exchange riches for
poverty, liberty for a prison, a living
body for a corpse!" As he thus reasoned,
Monte Cristo walked down the Rue de la
Caisserie. It was the same through
which, twenty-four years ago, he had
been conducted by a silent and nocturnal
guard; the houses, to-day so smiling and
animated, were on that night dark, mute,
and closed. "And yet they were the
same," murmured Monte Cristo, "only now
it is broad daylight instead of night;
it is the sun which brightens the place,
and makes it appear so cheerful."

He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue
Saint-Laurent, and advanced to the
Consigne; it was the point where he had
embarked. A pleasure-boat with striped
awning was going by. Monte Cristo called
the owner, who immediately rowed up to
him with the eagerness of a boatman
hoping for a good fare. The weather was
magnificent, and the excursion a treat.

The sun, red and flaming, was sinking
into the embrace of the welcoming ocean.
The sea, smooth as crystal, was now and
then disturbed by the leaping of fish,
which were pursued by some unseen enemy
and sought for safety in another
element; while on the extreme verge of
the horizon might be seen the
fishermen's boats, white and graceful as
the sea-gull, or the merchant vessels
bound for Corsica or Spain.

But notwithstanding the serene sky, the
gracefully formed boats, and the golden
light in which the whole scene was
bathed, the Count of Monte Cristo,
wrapped in his cloak, could think only
of this terrible voyage, the details of
which were one by one recalled to his
memory. The solitary light burning at
the Catalans; that first sight of the
Chateau d'If, which told him whither
they were leading him; the struggle with
the gendarmes when he wished to throw
himself overboard; his despair when he
found himself vanquished, and the
sensation when the muzzle of the carbine
touched his forehead -- all these were
brought before him in vivid and
frightful reality. Like the streams
which the heat of the summer has dried
up, and which after the autumnal storms
gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so
did the count feel his heart gradually
fill with the bitterness which formerly
nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantes. Clear
sky, swift-flitting boats, and brilliant
sunshine disappeared; the heavens were
hung with black, and the gigantic
structure of the Chateau d'If seemed
like the phantom of a mortal enemy. As
they reached the shore, the count
instinctively shrunk to the extreme end
of the boat, and the owner was obliged
to call out, in his sweetest tone of
voice, "Sir, we are at the landing."

Monte Cristo remembered that on that
very spot, on the same rock, he had been
violently dragged by the guards, who
forced him to ascend the slope at the
points of their bayonets. The journey
had seemed very long to Dantes, but
Monte Cristo found it equally short.
Each stroke of the oar seemed to awaken
a new throng of ideas, which sprang up
with the flying spray of the sea.

There had been no prisoners confined in
the Chateau d'If since the revolution of
July; it was only inhabited by a guard,
kept there for the prevention of
smuggling. A concierge waited at the
door to exhibit to visitors this
monument of curiosity, once a scene of
terror. The count inquired whether any
of the ancient jailers were still there;
but they had all been pensioned, or had
passed on to some other employment. The
concierge who attended him had only been
there since 1830. He visited his own
dungeon. He again beheld the dull light
vainly endeavoring to penetrate the
narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the
spot where had stood his bed, since then
removed, and behind the bed the new
stones indicated where the breach made
by the Abbe Faria had been. Monte Cristo
felt his limbs tremble; he seated
himself upon a log of wood.

"Are there any stories connected with
this prison besides the one relating to
the poisoning of Mirabeau?" asked the
count; "are there any traditions
respecting these dismal abodes, -- in
which it is difficult to believe men can
ever have imprisoned their
fellow-creatures?"

"Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine
told me one connected with this very
dungeon."

Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been
his jailer. He had almost forgotten his
name and face, but at the mention of the
name he recalled his person as he used
to see it, the face encircled by a
beard, wearing the brown jacket, the
bunch of keys, the jingling of which he
still seemed to hear. The count turned
around, and fancied he saw him in the
corridor, rendered still darker by the
torch carried by the concierge. "Would
you like to hear the story, sir?"

"Yes; relate it," said Monte Cristo,
pressing his hand to his heart to still
its violent beatings; he felt afraid of
hearing his own history.

"This dungeon," said the concierge,
"was, it appears, some time ago occupied
by a very dangerous prisoner, the more
so since he was full of industry.
Another person was confined in the
Chateau at the same time, but he was not
wicked, he was only a poor mad priest."

"Ah, indeed? -- mad!" repeated Monte
Cristo; "and what was his mania?"

"He offered millions to any one who
would set him at liberty."

Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he
could not see the heavens; there was a
stone veil between him and the
firmament. He thought that there had
been no less thick a veil before the
eyes of those to whom Faria offered the
treasures. "Could the prisoners see each
other?" he asked.

"Oh, no, sir, it was expressly
forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance
of the guards, and made a passage from
one dungeon to the other."

"And which of them made this passage?"

"Oh, it must have been the young man,
certainly, for he was strong and
industrious, while the abbe was aged and
weak; besides, his mind was too
vacillating to allow him to carry out an
idea."

"Blind fools!" murmured the count.

"However, be that as it may, the young
man made a tunnel, how or by what means
no one knows; but he made it, and there
is the evidence yet remaining of his
work. Do you see it?" and the man held
the torch to the wall.

"Ah, yes; I see," said the count, in a
voice hoarse from emotion.

"The result was that the two men
communicated with one another; how long
they did so, nobody knows. One day the
old man fell ill and died. Now guess
what the young one did?"

"Tell me."

"He carried off the corpse, which he
placed in his own bed with its face to
the wall; then he entered the empty
dungeon, closed the entrance, and
slipped into the sack which had
contained the dead body. Did you ever
hear of such an idea?" Monte Cristo
closed his eyes, and seemed again to
experience all the sensations he had
felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist
with the cold dews of death, had touched
his face. The jailer continued: "Now
this was his project. He fancied that
they buried the dead at the Chateau
d'If, and imagining they would not
expend much labor on the grave of a
prisoner, he calculated on raising the
earth with his shoulders, but
unfortunately their arrangements at the
Chateau frustrated his projects. They
never buried the dead; they merely
attached a heavy cannon-ball to the
feet, and then threw them into the sea.
This is what was done. The young man was
thrown from the top of the rock; the
corpse was found on the bed next day,
and the whole truth was guessed, for the
men who performed the office then
mentioned what they had not dared to
speak of before, that at the moment the
corpse was thrown into the deep, they
heard a shriek, which was almost
immediately stifled by the water in
which it disappeared." The count
breathed with difficulty; the cold drops
ran down his forehead, and his heart was
full of anguish.

"No," he muttered, "the doubt I felt was
but the commencement of forgetfulness;
but here the wound reopens, and the
heart again thirsts for vengeance. And
the prisoner," he continued aloud, "was
he ever heard of afterwards?"

"Oh, no; of course not. You can
understand that one of two things must
have happened; he must either have
fallen flat, in which case the blow,
from a height of ninety feet, must have
killed him instantly, or he must have
fallen upright, and then the weight
would have dragged him to the bottom,
where he remained -- poor fellow!"

"Then you pity him?" said the count.

"Ma foi, yes; though he was in his own
element."

"What do you mean?"

"The report was that he had been a naval
officer, who had been confined for
plotting with the Bonapartists."

"Great is truth," muttered the count,
"fire cannot burn, nor water drown it!
Thus the poor sailor lives in the
recollection of those who narrate his
history; his terrible story is recited
in the chimney-corner, and a shudder is
felt at the description of his transit
through the air to be swallowed by the
deep." Then, the count added aloud, "Was
his name ever known?"

"Oh, yes; but only as No. 34."

"Oh, Villefort, Villefort," murmured the
count, "this scene must often have
haunted thy sleepless hours!"

"Do you wish to see anything more, sir?"
said the concierge.

"Yes, especially if you will show me the
poor abbe's room."

"Ah -- No. 27."

"Yes; No. 27." repeated the count, who
seemed to hear the voice of the abbe
answering him in those very words
through the wall when asked his name.

"Come, sir."

"Wait," said Monte Cristo, "I wish to
take one final glance around this room."

"This is fortunate," said the guide; "I
have forgotten the other key."

"Go and fetch it."

"I will leave you the torch, sir."

"No, take it away; I can see in the
dark."

"Why, you are like No. 34. They said he
was so accustomed to darkness that he
could see a pin in the darkest corner of
his dungeon."

"He spent fourteen years to arrive at
that," muttered the count.

The guide carried away the torch. The
count had spoken correctly. Scarcely had
a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw
everything as distinctly as by daylight.
Then he looked around him, and really
recognized his dungeon.

"Yes," he said, "there is the stone upon
which I used to sit; there is the
impression made by my shoulders on the
wall; there is the mark of my blood made
when one day I dashed my head against
the wall. Oh, those figures, how well I
remember them! I made them one day to
calculate the age of my father, that I
might know whether I should find him
still living, and that of Mercedes, to
know if I should find her still free.
After finishing that calculation, I had
a minute's hope. I did not reckon upon
hunger and infidelity!" and a bitter
laugh escaped the count. He saw in fancy
the burial of his father, and the
marriage of Mercedes. On the other side
of the dungeon he perceived an
inscription, the white letters of which
were still visible on the green wall.
"`O God,'" he read, "`preserve my
memory!' Oh, yes," he cried, "that was
my only prayer at last; I no longer
begged for liberty, but memory; I
dreaded to become mad and forgetful. O
God, thou hast preserved my memory; I
thank thee, I thank thee!" At this
moment the light of the torch was
reflected on the wall; the guide was
coming; Monte Cristo went to meet him.

"Follow me, sir;" and without ascending
the stairs the guide conducted him by a
subterraneous passage to another
entrance. There, again, Monte Cristo was
assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The
first thing that met his eye was the
meridian, drawn by the abbe on the wall,
by which he calculated the time; then he
saw the remains of the bed on which the
poor prisoner had died. The sight of
this, instead of exciting the anguish
experienced by the count in the dungeon,
filled his heart with a soft and
grateful sentiment, and tears fell from
his eyes.

"This is where the mad abbe was kept,
sir, and that is where the young man
entered; "and the guide pointed to the
opening, which had remained unclosed.
"From the appearance of the stone," he
continued, "a learned gentleman
discovered that the prisoners might have
communicated together for ten years.
Poor things! Those must have been ten
weary years."

Dantes took some louis from his pocket,
and gave them to the man who had twice
unconsciously pitied him. The guide took
them, thinking them merely a few pieces
of little value; but the light of the
torch revealed their true worth. "Sir,"
he said, "you have made a mistake; you
have given me gold."

"I know it." The concierge looked upon
the count with surprise. "Sir," he
cried, scarcely able to believe his good
fortune -- "sir, I cannot understand
your generosity!"

"Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow;
I have been a sailor, and your story
touched me more than it would others."

"Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I
ought to offer you something."

"What have you to offer to me, my
friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank you!"

"No, sir, neither of those; something
connected with this story."

"Really? What is it?"

"Listen," said the guide; "I said to
myself, `Something is always left in a
cell inhabited by one prisoner for
fifteen years,' so I began to sound the
wall."

"Ah," cried Monte Cristo, remembering
the abbe's two hiding-places.

"After some search, I found that the
floor gave a hollow sound near the head
of the bed, and at the hearth."

"Yes," said the count, "yes."

"I raised the stones, and found" --

"A rope-ladder and some tools?"

"How do you know that?" asked the guide
in astonishment.

"I do not know -- I only guess it,
because that sort of thing is generally
found in prisoners' cells."

"Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools."

"And have you them yet?"

"No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who
considered them great curiosities; but I
have still something left."

"What is it?" asked the count,
impatiently.

"A sort of book, written upon strips of
cloth."

"Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if
it be what I hope, you will do well."

"I will run for it, sir;" and the guide
went out. Then the count knelt down by
the side of the bed, which death had
converted into an altar. "Oh, second
father," he exclaimed, "thou who hast
given me liberty, knowledge, riches;
thou who, like beings of a superior
order to ourselves, couldst understand
the science of good and evil; if in the
depths of the tomb there still remain
something within us which can respond to
the voice of those who are left on
earth; if after death the soul ever
revisit the places where we have lived
and suffered, -- then, noble heart,
sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the
paternal love thou didst bear me, by the
filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant
me some sign, some revelation! Remove
from me the remains of doubt, which, if
it change not to conviction, must become
remorse!" The count bowed his head, and
clasped his hands together.

"Here, sir," said a voice behind him.

Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The
concierge held out the strips of cloth
upon which the Abbe Faria had spread the
riches of his mind. The manuscript was
the great work by the Abbe Faria upon
the kingdoms of Italy. The count seized
it hastily, his eyes immediately fell
upon the epigraph, and he read, "`Thou
shalt tear out the dragons' teeth, and
shall trample the lions under foot,
saith the Lord.'"

"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is my answer.
Thanks, father, thanks." And feeling in
his pocket, he took thence a small
pocket-book, which contained ten
bank-notes, each of 1,000 francs.

"Here," he said, "take this
pocket-book."

"Do you give it to me?"

"Yes; but only on condition that you
will not open it till I am gone;" and
placing in his breast the treasure he
had just found, which was more valuable
to him than the richest jewel, he rushed
out of the corridor, and reaching his
boat, cried, "To Marseilles!" Then, as
he departed, he fixed his eyes upon the
gloomy prison. "Woe," he cried, "to
those who confined me in that wretched
prison; and woe to those who forgot that
I was there!" As he repassed the
Catalans, the count turned around and
burying his head in his cloak murmured
the name of a woman. The victory was
complete; twice he had overcome his
doubts. The name he pronounced, in a
voice of tenderness, amounting almost to
love, was that of Haidee.

On landing, the count turned towards the
cemetery, where he felt sure of finding
Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had
piously sought out a tomb, and sought it
vainly. He, who returned to France with
millions, had been unable to find the
grave of his father, who had perished
from hunger. Morrel had indeed placed a
cross over the spot, but it had fallen
down and the grave-digger had burnt it,
as he did all the old wood in the
churchyard. The worthy merchant had been
more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his
children, he had been by them laid by
the side of his wife, who had preceded
him in eternity by two years. Two large
slabs of marble, on which were inscribed
their names, were placed on either side
of a little enclosure, railed in, and
shaded by four cypress-trees. Morrel was
leaning against one of these,
mechanically fixing his eyes on the
graves. His grief was so profound that
he was nearly unconscious. "Maximilian,"
said the count, "you should not look on
the graves, but there;" and he pointed
upwards.

"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel;
"did you not yourself tell me so as we
left Paris?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "you asked
me during the journey to allow you to
remain some days at Marseilles. Do you
still wish to do so?"

"I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I
could pass the time less painfully here
than anywhere else."

"So much the better, for I must leave
you; but I carry your word with me, do I
not?"

"Ah, count, I shall forget it."

"No, you will not forget it, because you
are a man of honor, Morrel, because you
have taken an oath, and are about to do
so again."

"Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so
unhappy."

"I have known a man much more
unfortunate than you, Morrel."

"Impossible!"

"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "it is the
infirmity of our nature always to
believe ourselves much more unhappy than
those who groan by our sides!"

"What can be more wretched than the man
who has lost all he loved and desired in
the world?"

"Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to
what I am about to tell you. I knew a
man who like you had fixed all his hopes
of happiness upon a woman. He was young,
he had an old father whom he loved, a
betrothed bride whom he adored. He was
about to marry her, when one of the
caprices of fate, -- which would almost
make us doubt the goodness of
providence, if that providence did not
afterwards reveal itself by proving that
all is but a means of conducting to an
end, -- one of those caprices deprived
him of his mistress, of the future of
which he had dreamed (for in his
blindness he forgot he could only read
the present), and cast him into a
dungeon."

"Ah," said Morrel, "one quits a dungeon
in a week, a month, or a year."

"He remained there fourteen years,
Morrel," said the count, placing his
hand on the young man's shoulder.
Maximilian shuddered.

"Fourteen years!" he muttered --
"Fourteen years!" repeated the count.
"During that time he had many moments of
despair. He also, Morrel, like you,
considered himself the unhappiest of
men."

"Well?" asked Morrel.

"Well, at the height of his despair God
assisted him through human means. At
first, perhaps, he did not recognize the
infinite mercy of the Lord, but at last
he took patience and waited. One day he
miraculously left the prison,
transformed, rich, powerful. His first
cry was for his father; but that father
was dead."

"My father, too, is dead," said Morrel.

"Yes; but your father died in your arms,
happy, respected, rich, and full of
years; his father died poor, despairing,
almost doubtful of providence; and when
his son sought his grave ten years
afterwards, his tomb had disappeared,
and no one could say, `There sleeps the
father you so well loved.'"

"Oh!" exclaimed Morrel.

"He was, then, a more unhappy son than
you, Morrel, for he could not even find
his father's grave."

"But then he had the woman he loved
still remaining?"

"You are deceived, Morrel, that
woman" --

"She was dead?"

"Worse than that, she was faithless, and
had married one of the persecutors of
her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel,
that he was a more unhappy lover than
you."

"And has he found consolation?"

"He has at least found peace."

"And does he ever expect to be happy?"

"He hopes so, Maximilian." The young
man's head fell on his breast.

"You have my promise," he said, after a
minute's pause, extending his hand to
Monte Cristo. "Only remember" --

"On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall
expect you at the Island of Monte
Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for
you in the port of Bastia, it will be
called the Eurus. You will give your
name to the captain, who will bring you
to me. It is understood -- is it not?"

"But, count, do you remember that the
5th of October" --

"Child," replied the count, "not to know
the value of a man's word! I have told
you twenty times that if you wish to die
on that day, I will assist you. Morrel,
farewell!"

"Do you leave me?"

"Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave
you alone with your misfortunes, and
with hope, Maximilian."

"When do you leave?"

"Immediately; the steamer waits, and in
an hour I shall be far from you. Will
you accompany me to the harbor,
Maximilian?"

"I am entirely yours, count." Morrel
accompanied the count to the harbor. The
white steam was ascending like a plume
of feathers from the black chimney. The
steamer soon disappeared, and in an hour
afterwards, as the count had said, was
scarcely distinguishable in the horizon
amidst the fogs of the night.



Chapter 114 Peppino.

At the same time that the steamer
disappeared behind Cape Morgion, a man
travelling post on the road from
Florence to Rome had just passed the
little town of Aquapendente. He was
travelling fast enough to cover a great
deal of ground without exciting
suspicion. This man was dressed in a
greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a little
worse for the journey, but which
exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of
Honor still fresh and brilliant, a
decoration which also ornamented the
under coat. He might be recognized, not
only by these signs, but also from the
accent with which he spoke to the
postilion, as a Frenchman. Another proof
that he was a native of the universal
country was apparent in the fact of his
knowing no other Italian words than the
terms used in music, and which like the
"goddam" of Figaro, served all possible
linguistic requirements. "Allegro!" he
called out to the postilions at every
ascent. "Moderato!" he cried as they
descended. And heaven knows there are
hills enough between Rome and Florence
by the way of Aquapendente! These two
words greatly amused the men to whom
they were addressed. On reaching La
Storta, the point from whence Rome is
first visible, the traveller evinced
none of the enthusiastic curiosity which
usually leads strangers to stand up and
endeavor to catch sight of the dome of
St. Peter's, which may be seen long
before any other object is
distinguishable. No, he merely drew a
pocketbook from his pocket, and took
from it a paper folded in four, and
after having examined it in a manner
almost reverential, he said -- "Good! I
have it still!"

The carriage entered by the Porto del
Popolo, turned to the left, and stopped
at the Hotel d'Espagne. Old Pastrini,
our former acquaintance, received the
traveller at the door, hat in hand. The
traveller alighted, ordered a good
dinner, and inquired the address of the
house of Thomson & French, which was
immediately given to him, as it was one
of the most celebrated in Rome. It was
situated in the Via dei Banchi, near St.
Peter's. In Rome, as everywhere else,
the arrival of a post-chaise is an
event. Ten young descendants of Marius
and the Gracchi, barefooted and out at
elbows, with one hand resting on the hip
and the other gracefully curved above
the head, stared at the traveller, the
post-chaise, and the horses; to these
were added about fifty little vagabonds
from the Papal States, who earned a
pittance by diving into the Tiber at
high water from the bridge of St.
Angelo. Now, as these street Arabs of
Rome, more fortunate than those of
Paris, understand every language, more
especially the French, they heard the
traveller order an apartment, a dinner,
and finally inquire the way to the house
of Thomson & French. The result was that
when the new-comer left the hotel with
the cicerone, a man detached himself
from the rest of the idlers, and without
having been seen by the traveller, and
appearing to excite no attention from
the guide, followed the stranger with as
much skill as a Parisian police agent
would have used.

The Frenchman had been so impatient to
reach the house of Thomson & French that
he would not wait for the horses to be
harnessed, but left word for the
carriage to overtake him on the road, or
to wait for him at the bankers' door. He
reached it before the carriage arrived.
The Frenchman entered, leaving in the
anteroom his guide, who immediately
entered into conversation with two or
three of the industrious idlers who are
always to be found in Rome at the doors
of banking-houses, churches, museums, or
theatres. With the Frenchman, the man
who had followed him entered too; the
Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and
entered the first room; his shadow did
the same.

"Messrs. Thomson & French?" inquired the
stranger.

An attendant arose at a sign from a
confidential clerk at the first desk.
"Whom shall I announce?" said the
attendant.

"Baron Danglars."

"Follow me," said the man. A door
opened, through which the attendant and
the baron disappeared. The man who had
followed Danglars sat down on a bench.
The clerk continued to write for the
next five minutes; the man preserved
profound silence, and remained perfectly
motionless. Then the pen of the clerk
ceased to move over the paper; he raised
his head, and appearing to be perfectly
sure of privacy, -- "Ah, ha," he said,
"here you are, Peppino!"

"Yes," was the laconic reply. "You have
found out that there is something worth
having about this large gentleman?"

"There is no great merit due to me, for
we were informed of it."

"You know his business here, then."

"Pardieu, he has come to draw, but I
don't know how much!"

"You will know presently, my friend."

"Very well, only do not give me false
information as you did the other day."

"What do you mean? -- of whom do you
speak? Was it the Englishman who carried
off 3,000 crowns from here the other
day?"

"No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we
found them. I mean the Russian prince,
who you said had 30,000 livres, and we
only found 22,000."

"You must have searched badly."

"Luigi Vampa himself searched."

"Indeed? But you must let me make my
observations, or the Frenchman will
transact his business without my knowing
the sum." Peppino nodded, and taking a
rosary from his pocket began to mutter a
few prayers while the clerk disappeared
through the same door by which Danglars
and the attendant had gone out. At the
expiration of ten minutes the clerk
returned with a beaming countenance.
"Well?" asked Peppino of his friend.

"Joy, joy -- the sum is large!"

"Five or six millions, is it not?"

"Yes, you know the amount."

"On the receipt of the Count of Monte
Cristo?"

"Why, how came you to be so well
acquainted with all this?"

"I told you we were informed
beforehand."

"Then why do you apply to me?"

"That I may be sure I have the right
man."

"Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions --
a pretty sum, eh, Peppino?"

"Hush -- here is our man!" The clerk
seized his pen, and Peppino his beads;
one was writing and the other praying
when the door opened. Danglars looked
radiant with joy; the banker accompanied
him to the door. Peppino followed
Danglars.

According to the arrangements, the
carriage was waiting at the door. The
guide held the door open. Guides are
useful people, who will turn their hands
to anything. Danglars leaped into the
carriage like a young man of twenty. The
cicerone reclosed the door, and sprang
up by the side of the coachman. Peppino
mounted the seat behind.

"Will your excellency visit St.
Peter's?" asked the cicerone.

"I did not come to Rome to see," said
Danglars aloud; then he added softly,
with an avaricious smile, "I came to
touch!" and he rapped his pocket-book,
in which he had just placed a letter.

"Then your excellency is going" --

"To the hotel."

"Casa Pastrini!" said the cicerone to
the coachman, and the carriage drove
rapidly on. Ten minutes afterwards the
baron entered his apartment, and Peppino
stationed himself on the bench outside
the door of the hotel, after having
whispered something in the ear of one of
the descendants of Marius and the
Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning
of the chapter, who immediately ran down
the road leading to the Capitol at his
fullest speed. Danglars was tired and
sleepy; he therefore went to bed,
placing his pocketbook under his pillow.
Peppino had a little spare time, so he
had a game of mora with the facchini,
lost three crowns, and then to console
himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.

The next morning Danglars awoke late,
though he went to bed so early; he had
not slept well for five or six nights,
even if he had slept at all. He
breakfasted heartily, and caring little,
as he said, for the beauties of the
Eternal City, ordered post-horses at
noon. But Danglars had not reckoned upon
the formalities of the police and the
idleness of the posting-master. The
horses only arrived at two o'clock, and
the cicerone did not bring the passport
till three. All these preparations had
collected a number of idlers round the
door of Signor Pastrini's; the
descendants of Marius and the Gracchi
were also not wanting. The baron walked
triumphantly through the crowd, who for
the sake of gain styled him "your
excellency." As Danglars had hitherto
contented himself with being called a
baron, he felt rather flattered at the
title of excellency, and distributed a
dozen silver coins among the beggars,
who were ready, for twelve more, to call
him "your highness."

"Which road?" asked the postilion in
Italian. "The Ancona road," replied the
baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the
question and answer, and the horses
galloped off. Danglars intended
travelling to Venice, where he would
receive one part of his fortune, and
then proceeding to Vienna, where he
would find the rest, he meant to take up
his residence in the latter town, which
he had been told was a city of pleasure.

He had scarcely advanced three leagues
out of Rome when daylight began to
disappear. Danglars had not intended
starting so late, or he would have
remained; he put his head out and asked
the postilion how long it would be
before they reached the next town. "Non
capisco" (do not understand), was the
reply. Danglars bent his head, which he
meant to imply, "Very well." The
carriage again moved on. "I will stop at
the first posting-house," said Danglars
to himself.

He still felt the same self-satisfaction
which he had experienced the previous
evening, and which had procured him so
good a night's rest. He was luxuriously
stretched in a good English calash, with
double springs; he was drawn by four
good horses, at full gallop; he knew the
relay to be at a distance of seven
leagues. What subject of meditation
could present itself to the banker, so
fortunately become bankrupt?

Danglars thought for ten minutes about
his wife in Paris; another ten minutes
about his daughter travelling with
Mademoiselle d'Armilly; the same period
was given to his creditors, and the
manner in which he intended spending
their money; and then, having no subject
left for contemplation, he shut his
eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then a
jolt more violent than the rest caused
him to open his eyes; then he felt that
he was still being carried with great
rapidity over the same country, thickly
strewn with broken aqueducts, which
looked like granite giants petrified
while running a race. But the night was
cold, dull, and rainy, and it was much
more pleasant for a traveller to remain
in the warm carriage than to put his
head out of the window to make inquiries
of a postilion whose only answer was
"Non capisco."

Danglars therefore continued to sleep,
saying to himself that he would be sure
to awake at the posting-house. The
carriage stopped. Danglars fancied that
they had reached the long-desired point;
he opened his eyes and looked through
the window, expecting to find himself in
the midst of some town, or at least
village; but he saw nothing except what
seemed like a ruin, where three or four
men went and came like shadows. Danglars
waited a moment, expecting the postilion
to come and demand payment with the
termination of his stage. He intended
taking advantage of the opportunity to
make fresh inquiries of the new
conductor; but the horses were
unharnessed, and others put in their
places, without any one claiming money
from the traveller. Danglars,
astonished, opened the door; but a
strong hand pushed him back, and the
carriage rolled on. The baron was
completely roused. "Eh?" he said to the
postilion, "eh, mio caro?"

This was another little piece of Italian
the baron had learned from hearing his
daughter sing Italian duets with
Cavalcanti. But mio caro did not reply.
Danglars then opened the window.

"Come, my friend," he said, thrusting
his hand through the opening, "where are
we going?"

"Dentro la testa!" answered a solemn and
imperious voice, accompanied by a
menacing gesture. Danglars thought
dentro la testa meant, "Put in your
head!" He was making rapid progress in
Italian. He obeyed, not without some
uneasiness, which, momentarily
increasing, caused his mind, instead of
being as unoccupied as it was when he
began his journey, to fill with ideas
which were very likely to keep a
traveller awake, more especially one in
such a situation as Danglars. His eyes
acquired that quality which in the first
moment of strong emotion enables them to
see distinctly, and which afterwards
fails from being too much taxed. Before
we are alarmed, we see correctly; when
we are alarmed, we see double; and when
we have been alarmed, we see nothing but
trouble. Danglars observed a man in a
cloak galloping at the right hand of the
carriage.

"Some gendarme!" he exclaimed. "Can I
have been intercepted by French
telegrams to the pontifical
authorities?" He resolved to end his
anxiety. "Where are you taking me?" he
asked. "Dentro la testa," replied the
same voice, with the same menacing
accent.

Danglars turned to the left; another man
on horseback was galloping on that side.
"Decidedly," said Danglars, with the
perspiration on his forehead, "I must be
under arrest." And he threw himself back
in the calash, not this time to sleep,
but to think. Directly afterwards the
moon rose. He then saw the great
aqueducts, those stone phantoms which he
had before remarked, only then they were
on the right hand, now they were on the
left. He understood that they had
described a circle, and were bringing
him back to Rome. "Oh, unfortunate!" he
cried, "they must have obtained my
arrest." The carriage continued to roll
on with frightful speed. An hour of
terror elapsed, for every spot they
passed showed that they were on the road
back. At length he saw a dark mass,
against which it seemed as if the
carriage was about to dash; but the
vehicle turned to one side, leaving the
barrier behind and Danglars saw that it
was one of the ramparts encircling Rome.

"Mon dieu!" cried Danglars, "we are not
returning to Rome; then it is not
justice which is pursuing me! Gracious
heavens; another idea presents itself --
what if they should be" --

His hair stood on end. He remembered
those interesting stories, so little
believed in Paris, respecting Roman
bandits; he remembered the adventures
that Albert de Morcerf had related when
it was intended that he should marry
Mademoiselle Eugenie. "They are robbers,
perhaps," he muttered. Just then the
carriage rolled on something harder than
gravel road. Danglars hazarded a look on
both sides of the road, and perceived
monuments of a singular form, and his
mind now recalled all the details
Morcerf had related, and comparing them
with his own situation, he felt sure
that he must be on the Appian Way. On
the left, in a sort of valley, he
perceived a circular excavation. It was
Caracalla's circus. On a word from the
man who rode at the side of the
carriage, it stopped. At the same time
the door was opened. "Scendi!" exclaimed
a commanding voice. Danglars instantly
descended; although he did not yet speak
Italian, he understood it very well.
More dead than alive, he looked around
him. Four men surrounded him, besides
the postilion.

"Di qua," said one of the men,
descending a little path leading out of
the Appian Way. Danglars followed his
guide without opposition, and had no
occasion to turn around to see whether
the three others were following him.
Still it appeared as though they were
stationed at equal distances from one
another, like sentinels. After walking
for about ten minutes, during which
Danglars did not exchange a single word
with his guide, he found himself between
a hillock and a clump of high weeds;
three men, standing silent, formed a
triangle, of which he was the centre. He
wished to speak, but his tongue refused
to move. "Avanti!" said the same sharp
and imperative voice.

This time Danglars had double reason to
understand, for if the word and gesture
had not explained the speaker's meaning,
it was clearly expressed by the man
walking behind him, who pushed him so
rudely that he struck against the guide.
This guide was our friend Peppino, who
dashed into the thicket of high weeds,
through a path which none but lizards or
polecats could have imagined to be an
open road. Peppino stopped before a pit
overhung by thick hedges; the pit, half
open, afforded a passage to the young
man, who disappeared like the evil
spirits in the fairy tales. The voice
and gesture of the man who followed
Danglars ordered him to do the same.
There was no longer any doubt, the
bankrupt was in the hands of Roman
banditti. Danglars acquitted himself
like a man placed between two dangerous
positions, and who is rendered brave by
fear. Notwithstanding his large stomach,
certainly not intended to penetrate the
fissures of the Campagna, he slid down
like Peppino, and closing his eyes fell
upon his feet. As he touched the ground,
he opened his eyes. The path was wide,
but dark. Peppino, who cared little for
being recognized now that he was in his
own territories, struck a light and lit
a torch. Two other men descended after
Danglars forming the rearguard, and
pushing Danglars whenever he happened to
stop, they came by a gentle declivity to
the intersection of two corridors. The
walls were hollowed out in sepulchres,
one above the other, and which seemed in
contrast with the white stones to open
their large dark eyes, like those which
we see on the faces of the dead. A
sentinel struck the rings of his carbine
against his left hand. "Who comes
there?" he cried.

"A friend, a friend!" said Peppino; "but
where is the captain?"

"There," said the sentinel, pointing
over his shoulder to a spacious crypt,
hollowed out of the rock, the lights
from which shone into the passage
through the large arched openings. "Fine
spoil, captain, fine spoil!" said
Peppino in Italian, and taking Danglars
by the collar of his coat he dragged him
to an opening resembling a door, through
which they entered the apartment which
the captain appeared to have made his
dwelling-place.

"Is this the man?" asked the captain,
who was attentively reading Plutarch's
"Life of Alexander."

"Himself, captain -- himself."

"Very well, show him to me." At this
rather impertinent order, Peppino raised
his torch to the face of Danglars, who
hastily withdrew that he might not have
his eyelashes burnt. His agitated
features presented the appearance of
pale and hideous terror. "The man is
tired," said the captain, "conduct him
to his bed."

"Oh," murmured Danglars," that bed is
probably one of the coffins hollowed in
the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy
will be death from one of the poniards I
see glistening in the darkness."

From their beds of dried leaves or
wolf-skins at the back of the chamber
now arose the companions of the man who
had been found by Albert de Morcerf
reading "Caesar's Commentaries," and by
Danglars studying the "Life of
Alexander." The banker uttered a groan
and followed his guide; he neither
supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer
possessed strength, will, power, or
feeling; he followed where they led him.
At length he found himself at the foot
of a staircase, and he mechanically
lifted his foot five or six times. Then
a low door was opened before him, and
bending his head to avoid striking his
forehead he entered a small room cut out
of the rock. The cell was clean, though
empty, and dry, though situated at an
immeasurable distance under the earth. A
bed of dried grass covered with
goat-skins was placed in one corner.
Danglars brightened up on beholding it,
fancying that it gave some promise of
safety. "Oh, God be praised," he said;
"it is a real bed!"

"Ecco!" said the guide, and pushing
Danglars into the cell, he closed the
door upon him. A bolt grated and
Danglars was a prisoner. If there had
been no bolt, it would have been
impossible for him to pass through the
midst of the garrison who held the
catacombs of St. Sebastian, encamped
round a master whom our readers must
have recognized as the famous Luigi
Vampa. Danglars, too, had recognized the
bandit, whose existence he would not
believe when Albert de Morcerf mentioned
him in Paris; and not only did he
recognize him, but the cell in which
Albert had been confined, and which was
probably kept for the accommodation of
strangers. These recollections were
dwelt upon with some pleasure by
Danglars, and restored him to some
degree of tranquillity. Since the
bandits had not despatched him at once,
he felt that they would not kill him at
all. They had arrested him for the
purpose of robbery, and as he had only a
few louis about him, he doubted not he
would be ransomed. He remembered that
Morcerf had been taxed at 4,000 crowns,
and as he considered himself of much
greater importance than Morcerf he fixed
his own price at 8,000 crowns. Eight
thousand crowns amounted to 48,000
livres; he would then have about
5,050,000 francs left. With this sum he
could manage to keep out of
difficulties. Therefore, tolerably
secure in being able to extricate
himself from his position, provided he
were not rated at the unreasonable sum
of 5,050,000 francs, he stretched
himself on his bed, and after turning
over two or three times, fell asleep
with the tranquillity of the hero whose
life Luigi Vampa was studying.



Chapter 115 Luigi Vampa's Bill of Fare.

We awake from every sleep except the one
dreaded by Danglars. He awoke. To a
Parisian accustomed to silken curtains,
walls hung with velvet drapery, and the
soft perfume of burning wood, the white
smoke of which diffuses itself in
graceful curves around the room, the
appearance of the whitewashed cell which
greeted his eyes on awakening seemed
like the continuation of some
disagreeable dream. But in such a
situation a single moment suffices to
change the strongest doubt into
certainty. "Yes, yes," he murmured, "I
am in the hands of the brigands of whom
Albert de Morcerf spoke." His first idea
was to breathe, that he might know
whether he was wounded. He borrowed this
from "Don Quixote," the only book he had
ever read, but which he still slightly
remembered.

"No," he cried, "they have not wounded,
but perhaps they have robbed me!" and he
thrust his hands into his pockets. They
were untouched; the hundred louis he had
reserved for his journey from Rome to
Venice were in his trousers pocket, and
in that of his great-coat he found the
little note-case containing his letter
of credit for 5,050,000 francs.
"Singular bandits!" he exclaimed; "they
have left me my purse and pocket-book.
As I was saying last night, they intend
me to be ransomed. Hallo, here is my
watch! Let me see what time it is."
Danglars' watch, one of Breguet's
repeaters, which he had carefully wound
up on the previous night, struck half
past five. Without this, Danglars would
have been quite ignorant of the time,
for daylight did not reach his cell.
Should he demand an explanation from the
bandits, or should he wait patiently for
them to propose it? The last alternative
seemed the most prudent, so he waited
until twelve o'clock. During all this
time a sentinel, who had been relieved
at eight o'clock, had been watching his
door. Danglars suddenly felt a strong
inclination to see the person who kept
watch over him. He had noticed that a
few rays, not of daylight, but from a
lamp, penetrated through the ill-joined
planks of the door; he approached just
as the brigand was refreshing himself
with a mouthful of brandy, which, owing
to the leathern bottle containing it,
sent forth an odor which was extremely
unpleasant to Danglars. "Faugh!" he
exclaimed, retreating to the farther
corner of his cell.

At twelve this man was replaced by
another functionary, and Danglars,
wishing to catch sight of his new
guardian, approached the door again. He
was an athletic, gigantic bandit, with
large eyes, thick lips, and a flat nose;
his red hair fell in dishevelled masses
like snakes around his shoulders. "Ah,
ha," cried Danglars, "this fellow is
more like an ogre than anything else;
however, I am rather too old and tough
to be very good eating!" We see that
Danglars was collected enough to jest;
at the same time, as though to disprove
the ogreish propensities, the man took
some black bread, cheese, and onions
from his wallet, which he began
devouring voraciously. "May I be
hanged," said Danglars, glancing at the
bandit's dinner through the crevices of
the door, -- "may I be hanged if I can
understand how people can eat such
filth!" and he withdrew to seat himself
upon his goat-skin, which reminded him
of the smell of the brandy.

But the mysteries of nature are
incomprehensible, and there are certain
invitations contained in even the
coarsest food which appeal very
irresistibly to a fasting stomach.
Danglars felt his own not to be very
well supplied just then, and gradually
the man appeared less ugly, the bread
less black, and the cheese more fresh,
while those dreadful vulgar onions
recalled to his mind certain sauces and
side-dishes, which his cook prepared in
a very superior manner whenever he said,
"Monsieur Deniseau, let me have a nice
little fricassee to-day." He got up and
knocked on the door; the bandit raised
his head. Danglars knew that he was
heard, so he redoubled his blows. "Che
cosa?" asked the bandit. "Come, come,"
said Danglars, tapping his fingers
against the door, "I think it is quite
time to think of giving me something to
eat!" But whether he did not understand
him, or whether he had received no
orders respecting the nourishment of
Danglars, the giant, without answering,
went on with his dinner. Danglars'
feelings were hurt, and not wishing to
put himself under obligations to the
brute, the banker threw himself down
again on his goat-skin and did not
breathe another word.

Four hours passed by and the giant was
replaced by another bandit. Danglars,
who really began to experience sundry
gnawings at the stomach, arose softly,
again applied his eye to the crack of
the door, and recognized the intelligent
countenance of his guide. It was,
indeed, Peppino who was preparing to
mount guard as comfortably as possible
by seating himself opposite to the door,
and placing between his legs an earthen
pan, containing chick-pease stewed with
bacon. Near the pan he also placed a
pretty little basket of Villetri grapes
and a flask of Orvieto. Peppino was
decidedly an epicure. Danglars watched
these preparations and his mouth
watered. "Come," he said to himself,
"let me try if he will be more tractable
than the other;" and he tapped gently at
the door. "On y va," (coming) exclaimed
Peppino, who from frequenting the house
of Signor Pastrini understood French
perfectly in all its idioms.

Danglars immediately recognized him as
the man who had called out in such a
furious manner, "Put in your head!" But
this was not the time for recrimination,
so he assumed his most agreeable manner
and said with a gracious smile, --
"Excuse me, sir, but are they not going
to give me any dinner?"

"Does your excellency happen to be
hungry?"

"Happen to be hungry, -- that's pretty
good, when I haven't eaten for
twenty-four hours!" muttered Danglars.
Then he added aloud, "Yes, sir, I am
hungry -- very hungry."

"What would your excellency like?" and
Peppino placed his pan on the ground, so
that the steam rose directly under the
nostrils of Danglars. "Give your
orders."

"Have you kitchens here?"

"Kitchens? -- of course -- complete
ones."

"And cooks?"

"Excellent!"

"Well, a fowl, fish, game, -- it
signifies little, so that I eat."

"As your excellency pleases. You
mentioned a fowl, I think?"

"Yes, a fowl." Peppino, turning around,
shouted, "A fowl for his excellency!"
His voice yet echoed in the archway when
a handsome, graceful, and half-naked
young man appeared, bearing a fowl in a
silver dish on his head, without the
assistance of his hands. "I could almost
believe myself at the Cafe de Paris,"
murmured Danglars.

"Here, your excellency," said Peppino,
taking the fowl from the young bandit
and placing it on the worm-eaten table,
which with the stool and the goat-skin
bed formed the entire furniture of the
cell. Danglars asked for a knife and
fork. "Here, excellency," said Peppino,
offering him a little blunt knife and a
boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife in
one hand and the fork in the other, and
was about to cut up the fowl. "Pardon
me, excellency," said Peppino, placing
his hand on the banker's shoulder;
"people pay here before they eat. They
might not be satisfied, and" --

"Ah, ha," thought Danglars, "this is not
so much like Paris, except that I shall
probably be skinned! Never mind, I'll
fix that all right. I have always heard
how cheap poultry is in Italy; I should
think a fowl is worth about twelve sous
at Rome. -- There," he said, throwing a
louis down. Peppino picked up the louis,
and Danglars again prepared to carve the
fowl. "Stay a moment, your excellency,"
said Peppino, rising; "you still owe me
something."

"I said they would skin me," thought
Danglars; but resolving to resist the
extortion, he said, "Come, how much do I
owe you for this fowl?"

"Your excellency has given me a louis on
account."

"A louis on account for a fowl?"

"Certainly; and your excellency now owes
me 4,999 louis." Danglars opened his
enormous eyes on hearing this gigantic
joke. "Come, come, this is very droll --
very amusing -- I allow; but, as I am
very hungry, pray allow me to eat. Stay,
here is another louis for you."

"Then that will make only 4,998 louis
more," said Peppino with the same
indifference. "I shall get them all in
time."

"Oh, as for that," said Danglars, angry
at this prolongation of the jest, -- "as
for that you won't get them at all. Go
to the devil! You do not know with whom
you have to deal!" Peppino made a sign,
and the youth hastily removed the fowl.
Danglars threw himself upon his
goat-skin, and Peppino, reclosing the
door, again began eating his pease and
bacon. Though Danglars could not see
Peppino, the noise of his teeth allowed
no doubt as to his occupation. He was
certainly eating, and noisily too, like
an ill-bred man. "Brute!" said Danglars.
Peppino pretended not to hear him, and
without even turning his head continued
to eat slowly. Danglars' stomach felt so
empty, that it seemed as if it would be
impossible ever to fill it again; still
he had patience for another half-hour,
which appeared to him like a century. He
again arose and went to the door. "Come,
sir, do not keep me starving here any
longer, but tell me what they want."

"Nay, your excellency, it is you who
should tell us what you want. Give your
orders, and we will execute them."

"Then open the door directly." Peppino
obeyed. "Now look here, I want something
to eat! To eat -- do you hear?"

"Are you hungry?"

"Come, you understand me."

"What would your excellency like to
eat?"

"A piece of dry bread, since the fowls
are beyond all price in this accursed
place."

"Bread? Very well. Hallo, there, some
bread!" he called. The youth brought a
small loaf. "How much?" asked Danglars.

"Four thousand nine hundred and
ninety-eight louis," said Peppino; "You
have paid two louis in advance."

"What? One hundred thousand francs for a
loaf?"

"One hundred thousand francs," repeated
Peppino.

"But you only asked 100,000 francs for a
fowl!"

"We have a fixed price for all our
provisions. It signifies nothing whether
you eat much or little -- whether you
have ten dishes or one -- it is always
the same price."

"What, still keeping up this silly jest?
My dear fellow, it is perfectly
ridiculous -- stupid! You had better
tell me at once that you intend starving
me to death."

"Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless
you intend to commit suicide. Pay and
eat."

"And what am I to pay with, brute?" said
Danglars, enraged. "Do you suppose I
carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?"

"Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in
your pocket; that will be fifty fowls at
100,000 francs apiece, and half a fowl
for the 50,000."

Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell
from his eyes, and he understood the
joke, which he did not think quite so
stupid as he had done just before.
"Come," he said, "if I pay you the
100,000 francs, will you be satisfied,
and allow me to eat at my ease?"

"Certainly," said Peppino.

"But how can I pay them?"

"Oh, nothing easier; you have an account
open with Messrs. Thomson & French, Via
dei Banchi, Rome; give me a draft for
4,998 louis on these gentlemen, and our
banker shall take it." Danglars thought
it as well to comply with a good grace,
so he took the pen, ink, and paper
Peppino offered him, wrote the draft,
and signed it. "Here," he said, "here is
a draft at sight."

"And here is your fowl." Danglars sighed
while he carved the fowl; it appeared
very thin for the price it had cost. As
for Peppino, he examined the paper
attentively, put it into his pocket, and
continued eating his pease.



Chapter 116 The Pardon.

The next day Danglars was again hungry;
certainly the air of that dungeon was
very provocative of appetite. The
prisoner expected that he would be at no
expense that day, for like an economical
man he had concealed half of his fowl
and a piece of the bread in the corner
of his cell. But he had no sooner eaten
than he felt thirsty; he had forgotten
that. He struggled against his thirst
till his tongue clave to the roof of his
mouth; then, no longer able to resist,
he called out. The sentinel opened the
door; it was a new face. He thought it
would be better to transact business
with his old acquaintance, so he sent
for Peppino. "Here I am, your
excellency," said Peppino, with an
eagerness which Danglars thought
favorable to him. "What do you want?"

"Something to drink."

"Your excellency knows that wine is
beyond all price near Rome."

"Then give me water," cried Danglars,
endeavoring to parry the blow.

"Oh, water is even more scarce than
wine, your excellency, -- there has been
such a drought."

"Come," thought Danglars, "it is the
same old story." And while he smiled as
he attempted to regard the affair as a
joke, he felt his temples get moist with
perspiration.

"Come, my friend," said Danglars, seeing
that he made no impression on Peppino,
"you will not refuse me a glass of
wine?"

"I have already told you that we do not
sell at retail."

"Well, then, let me have a bottle of the
least expensive."

"They are all the same price."

"And what is that?"

"Twenty-five thousand francs a bottle."

"Tell me," cried Danglars, in a tone
whose bitterness Harpagon* alone has
been capable of revealing -- "tell the
that you wish to despoil me of all; it
will be sooner over than devouring me
piecemeal."

* The miser in Moliere's comedy of
"L'Avare." -- Ed.

"It is possible such may be the master's
intention."

"The master? -- who is he?"

"The person to whom you were conducted
yesterday."

"Where is he?"

"Here."

"Let me see him."

"Certainly." And the next moment Luigi
Vampa appeared before Danglars.

"You sent for me?" he said to the
prisoner.

"Are you, sir, the chief of the people
who brought me here?"

"Yes, your excellency. What then?"

"How much do you require for my ransom?"

"Merely the 5,000,000 you have about
you." Danglars felt a dreadful spasm
dart through his heart. "But this is all
I have left in the world," he said, "out
of an immense fortune. If you deprive me
of that, take away my life also."

"We are forbidden to shed your blood."

"And by whom are you forbidden?"

"By him we obey."

"You do, then, obey some one?"

"Yes, a chief."

"I thought you said you were the chief?"

"So I am of these men; but there is
another over me."

"And did your superior order you to
treat me in this way?"

"Yes."

"But my purse will be exhausted."

"Probably."

"Come," said Danglars, "will you take a
million?"

"No."

"Two millions? -- three? -- four? Come,
four? I will give them to you on
condition that you let me go."

"Why do you offer me 4,000,000 for what
is worth 5,000,000? This is a kind of
usury, banker, that I do not
understand."

"Take all, then -- take all, I tell you,
and kill me!"

"Come, come, calm yourself. You will
excite your blood, and that would
produce an appetite it would require a
million a day to satisfy. Be more
economical."

"But when I have no more money left to
pay you?" asked the infuriated Danglars.

"Then you must suffer hunger."

"Suffer hunger?" said Danglars, becoming
pale.

"Most likely," replied Vampa coolly.

"But you say you do not wish to kill
me?"

"No."

"And yet you will let me perish with
hunger?"

"Ah, that is a different thing."

"Well, then, wretches," cried Danglars,
"I will defy your infamous
calculations -- I would rather die at
once! You may torture, torment, kill me,
but you shall not have my signature
again!"

"As your excellency pleases," said
Vampa, as he left the cell. Danglars,
raving, threw himself on the goat-skin.
Who could these men be? Who was the
invisible chief? What could be his
intentions towards him? And why, when
every one else was allowed to be
ransomed, might he not also be? Oh, yes;
certainly a speedy, violent death would
be a fine means of deceiving these
remorseless enemies, who appeared to
pursue him with such incomprehensible
vengeance. But to die? For the first
time in his life, Danglars contemplated
death with a mixture of dread and
desire; the time had come when the
implacable spectre, which exists in the
mind of every human creature, arrested
his attention and called out with every
pulsation of his heart, "Thou shalt
die!"

Danglars resembled a timid animal
excited in the chase; first it flies,
then despairs, and at last, by the very
force of desperation, sometimes succeeds
in eluding its pursuers. Danglars
meditated an escape; but the walls were
solid rock, a man was sitting reading at
the only outlet to the cell, and behind
that man shapes armed with guns
continually passed. His resolution not
to sign lasted two days, after which he
offered a million for some food. They
sent him a magnificent supper, and took
his million.

From this time the prisoner resolved to
suffer no longer, but to have everything
he wanted. At the end of twelve days,
after having made a splendid dinner, he
reckoned his accounts, and found that he
had only 50,000 francs left. Then a
strange reaction took place; he who had
just abandoned 5,000,000 endeavored to
save the 50,000 francs he had left, and
sooner than give them up he resolved to
enter again upon a life of privation --
he was deluded by the hopefulness that
is a premonition of madness. He who for
so long a time had forgotten God, began
to think that miracles were possible --
that the accursed cavern might be
discovered by the officers of the Papal
States, who would release him; that then
he would have 50,000 remaining, which
would be sufficient to save him from
starvation; and finally he prayed that
this sum might be preserved to him, and
as he prayed he wept. Three days passed
thus, during which his prayers were
frequent, if not heartfelt. Sometimes he
was delirious, and fancied he saw an old
man stretched on a pallet; he, also, was
dying of hunger.

On the fourth, he was no longer a man,
but a living corpse. He had picked up
every crumb that had been left from his
former meals, and was beginning to eat
the matting which covered the floor of
his cell. Then he entreated Peppino, as
he would a guardian angel, to give him
food; he offered him 1,000 francs for a
mouthful of bread. But Peppino did not
answer. On the fifth day he dragged
himself to the door of the cell.

"Are you not a Christian?" he said,
falling on his knees. "Do you wish to
assassinate a man who, in the eyes of
heaven, is a brother? Oh, my former
friends, my former friends!" he
murmured, and fell with his face to the
ground. Then rising in despair, he
exclaimed, "The chief, the chief!"

"Here I am," said Vampa, instantly
appearing; "what do you want?"

"Take my last gold," muttered Danglars,
holding out his pocket-book, "and let me
live here; I ask no more for liberty --
I only ask to live!"

"Then you suffer a great deal?"

"Oh, yes, yes, cruelly!"

"Still, there have been men who suffered
more than you."

"I do not think so."

"Yes; those who have died of hunger."

Danglars thought of the old man whom, in
his hours of delirium, he had seen
groaning on his bed. He struck his
forehead on the ground and groaned.
"Yes," he said, "there have been some
who have suffered more than I have, but
then they must have been martyrs at
least."

"Do you repent?" asked a deep, solemn
voice, which caused Danglars' hair to
stand on end. His feeble eyes endeavored
to distinguish objects, and behind the
bandit he saw a man enveloped in a
cloak, half lost in the shadow of a
stone column.

"Of what must I repent?" stammered
Danglars.

"Of the evil you have done," said the
voice.

"Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent."
And he struck his breast with his
emaciated fist.

"Then I forgive you," said the man,
dropping his cloak, and advancing to the
light.

"The Count of Monte Cristo!" said
Danglars, more pale from terror than he
had been just before from hunger and
misery.

"You are mistaken -- I am not the Count
of Monte Cristo."

"Then who are you?"

"I am he whom you sold and dishonored --
I am he whose betrothed you
prostituted -- I am he upon whom you
trampled that you might raise yourself
to fortune -- I am he whose father you
condemned to die of hunger -- I am he
whom you also condemned to starvation,
and who yet forgives you, because he
hopes to be forgiven -- I am Edmond
Dantes!" Danglars uttered a cry, and
fell prostrate. "Rise," said the count,
"your life is safe; the same good
fortune has not happened to your
accomplices -- one is mad, the other
dead. Keep the 50,000 francs you have
left -- I give them to you. The
5,000,000 you stole from the hospitals
has been restored to them by an unknown
hand. And now eat and drink; I will
entertain you to-night. Vampa, when this
man is satisfied, let him be free."
Danglars remained prostrate while the
count withdrew; when he raised his head
he saw disappearing down the passage
nothing but a shadow, before which the
bandits bowed. According to the count's
directions, Danglars was waited on by
Vampa, who brought him the best wine and
fruits of Italy; then, having conducted
him to the road, and pointed to the
post-chaise, left him leaning against a
tree. He remained there all night, not
knowing where he was. When daylight
dawned he saw that he was near a stream;
he was thirsty, and dragged himself
towards it. As he stooped down to drink,
he saw that his hair had become entirely
white.



Chapter 117 The Fifth of October.

It was about six o'clock in the evening;
an opal-colored light, through which an
autumnal sun shed its golden rays,
descended on the blue ocean. The heat of
the day had gradually decreased, and a
light breeze arose, seeming like the
respiration of nature on awakening from
the burning siesta of the south. A
delicious zephyr played along the coasts
of the Mediterranean, and wafted from
shore to shore the sweet perfume of
plants, mingled with the fresh smell of
the sea.

A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its
form, was gliding amidst the first dews
of night over the immense lake,
extending from Gibraltar to the
Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice.
The vessel resembled a swan with its
wings opened towards the wind, gliding
on the water. It advanced swiftly and
gracefully, leaving behind it a
glittering stretch of foam. By degrees
the sun disappeared behind the western
horizon; but as though to prove the
truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen
mythology, its indiscreet rays
reappeared on the summit of every wave,
as if the god of fire had just sunk upon
the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain
endeavored to hide her lover beneath her
azure mantle. The yacht moved rapidly
on, though there did not appear to be
sufficient wind to ruffle the curls on
the head of a young girl. Standing on
the prow was a tall man, of a dark
complexion, who saw with dilating eyes
that they were approaching a dark mass
of land in the shape of a cone, which
rose from the midst of the waves like
the hat of a Catalan. "Is that Monte
Cristo?" asked the traveller, to whose
orders the yacht was for the time
submitted, in a melancholy voice.

"Yes, your excellency," said the
captain, "we have reached it."

"We have reached it!" repeated the
traveller in an accent of indescribable
sadness. Then he added, in a low tone,
"Yes; that is the haven." And then he
again plunged into a train of thought,
the character of which was better
revealed by a sad smile, than it would
have been by tears. A few minutes
afterwards a flash of light, which was
extinguished instantly, was seen on the
land, and the sound of firearms reached
the yacht.

"Your excellency," said the captain,
"that was the land signal, will you
answer yourself?"

"What signal?" The captain pointed
towards the island, up the side of which
ascended a volume of smoke, increasing
as it rose. "Ah, yes," he said, as if
awaking from a dream. "Give it to me."

The captain gave him a loaded carbine;
the traveller slowly raised it, and
fired in the air. Ten minutes
afterwards, the sails were furled, and
they cast anchor about a hundred fathoms
from the little harbor. The gig was
already lowered, and in it were four
oarsmen and a coxswain. The traveller
descended, and instead of sitting down
at the stern of the boat, which had been
decorated with a blue carpet for his
accommodation, stood up with his arms
crossed. The rowers waited, their oars
half lifted out of the water, like birds
drying their wings.

"Give way," said the traveller. The
eight oars fell into the sea
simultaneously without splashing a drop
of water, and the boat, yielding to the
impulsion, glided forward. In an instant
they found themselves in a little
harbor, formed in a natural creek; the
boat grounded on the fine sand.

"Will your excellency be so good as to
mount the shoulders of two of our men,
they will carry you ashore?" The young
man answered this invitation with a
gesture of indifference, and stepped out
of the boat; the sea immediately rose to
his waist. "Ah, your excellency,"
murmured the pilot, "you should not have
done so; our master will scold us for
it." The young man continued to advance,
following the sailors, who chose a firm
footing. Thirty strides brought them to
dry land; the young man stamped on the
ground to shake off the wet, and looked
around for some one to show him his
road, for it was quite dark. Just as he
turned, a hand rested on his shoulder,
and a voice which made him shudder
exclaimed, -- "Good-evening, Maximilian;
you are punctual, thank you!"

"Ah, is it you, count?" said the young
man, in an almost joyful accent,
pressing Monte Cristo's hand with both
his own.

"Yes; you see I am as exact as you are.
But you are dripping, my dear fellow;
you must change your clothes, as Calypso
said to Telemachus. Come, I have a
habitation prepared for you in which you
will soon forget fatigue and cold."
Monte Cristo perceived that the young
man had turned around; indeed, Morrel
saw with surprise that the men who had
brought him had left without being paid,
or uttering a word. Already the sound of
their oars might be heard as they
returned to the yacht.

"Oh, yes," said the count, "you are
looking for the sailors."

"Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they
are gone."

"Never mind that, Maximilian," said
Monte Cristo, smiling. "I have made an
agreement with the navy, that the access
to my island shall be free of all
charge. I have made a bargain." Morrel
looked at the count with surprise.
"Count," he said, "you are not the same
here as in Paris."

"How so?"

"Here you laugh." The count's brow
became clouded. "You are right to recall
me to myself, Maximilian," he said; "I
was delighted to see you again, and
forgot for the moment that all happiness
is fleeting."

"Oh, no, no, count," cried Maximilian,
seizing the count's hands, "pray laugh;
be happy, and prove to me, by your
indifference, that life is endurable to
sufferers. Oh, how charitable, kind, and
good you are; you affect this gayety to
inspire me with courage."

"You are wrong, Morrel; I was really
happy."

"Then you forget me, so much the
better."

"How so?"

"Yes; for as the gladiator said to the
emperor, when he entered the arena, `He
who is about to die salutes you.'"

"Then you are not consoled?" asked the
count, surprised.

"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, with a glance
full of bitter reproach, "do you think
it possible that I could be?"

"Listen," said the count. "Do you
understand the meaning of my words? You
cannot take me for a commonplace man, a
mere rattle, emitting a vague and
senseless noise. When I ask you if you
are consoled, I speak to you as a man
for whom the human heart has no secrets.
Well, Morrel, let us both examine the
depths of your heart. Do you still feel
the same feverish impatience of grief
which made you start like a wounded
lion? Have you still that devouring
thirst which can only be appeased in the
grave? Are you still actuated by the
regret which drags the living to the
pursuit of death; or are you only
suffering from the prostration of
fatigue and the weariness of hope
deferred? Has the loss of memory
rendered it impossible for you to weep?
Oh, my dear friend, if this be the
case, -- if you can no longer weep, if
your frozen heart be dead, if you put
all your trust in God, then, Maximilian,
you are consoled -- do not complain."

"Count," said Morrel, in a firm and at
the same time soft voice, "listen to me,
as to a man whose thoughts are raised to
heaven, though he remains on earth; I
come to die in the arms of a friend.
Certainly, there are people whom I love.
I love my sister Julie, -- I love her
husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong
mind to smile on my last moments. My
sister would be bathed in tears and
fainting; I could not bear to see her
suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon
from my hand, and alarm the house with
his cries. You, count, who are more than
mortal, will, I am sure, lead me to
death by a pleasant path, will you not?"

"My friend," said the count, "I have
still one doubt, -- are you weak enough
to pride yourself upon your sufferings?"

"No, indeed, -- I am calm," said Morrel,
giving his hand to the count; "my pulse
does not beat slower or faster than
usual. No, I feel that I have reached
the goal, and I will go no farther. You
told me to wait and hope; do you know
what you did, unfortunate adviser? I
waited a month, or rather I suffered for
a month! I did hope (man is a poor
wretched creature), I did hope. What I
cannot tell, -- something wonderful, an
absurdity, a miracle, -- of what nature
he alone can tell who has mingled with
our reason that folly we call hope. Yes,
I did wait -- yes, I did hope, count,
and during this quarter of an hour we
have been talking together, you have
unconsciously wounded, tortured my
heart, for every word you have uttered
proved that there was no hope for me.
Oh, count, I shall sleep calmly,
deliciously in the arms of death."
Morrel uttered these words with an
energy which made the count shudder. "My
friend," continued Morrel, "you named
the fifth of October as the end of the
period of waiting, -- to-day is the
fifth of October," he took out his
watch, "it is now nine o'clock, -- I
have yet three hours to live."

"Be it so," said the count, "come."
Morrel mechanically followed the count,
and they had entered the grotto before
he perceived it. He felt a carpet under
his feet, a door opened, perfumes
surrounded him, and a brilliant light
dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to
advance; he dreaded the enervating
effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo
drew him in gently. "Why should we not
spend the last three hours remaining to
us of life, like those ancient Romans,
who when condemned by Nero, their
emperor and heir, sat down at a table
covered with flowers, and gently glided
into death, amid the perfume of
heliotropes and roses?" Morrel smiled.
"As you please," he said; "death is
always death, -- that is forgetfulness,
repose, exclusion from life, and
therefore from grief." He sat down, and
Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to
him. They were in the marvellous
dining-room before described, where the
statues had baskets on their heads
always filled with fruits and flowers.
Morrel had looked carelessly around, and
had probably noticed nothing.

"Let us talk like men," he said, looking
at the count.

"Go on!"

"Count," said Morrel, "you are the
epitome of all human knowledge, and you
seem like a being descended from a wiser
and more advanced world than ours."

"There is something true in what you
say," said the count, with that smile
which made him so handsome; "I have
descended from a planet called grief."

"I believe all you tell me without
questioning its meaning; for instance,
you told me to live, and I did live; you
told me to hope, and I almost did so. I
am almost inclined to ask you, as though
you had experienced death, `is it
painful to die?'"

Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with
indescribable tenderness. "Yes," he
said, "yes, doubtless it is painful, if
you violently break the outer covering
which obstinately begs for life. If you
plunge a dagger into your flesh, if you
insinuate a bullet into your brain,
which the least shock disorders, -- then
certainly, you will suffer pain, and you
will repent quitting a life for a repose
you have bought at so dear a price."

"Yes; I know that there is a secret of
luxury and pain in death, as well as in
life; the only thing is to understand
it."

"You have spoken truly, Maximilian;
according to the care we bestow upon it,
death is either a friend who rocks us
gently as a nurse, or an enemy who
violently drags the soul from the body.
Some day, when the world is much older,
and when mankind will be masters of all
the destructive powers in nature, to
serve for the general good of humanity;
when mankind, as you were just saying,
have discovered the secrets of death,
then that death will become as sweet and
voluptuous as a slumber in the arms of
your beloved."

"And if you wished to die, you would
choose this death, count?"

"Yes."

Morrel extended his hand. "Now I
understand," he said, "why you had me
brought here to this desolate spot, in
the midst of the ocean, to this
subterranean palace; it was because you
loved me, was it not, count? It was
because you loved me well enough to give
me one of those sweet means of death of
which we were speaking; a death without
agony, a death which allows me to fade
away while pronouncing Valentine's name
and pressing your hand."

"Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel,"
said the count, "that is what I
intended."

"Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall
no longer suffer, is sweet to my heart."

"Do you then regret nothing?"

"No," replied Morrel.

"Not even me?" asked the count with deep
emotion. Morrel's clear eye was for the
moment clouded, then it shone with
unusual lustre, and a large tear rolled
down his cheek.

"What," said the count, "do you still
regret anything in the world, and yet
die?"

"Oh, I entreat you," exclaimed Morrel in
a low voice, "do not speak another word,
count; do not prolong my punishment."
The count fancied that he was yielding,
and this belief revived the horrible
doubt that had overwhelmed him at the
Chateau d'If. "I am endeavoring," he
thought, "to make this man happy; I look
upon this restitution as a weight thrown
into the scale to balance the evil I
have wrought. Now, supposing I am
deceived, supposing this man has not
been unhappy enough to merit happiness.
Alas, what would become of me who can
only atone for evil by doing good?" Then
he said aloud: "Listen, Morrel, I see
your grief is great, but still you do
not like to risk your soul." Morrel
smiled sadly. "Count," he said, "I swear
to you my soul is no longer my own."

"Maximilian, you know I have no relation
in the world. I have accustomed myself
to regard you as my son: well, then, to
save my son, I will sacrifice my life,
nay, even my fortune."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that you wish to quit life
because you do not understand all the
enjoyments which are the fruits of a
large fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly
a hundred millions and I give them to
you; with such a fortune you can attain
every wish. Are you ambitions? Every
career is open to you. Overturn the
world, change its character, yield to
mad ideas, be even criminal -- but
live."

"Count, I have your word," said Morrel
coldly; then taking out his watch, he
added, "It is half-past eleven."

"Morrel, can you intend it in my house,
under my very eyes?"

"Then let me go," said Maximilian, "or I
shall think you did not love me for my
own sake, but for yours; "and he arose.

"It is well," said Monte Cristo whose
countenance brightened at these words;
"you wish -- you are inflexible. Yes, as
you said, you are indeed wretched and a
miracle alone can cure you. Sit down,
Morrel, and wait."

Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and
unlocking a closet with a key suspended
from his gold chain, took from it a
little silver casket, beautifully carved
and chased, the corners of which
represented four bending figures,
similar to the Caryatides, the forms of
women, symbols of the angels aspiring to
heaven. He placed the casket on the
table; then opening it took out a little
golden box, the top of which flew open
when touched by a secret spring. This
box contained an unctuous substance
partly solid, of which it was impossible
to discover the color, owing to the
reflection of the polished gold,
sapphires, rubies, emeralds, which
ornamented the box. It was a mixed mass
of blue, red, and gold. The count took
out a small quantity of this with a gilt
spoon, and offered it to Morrel, fixing
a long steadfast glance upon him. It was
then observable that the substance was
greenish.

"This is what you asked for," he said,
"and what I promised to give you."

"I thank you from the depths of my
heart," said the young man, taking the
spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo.
The count took another spoon, and again
dipped it into the golden box. "What are
you going to do, my friend?" asked
Morrel, arresting his hand.

"Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was
thinking that I too am weary of life,
and since an opportunity presents
itself" --

"Stay!" said the young man. "You who
love, and are beloved; you, who have
faith and hope, -- oh, do not follow my
example. In your case it would be a
crime. Adieu, my noble and generous
friend, adieu; I will go and tell
Valentine what you have done for me."
And slowly, though without any
hesitation, only waiting to press the
count's hand fervently, he swallowed the
mysterious substance offered by Monte
Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali,
mute and attentive, brought the pipes
and coffee, and disappeared. By degrees,
the light of the lamps gradually faded
in the hands of the marble statues which
held them, and the perfumes appeared
less powerful to Morrel. Seated opposite
to him, Monte Cristo watched him in the
shadow, and Morrel saw nothing but the
bright eyes of the count. An
overpowering sadness took possession of
the young man, his hands relaxed their
hold, the objects in the room gradually
lost their form and color, and his
disturbed vision seemed to perceive
doors and curtains open in the walls.

"Friend," he cried, "I feel that I am
dying; thanks!" He made a last effort to
extend his hand, but it fell powerless
beside him. Then it appeared to him that
Monte Cristo smiled, not with the
strange and fearful expression which had
sometimes revealed to him the secrets of
his heart, but with the benevolent
kindness of a father for a child. At the
same time the count appeared to increase
in stature, his form, nearly double its
usual height, stood out in relief
against the red tapestry, his black hair
was thrown back, and he stood in the
attitude of an avenging angel. Morrel,
overpowered, turned around in the
arm-chair; a delicious torpor permeated
every vein. A change of ideas presented
themselves to his brain, like a new
design on the kaleidoscope. Enervated,
prostrate, and breathless, he became
unconscious of outward objects; he
seemed to be entering that vague
delirium preceding death. He wished once
again to press the count's hand, but his
own was immovable. He wished to
articulate a last farewell, but his
tongue lay motionless and heavy in his
throat, like a stone at the mouth of a
sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid
eyes closed, and still through his
eyelashes a well-known form seemed to
move amid the obscurity with which he
thought himself enveloped.

The count had just opened a door.
Immediately a brilliant light from the
next room, or rather from the palace
adjoining, shone upon the room in which
he was gently gliding into his last
sleep. Then he saw a woman of marvellous
beauty appear on the threshold of the
door separating the two rooms. Pale, and
sweetly smiling, she looked like an
angel of mercy conjuring the angel of
vengeance. "Is it heaven that opens
before me?" thought the dying man; "that
angel resembles the one I have lost."
Monte Cristo pointed out Morrel to the
young woman, who advanced towards him
with clasped hands and a smile upon her
lips.

"Valentine, Valentine!" he mentally
ejaculated; but his lips uttered no
sound, and as though all his strength
were centred in that internal emotion,
he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine
rushed towards him; his lips again
moved.

"He is calling you," said the count; "he
to whom you have confided your
destiny -- he from whom death would have
separated you, calls you to him.
Happily, I vanquished death. Henceforth,
Valentine, you will never again be
separated on earth, since he has rushed
into death to find you. Without me, you
would both have died. May God accept my
atonement in the preservation of these
two existences!"

Valentine seized the count's hand, and
in her irresistible impulse of joy
carried it to her lips.

"Oh, thank me again!" said the count;
"tell me till you are weary, that I have
restored you to happiness; you do not
know how much I require this assurance."

"Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my
heart," said Valentine; "and if you
doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh,
then, ask Haidee! ask my beloved sister
Haidee, who ever since our departure
from France, has caused me to wait
patiently for this happy day, while
talking to me of you."

"You then love Haidee?" asked Monte
Cristo with an emotion he in vain
endeavored to dissimulate.

"Oh, yes, with all my soul."

"Well, then, listen, Valentine," said
the count; "I have a favor to ask of
you."

"Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?"

"Yes; you have called Haidee your
sister, -- let her become so indeed,
Valentine; render her all the gratitude
you fancy that you owe to me; protect
her, for" (the count's voice was thick
with emotion) "henceforth she will be
alone in the world."

"Alone in the world!" repeated a voice
behind the count, "and why?"

Monte Cristo turned around; Haidee was
standing pale, motionless, looking at
the count with an expression of fearful
amazement.

"Because to-morrow, Haidee, you will be
free; you will then assume your proper
position in society, for I will not
allow my destiny to overshadow yours.
Daughter of a prince, I restore to you
the riches and name of your father."

Haidee became pale, and lifting her
transparent hands to heaven, exclaimed
in a voice stifled with tears, "Then you
leave me, my lord?"

"Haidee, Haidee, you are young and
beautiful; forget even my name, and be
happy."

"It is well," said Haidee; "your order
shall be executed, my lord; I will
forget even your name, and be happy."
And she stepped back to retire.

"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, who
was supporting the head of Morrel on her
shoulder, "do you not see how pale she
is? Do you not see how she suffers?"

Haidee answered with a heartrending
expression, "Why should he understand
this, my sister? He is my master, and I
am his slave; he has the right to notice
nothing."

The count shuddered at the tones of a
voice which penetrated the inmost
recesses of his heart; his eyes met
those of the young girl and he could not
bear their brilliancy. "Oh, heavens,"
exclaimed Monte Cristo, "can my
suspicions be correct? Haidee, would it
please you not to leave me?"

"I am young," gently replied Haidee; "I
love the life you have made so sweet to
me, and I should be sorry to die."

"You mean, then, that if I leave you,
Haidee" --

"I should die; yes, my lord."

"Do you then love me?"

"Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him.
Valentine, tell him if you love
Maximilian." The count felt his heart
dilate and throb; he opened his arms,
and Haidee, uttering a cry, sprang into
them. "Oh, yes," she cried, "I do love
you! I love you as one loves a father,
brother, husband! I love you as my life,
for you are the best, the noblest of
created beings!"

"Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet
angel; God has sustained me in my
struggle with my enemies, and has given
me this reward; he will not let me end
my triumph in suffering; I wished to
punish myself, but he has pardoned me.
Love me then, Haidee! Who knows? perhaps
your love will make me forget all that I
do not wish to remember."

"What do you mean, my lord?"

"I mean that one word from you has
enlightened me more than twenty years of
slow experience; I have but you in the
world, Haidee; through you I again take
hold on life, through you I shall
suffer, through you rejoice."

"Do you hear him, Valentine?" exclaimed
Haidee; "he says that through me he will
suffer -- through me, who would yield my
life for his." The count withdrew for a
moment. "Have I discovered the truth?"
he said; "but whether it be for
recompense or punishment, I accept my
fate. Come, Haidee, come!" and throwing
his arm around the young girl's waist,
he pressed the hand of Valentine, and
disappeared.

An hour had nearly passed, during which
Valentine, breathless and motionless,
watched steadfastly over Morrel. At
length she felt his heart beat, a faint
breath played upon his lips, a slight
shudder, announcing the return of life,
passed through the young man's frame. At
length his eyes opened, but they were at
first fixed and expressionless; then
sight returned, and with it feeling and
grief. "Oh," he cried, in an accent of
despair, "the count has deceived me; I
am yet living; "and extending his hand
towards the table, he seized a knife.

"Dearest," exclaimed Valentine, with her
adorable smile, "awake, and look at me!"
Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and
frantic, doubtful, dazzled, as though by
a celestial vision, he fell upon his
knees.

The next morning at daybreak, Valentine
and Morrel were walking arm-in-arm on
the sea-shore, Valentine relating how
Monte Cristo had appeared in her room,
explained everything, revealed the
crime, and, finally, how he had saved
her life by enabling her to simulate
death. They had found the door of the
grotto opened, and gone forth; on the
azure dome of heaven still glittered a
few remaining stars. Morrel soon
perceived a man standing among the
rocks, apparently awaiting a sign from
them to advance, and pointed him out to
Valentine. "Ah, it is Jacopo," she said,
"the captain of the yacht; "and she
beckoned him towards them.

"Do you wish to speak to us?" asked
Morrel.

"I have a letter to give you from the
count."

"From the count!" murmured the two young
people.

"Yes; read it." Morrel opened the
letter, and read: --

"My Dear Maximilian, --

"There is a felucca for you at anchor.
Jacopo will carry you to Leghorn, where
Monsieur Noirtier awaits his
granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless
before you lead her to the altar. All
that is in this grotto, my friend, my
house in the Champs Elysees, and my
chateau at Treport, are the marriage
gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantes upon the
son of his old master, Morrel.
Mademoiselle de Villefort will share
them with you; for I entreat her to give
to the poor the immense fortune
reverting to her from her father, now a
madman, and her brother who died last
September with his mother. Tell the
angel who will watch over your future
destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a
man, who like Satan thought himself for
an instant equal to God, but who now
acknowledges with Christian humility
that God alone possesses supreme power
and infinite wisdom. Perhaps those
prayers may soften the remorse he feels
in his heart. As for you, Morrel, this
is the secret of my conduct towards you.
There is neither happiness nor misery in
the world; there is only the comparison
of one state with another, nothing more.
He who has felt the deepest grief is
best able to experience supreme
happiness. We must have felt what it is
to die, Morrel, that we may appreciate
the enjoyments of living.

"Live, then, and be happy, beloved
children of my heart, and never forget
that until the day when God shall deign
to reveal the future to man, all human
wisdom is summed up in these two
words, -- `Wait and hope.' Your friend,

"Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo."

During the perusal of this letter, which
informed Valentine for the first time of
the madness of her father and the death
of her brother, she became pale, a heavy
sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears,
not the less painful because they were
silent, ran down her cheeks; her
happiness cost her very dear. Morrel
looked around uneasily. "But," he said,
"the count's generosity is too
overwhelming; Valentine will be
satisfied with my humble fortune. Where
is the count, friend? Lead me to him."
Jacopo pointed towards the horizon.
"What do you mean?" asked Valentine.
"Where is the count? -- where is
Haidee?"

"Look!" said Jacopo.

The eyes of both were fixed upon the
spot indicated by the sailor, and on the
blue line separating the sky from the
Mediterranean Sea, they perceived a
large white sail. "Gone," said Morrel;
"gone! -- adieu, my friend -- adieu, my
father!"

"Gone," murmured Valentine; "adieu, my
sweet Haidee -- adieu, my sister!"

"Who can say whether we shall ever see
them again?" said Morrel with tearful
eyes.

"Darling," replied Valentine, "has not
the count just told us that all human
wisdom is summed up in two words? --
`Wait and hope.'"





