

The Count of Monte Cristo 

 Chapter 1 Marseilles -- The Arrival.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He died."

"Fell into the sea?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then did you see him, Edmond?"

"Who?"

"The marshal."

"Yes."

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

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

"You saw the emperor, then?"

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

"And you spoke to him?"

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

"And what did he say to you?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes, most satisfactory, my dear 
Danglars."

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

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

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

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

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

"Of what packet are you speaking, 
Danglars?"

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

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

Danglars turned very red.

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

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

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

At this moment the young man returned; 
Danglars withdrew.

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

"Yes, sir."

"You have not been long detained."

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

"Then you have nothing more to do here?"

"No -- everything is all right now."

"Then you can come and dine with me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dantes blushed.

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

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

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

"Not with us, sir," replied Dantes.

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

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

"You are a careful fellow, Edmond."

"Say I have a poor father, sir."

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

"Then I have your leave, sir?"

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

"Nothing."

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

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

"To get married?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shall I row you ashore?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Then I have leave?"

"Go, I tell you."

"May I have the use of your skiff?"

"Certainly."

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 2 Father and Son.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well?"

"Why, I paid him."

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

"Yes," stammered the old man.

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

The old man nodded.

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

"You have wounded me to the heart."

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

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

"Whom does this belong to?" he inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mercedes?" said the old man.

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

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

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

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

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

"And why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have just left him," answered 
Caderousse.

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

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

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

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

"So that he is quite elated about it?"

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

"Which you refused?"

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

"Explain yourself."

"Why should I?"

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

"I never like upstarts."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He went before I came down."

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 3 The Catalans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you will always love him?"

"As long as I live."

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

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

"If he has forgotten you" --

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Poor Fernand has been dismissed," 
continued Caderousse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Danglars did not lose one pang that 
Fernand endured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Have you business there?"

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

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

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

 Chapter 4 Conspiracy.

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

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

"It drives me to despair," said Fernand.

"Do you, then, love Mercedes?"

"I adore her!"

"For long?"

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

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

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

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

"I have found already."

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Death alone can separate them," 
remarked Fernand.

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

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

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

"What matters that?" muttered Fernand.

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

"Hold your tongue!" said Danglars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"True!" said Fernand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 5 The Marriage-Feast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is Fernand?" inquired Caderousse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hope!" repeated Danglars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"With what?" inquired the elder Dantes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it possible you were so kind?"

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

"And what was his reply?"

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

"The hypocrite!" murmured Danglars.

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

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

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

"No doubt; but in the meantime?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 6 The Deputy Procureur du Roi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To Saint Helena."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I cannot speak Latin," responded the 
marquise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is true," answered the marquis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Renee, 
turning pale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He is at my house."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"O mother!" murmured Renee.

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

 Chapter 7 The Examination.

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

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

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

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

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

"How old?"

"Nineteen or twenty at the most."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your age?" continued Villefort.

"Nineteen," returned Dantes.

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

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

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

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

"Go on, sir," said he.

"What would you have me say?"

"Give all the information in your 
power."

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

"Have you served under the usurper?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"`I swear, captain,' replied I.

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

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

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

"And what did you do then?"

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

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

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

"Yes; but first give me this letter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To no one, on my honor."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You see, I destroy it?"

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

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

"Oh, command, and I will obey."

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

"Speak, and I will follow your advice."

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

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

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

"Be satisfied; I will deny it."

"It was the only letter you had?"

"It was."

"Swear it."

"I swear it."

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 8 The Chateau D'If.

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

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

"Yes," replied a gendarme.

"By the orders of the deputy procureur?"

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

"Is this carriage for me?" said Dantes.

"It is for you," replied a gendarme.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whither are you taking me?" asked he.

"You will soon know."

"But still" --

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

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

He waited silently, striving to pierce 
through the darkness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"On my honor, I have no idea."

"Have you no idea whatever?"

"None at all."

"That is impossible."

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

"But my orders."

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

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

"I do not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Without any inquiry, without any 
formality?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is the prisoner?" said a voice.

"Here," replied the gendarmes.

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you not slept?" said the jailer.

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

"Are you hungry?" continued he.

"I do not know."

"Do you wish for anything?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I wish to see the governor."

"I have already told you it was 
impossible."

"Why so?"

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

"What is allowed, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think so?"

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

"How long has he left it?"

"Two years."

"Was he liberated, then?"

"No; he was put in a dungeon."

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

"What is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 9 The Evening of the Betrothal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But how can I sell out here?"

"You have it broker, have you not?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

"To whom?"

"To the king."

"To the king?"

"Yes."

"I dare not write to his majesty."

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell your coachman to stop at the 
door."

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

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

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

The marquis rang, a servant entered.

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

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

"I shall be gone only a few moments."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 10 The King's Closet at the 
Tuileries.

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

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

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

"That I am exceedingly disquieted, 
sire."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"By whom?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which?"

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

"Here, sire?"

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

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

"Has your majesty perused yesterday's 
report?"

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

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

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

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

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

"And, moreover, my dear duke," 
continued the minister of police, "we 
are almost assured that, in a very 
short time, the usurper will be insane."

"Insane?"

"Raving mad; his head becomes weaker. 
Sometimes he weeps bitterly, sometimes 
laughs boisterously, at other time he 
passes hours on the seashore, flinging 
stones in the water and when the flint 
makes `duck-and-drake' five or six 
times, he appears as delighted as if he 
had gained another Marengo or 
Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that 
these are indubitable symptoms of 
insanity."

"Or of wisdom, my dear baron -- or of 
wisdom," said Louis XVIII., laughing; 
"the greatest captains of antiquity 
amused themselves by casting pebbles 
into the ocean -- see Plutarch's life 
of Scipio Africanus."

M. de Blacas pondered deeply between 
the confident monarch and the truthful 
minister. Villefort, who did not choose 
to reveal the whole secret, lest 
another should reap all the benefit of 
the disclosure, had yet communicated 
enough to cause him the greatest 
uneasiness.

"Well, well, Dandre," said Louis 
XVIII., "Blacas is not yet convinced; 
let us proceed, therefore, to the 
usurper's conversion." The minister of 
police bowed.

"The usurper's conversion!" murmured 
the duke, looking at the king and 
Dandre, who spoke alternately, like 
Virgil's shepherds. "The usurper 
converted!"

"Decidedly, my dear duke."

"In what way converted?"

"To good principles. Tell him all about 
it, baron."

"Why, this is the way of it," said the 
minister, with the gravest air in the 
world: "Napoleon lately had a review, 
and as two or three of his old veterans 
expressed a desire to return to France, 
he gave them their dismissal, and 
exhorted them to `serve the good king.' 
These were his own words, of that I am 
certain."

"Well, Blacas, what think you of this?" 
inquired the king triumphantly, and 
pausing for a moment from the 
voluminous scholiast before him.

"I say, sire, that the minister of 
police is greatly deceived or I am; and 
as it is impossible it can be the 
minister of police as he has the 
guardianship of the safety and honor of 
your majesty, it is probable that I am 
in error. However, sire, if I might 
advise, your majesty will interrogate 
the person of whom I spoke to you, and 
I will urge your majesty to do him this 
honor."

"Most willingly, duke; under your 
auspices I will receive any person you 
please, but you must not expect me to 
be too confiding. Baron, have you any 
report more recent than this dated the 
20th February. -- this is the 4th of 
March?"

"No, sire, but I am hourly expecting 
one; it may have arrived since I left 
my office."

"Go thither, and if there be none -- 
well, well," continued Louis XVIII., 
"make one; that is the usual way, is it 
not?" and the king laughed facetiously.

"Oh, sire," replied the minister, "we 
have no occasion to invent any; every 
day our desks are loaded with most 
circumstantial denunciations, coming 
from hosts of people who hope for some 
return for services which they seek to 
render, but cannot; they trust to 
fortune, and rely upon some unexpected 
event in some way to justify their 
predictions."

"Well, sir, go"; said Louis XVIII., 
"and remember that I am waiting for 
you."

"I will but go and return, sire; I 
shall be back in ten minutes."

"And I, sire," said M. de Blacas, "will 
go and find my messenger."

"Wait, sir, wait," said Louis XVIII. 
"Really, M. de Blacas, I must change 
your armorial bearings; I will give you 
an eagle with outstretched wings, 
holding in its claws a prey which tries 
in vain to escape, and bearing this 
device -- Tenax."

"Sire, I listen," said De Blacas, 
biting his nails with impatience.

"I wish to consult you on this passage, 
`Molli fugiens anhelitu," you know it 
refers to a stag flying from a wolf. 
Are you not a sportsman and a great 
wolf-hunter? Well, then, what do you 
think of the molli anhelitu?"

"Admirable, sire; but my messenger is 
like the stag you refer to, for he has 
posted two hundred and twenty leagues 
in scarcely three days."

"Which is undergoing great fatigue and 
anxiety, my dear duke, when we have a 
telegraph which transmits messages in 
three or four hours, and that without 
getting in the least out of breath."

"Ah, sire, you recompense but badly 
this poor young man, who has come so 
far, and with so much ardor, to give 
your majesty useful information. If 
only for the sake of M. de Salvieux, 
who recommends him to me, I entreat 
your majesty to receive him graciously."

"M. de Salvieux, my brother's 
chamberlain?"

"Yes, sire."

"He is at Marseilles."

"And writes me thence."

"Does he speak to you of this 
conspiracy?"

"No; but strongly recommends M. de 
Villefort, and begs me to present him 
to your majesty."

"M. de Villefort!" cried the king, "is 
the messenger's name M. de Villefort?"

"Yes, sire."

"And he comes from Marseilles?"

"In person."

"Why did you not mention his name at 
once?" replied the king, betraying some 
uneasiness.

"Sire, I thought his name was unknown 
to your majesty."

"No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong 
and elevated understanding, ambitious, 
too, and, pardieu, you know his 
father's name!"

"His father?"

"Yes, Noirtier."

"Noirtier the Girondin? -- Noirtier the 
senator?"

"He himself."

"And your majesty has employed the son 
of such a man?"

"Blacas, my friend, you have but 
limited comprehension. I told you 
Villefort was ambitions, and to attain 
this ambition Villefort would sacrifice 
everything, even his father."

"Then, sire, may I present him?"

"This instant, duke! Where is he?"

"Waiting below, in my carriage."

"Seek him at once."

"I hasten to do so." The duke left the 
royal presence with the speed of a 
young man; his really sincere royalism 
made him youthful again. Louis XVIII. 
remained alone, and turning his eyes on 
his half-opened Horace, muttered, --

"Justum et tenacem propositi virum."

M. de Blacas returned as speedily as he 
had departed, but in the ante-chamber 
he was forced to appeal to the king's 
authority. Villefort's dusty garb, his 
costume, which was not of courtly cut, 
excited the susceptibility of M. de 
Breze, who was all astonishment at 
finding that this young man had the 
audacity to enter before the king in 
such attire. The duke, however, 
overcame all difficulties with a word 
-- his majesty's order; and, in spite 
of the protestations which the master 
of ceremonies made for the honor of his 
office and principles, Villefort was 
introduced.

The king was seated in the same place 
where the duke had left him. On opening 
the door, Villefort found himself 
facing him, and the young magistrate's 
first impulse was to pause.

"Come in, M. de Villefort," said the 
king, "come in." Villefort bowed, and 
advancing a few steps, waited until the 
king should interrogate him.

"M. de Villefort," said Louis XVIII., 
"the Duc de Blacas assures me you have 
some interesting information to 
communicate.

"Sire, the duke is right, and I believe 
your majesty will think it equally 
important."

"In the first place, and before 
everything else, sir, is the news as 
bad in your opinion as I am asked to 
believe?"

"Sire, I believe it to be most urgent, 
but I hope, by the speed I have used, 
that it is not irreparable."

"Speak as fully as you please, sir," 
said the king, who began to give way to 
the emotion which had showed itself in 
Blacas's face and affected Villefort's 
voice. "Speak, sir, and pray begin at 
the beginning; I like order in 
everything."

"Sire," said Villefort, "I will render 
a faithful report to your majesty, but 
I must entreat your forgiveness if my 
anxiety leads to some obscurity in my 
language." A glance at the king after 
this discreet and subtle exordium, 
assured Villefort of the benignity of 
his august auditor, and he went on: --

"Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris 
as possible, to inform your majesty 
that I have discovered, in the exercise 
of my duties, not a commonplace and 
insignificant plot, such as is every 
day got up in the lower ranks of the 
people and in the army, but an actual 
conspiracy -- a storm which menaces no 
less than your majesty's throne. Sire, 
the usurper is arming three ships, he 
meditates some project, which, however 
mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this 
moment he will have left Elba, to go 
whither I know not, but assuredly to 
attempt a landing either at Naples, or 
on the coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on 
the shores of France. Your majesty is 
well aware that the sovereign of the 
Island of Elba has maintained his 
relations with Italy and France?"

"I am, sir," said the king, much 
agitated; "and recently we have had 
information that the Bonapartist clubs 
have had meetings in the Rue 
Saint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of 
you. How did you obtain these details?"

"Sire, they are the results of an 
examination which I have made of a man 
of Marseilles, whom I have watched for 
some time, and arrested on the day of 
my departure. This person, a sailor, of 
turbulent character, and whom I 
suspected of Bonapartism, has been 
secretly to the Island of Elba. There 
he saw the grand-marshal, who charged 
him with an oral message to a 
Bonapartist in Paris, whose name I 
could not extract from him; but this 
mission was to prepare men's minds for 
a return (it is the man who says this, 
sire) -- a return which will soon 
occur."

"And where is this man?"

"In prison, sire."

"And the matter seems serious to you?"

"So serious, sire, that when the 
circumstance surprised me in the midst 
of a family festival, on the very day 
of my betrothal, I left my bride and 
friends, postponing everything, that I 
might hasten to lay at your majesty's 
feet the fears which impressed me, and 
the assurance of my devotion."

"True," said Louis XVIII., "was there 
not a marriage engagement between you 
and Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran?"

"Daughter of one of your majesty's most 
faithful servants."

"Yes, yes; but let us talk of this 
plot, M. de Villefort."

"Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I 
fear it is a conspiracy."

"A conspiracy in these times," said 
Louis XVIII., smiling, "is a thing very 
easy to meditate, but more difficult to 
conduct to an end, inasmuch as, 
re-established so recently on the 
throne of our ancestors, we have our 
eyes open at once upon the past, the 
present, and the future. For the last 
ten months my ministers have redoubled 
their vigilance, in order to watch the 
shore of the Mediterranean. If 
Bonaparte landed at Naples, the whole 
coalition would be on foot before he 
could even reach Piomoino; if he land 
in Tuscany, he will be in an unfriendly 
territory; if he land in France, it 
must be with a handful of men, and the 
result of that is easily foretold, 
execrated as he is by the population. 
Take courage, sir; but at the same time 
rely on our royal gratitude."

"Ah, here is M. Dandre!" cried de 
Blacas. At this instant the minister of 
police appeared at the door, pale, 
trembling, and as if ready to faint. 
Villefort was about to retire, but M. 
de Blacas, taking his hand, restrained 
him. 

 Chapter 11 The Corsican Ogre.

At the sight of this agitation Louis 
XVIII. pushed from him violently the 
table at which he was sitting.

"What ails you, baron?" he exclaimed. 
"You appear quite aghast. Has your 
uneasiness anything to do with what M. 
de Blacas has told me, and M. de 
Villefort has just confirmed?" M. de 
Blacas moved suddenly towards the 
baron, but the fright of the courtier 
pleaded for the forbearance of the 
statesman; and besides, as matters 
were, it was much more to his advantage 
that the prefect of police should 
triumph over him than that he should 
humiliate the prefect.

"Sire" -- stammered the baron.

"Well, what is it?" asked Louis XVIII. 
The minister of police, giving way to 
an impulse of despair, was about to 
throw himself at the feet of Louis 
XVIII., who retreated a step and 
frowned.

"Will you speak?" he said.

"Oh, sire, what a dreadful misfortune! 
I am, indeed, to be pitied. I can never 
forgive myself!"

"Monsieur," said Louis XVIII., "I 
command you to speak."

"Well, sire, the usurper left Elba on 
the 26th February, and landed on the 
1st of March."

"And where? In Italy?" asked the king 
eagerly.

"In France, sire, -- at a small port, 
near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan."

"The usurper landed in France, near 
Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan, two 
hundred and fifty leagues from Paris, 
on the 1st of March, and you only 
acquired this information to-day, the 
4th of March! Well, sir, what you tell 
me is impossible. You must have 
received a false report, or you have 
gone mad."

"Alas, sire, it is but too true!" Louis 
made a gesture of indescribable anger 
and alarm, and then drew himself up as 
if this sudden blow had struck him at 
the same moment in heart and 
countenance.

"In France!" he cried, "the usurper in 
France! Then they did not watch over 
this man. Who knows? they were, 
perhaps, in league with him."

"Oh, sire," exclaimed the Duc de 
Blacas, "M. Dandre is not a man to be 
accused of treason! Sire, we have all 
been blind, and the minister of police 
has shared the general blindness, that 
is all."

"But" -- said Villefort, and then 
suddenly checking himself, he was 
silent; then he continued, "Your 
pardon, sire," he said, bowing, "my 
zeal carried me away. Will your majesty 
deign to excuse me?"

"Speak, sir, speak boldly," replied 
Louis. "You alone forewarned us of the 
evil; now try and aid us with the 
remedy."

"Sire," said Villefort, "the usurper is 
detested in the south; and it seems to 
me that if he ventured into the south, 
it would be easy to raise Languedoc and 
Provence against him."

"Yes, assuredly," replied the minister; 
"but he is advancing by Gap and 
Sisteron."

"Advancing -- he is advancing!" said 
Louis XVIII. "Is he then advancing on 
Paris?" The minister of police 
maintained a silence which was 
equivalent to a complete avowal.

"And Dauphine, sir?" inquired the king, 
of Villefort. "Do you think it possible 
to rouse that as well as Provence?"

"Sire, I am sorry to tell your majesty 
a cruel fact; but the feeling in 
Dauphine is quite the reverse of that 
in Provence or Languedoc. The 
mountaineers are Bonapartists, sire."

"Then," murmured Louis, "he was well 
informed. And how many men had he with 
him?"

"I do not know, sire," answered the 
minister of police.

"What, you do not know! Have you 
neglected to obtain information on that 
point? Of course it is of no 
consequence," he added, with a 
withering smile.

"Sire, it was impossible to learn; the 
despatch simply stated the fact of the 
landing and the route taken by the 
usurper."

"And how did this despatch reach you?" 
inquired the king. The minister bowed 
his head, and while a deep color 
overspread his cheeks, he stammered 
out, --

"By the telegraph, sire." -- Louis 
XVIII. advanced a step, and folded his 
arms over his chest as Napoleon would 
have done.

"So then," he exclaimed, turning pale 
with anger, "seven conjoined and allied 
armies overthrew that man. A miracle of 
heaven replaced me on the throne of my 
fathers after five-and-twenty years of 
exile. I have, during those 
five-and-twenty years, spared no pains 
to understand the people of France and 
the interests which were confided to 
me; and now, when I see the fruition of 
my wishes almost within reach, the 
power I hold in my hands bursts, and 
shatters me to atoms!"

"Sire, it is fatality!" murmured the 
minister, feeling that the pressure of 
circumstances, however light a thing to 
destiny, was too much for any human 
strength to endure.

"What our enemies say of us is then 
true. We have learnt nothing, forgotten 
nothing! If I were betrayed as he was, 
I would console myself; but to be in 
the midst of persons elevated by myself 
to places of honor, who ought to watch 
over me more carefully than over 
themselves, -- for my fortune is theirs 
-- before me they were nothing -- after 
me they will be nothing, and perish 
miserably from incapacity -- 
ineptitude! Oh, yes, sir, you are right 
-- it is fatality!"

The minister quailed before this 
outburst of sarcasm. M. de Blacas wiped 
the moisture from his brow. Villefort 
smiled within himself, for he felt his 
increased importance.

"To fall," continued King Louis, who at 
the first glance had sounded the abyss 
on which the monarchy hung suspended, 
-- "to fall, and learn of that fall by 
telegraph! Oh, I would rather mount the 
scaffold of my brother, Louis XVI., 
than thus descend the staircase at the 
Tuileries driven away by ridicule. 
Ridicule, sir -- why, you know not its 
power in France, and yet you ought to 
know it!"

"Sire, sire," murmured the minister, 
"for pity's" --

"Approach, M. de Villefort," resumed 
the king, addressing the young man, 
who, motionless and breathless, was 
listening to a conversation on which 
depended the destiny of a kingdom. 
"Approach, and tell monsieur that it is 
possible to know beforehand all that he 
has not known."

"Sire, it was really impossible to 
learn secrets which that man concealed 
from all the world."

"Really impossible! Yes -- that is a 
great word, sir. Unfortunately, there 
are great words, as there are great 
men; I have measured them. Really 
impossible for a minister who has an 
office, agents, spies, and fifteen 
hundred thousand francs for secret 
service money, to know what is going on 
at sixty leagues from the coast of 
France! Well, then, see, here is a 
gentleman who had none of these 
resources at his disposal -- a 
gentleman, only a simple magistrate, 
who learned more than you with all your 
police, and who would have saved my 
crown, if, like you, he had the power 
of directing a telegraph." The look of 
the minister of police was turned with 
concentrated spite on Villefort, who 
bent his head in modest triumph.

"I do not mean that for you, Blacas," 
continued Louis XVIII.; "for if you 
have discovered nothing, at least you 
have had the good sense to persevere in 
your suspicions. Any other than 
yourself would have considered the 
disclosure of M. de Villefort 
insignificant, or else dictated by 
venal ambition," These words were an 
allusion to the sentiments which the 
minister of police had uttered with so 
much confidence an hour before.

Villefort understood the king's intent. 
Any other person would, perhaps, have 
been overcome by such an intoxicating 
draught of praise; but he feared to 
make for himself a mortal enemy of the 
police minister, although he saw that 
Dandre was irrevocably lost. In fact, 
the minister, who, in the plenitude of 
his power, had been unable to unearth 
Napoleon's secret, might in despair at 
his own downfall interrogate Dantes and 
so lay bare the motives of Villefort's 
plot. Realizing this, Villefort came to 
the rescue of the crest-fallen 
minister, instead of aiding to crush 
him.

"Sire," said Villefort, "the suddenness 
of this event must prove to your 
majesty that the issue is in the hands 
of Providence; what your majesty is 
pleased to attribute to me as profound 
perspicacity is simply owing to chance, 
and I have profited by that chance, 
like a good and devoted servant -- 
that's all. Do not attribute to me more 
than I deserve, sire, that your majesty 
may never have occasion to recall the 
first opinion you have been pleased to 
form of me." The minister of police 
thanked the young man by an eloquent 
look, and Villefort understood that he 
had succeeded in his design; that is to 
say, that without forfeiting the 
gratitude of the king, he had made a 
friend of one on whom, in case of 
necessity, he might rely.

"'Tis well," resumed the king. "And 
now, gentlemen," he continued, turning 
towards M. de Blacas and the minister 
of police, "I have no further occasion 
for you, and you may retire; what now 
remains to do is in the department of 
the minister of war."

"Fortunately, sire," said M. de Blacas, 
"we can rely on the army; your majesty 
knows how every report confirms their 
loyalty and attachment."

"Do not mention reports, duke, to me, 
for I know now what confidence to place 
in them. Yet, speaking of reports, 
baron, what have you learned with 
regard to the affair in the Rue 
Saint-Jacques?"

"The affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques!" 
exclaimed Villefort, unable to repress 
an exclamation. Then, suddenly pausing, 
he added, "Your pardon, sire, but my 
devotion to your majesty has made me 
forget, not the respect I have, for 
that is too deeply engraved in my 
heart, but the rules of etiquette."

"Go on, go on, sir," replied the king; 
"you have to-day earned the right to 
make inquiries here."

"Sire," interposed the minister of 
police, "I came a moment ago to give 
your majesty fresh information which I 
had obtained on this head, when your 
majesty's attention was attracted by 
the terrible event that has occurred in 
the gulf, and now these facts will 
cease to interest your majesty."

"On the contrary, sir, -- on the 
contrary," said Louis XVIII., "this 
affair seems to me to have a decided 
connection with that which occupies our 
attention, and the death of General 
Quesnel will, perhaps, put us on the 
direct track of a great internal 
conspiracy." At the name of General 
Quesnel, Villefort trembled.

"Everything points to the conclusion, 
sire," said the minister of police, 
"that death was not the result of 
suicide, as we first believed, but of 
assassination. General Quesnel, it 
appears, had just left a Bonapartist 
club when he disappeared. An unknown 
person had been with him that morning, 
and made an appointment with him in the 
Rue Saint-Jacques; unfortunately, the 
general's valet, who was dressing his 
hair at the moment when the stranger 
entered, heard the street mentioned, 
but did not catch the number." As the 
police minister related this to the 
king, Villefort, who looked as if his 
very life hung on the speaker's lips, 
turned alternately red and pale. The 
king looked towards him.

"Do you not think with me, M. de 
Villefort, that General Quesnel, whom 
they believed attached to the usurper, 
but who was really entirely devoted to 
me, has perished the victim of a 
Bonapartist ambush?"

"It is probable, sire," replied 
Villefort. "But is this all that is 
known?"

"They are on the track of the man who 
appointed the meeting with him."

"On his track?" said Villefort.

"Yes, the servant has given his 
description. He is a man of from fifty 
to fifty-two years of age, dark, with 
black eyes covered with shaggy 
eyebrows, and a thick mustache. He was 
dressed in a blue frock-coat, buttoned 
up to the chin, and wore at his 
button-hole the rosette of an officer 
of the Legion of Honor. Yesterday a 
person exactly corresponding with this 
description was followed, but he was 
lost sight of at the corner of the Rue 
de la Jussienne and the Rue Coq-Heron." 
Villefort leaned on the back of an 
arm-chair, for as the minister of 
police went on speaking he felt his 
legs bend under him; but when he 
learned that the unknown had escaped 
the vigilance of the agent who followed 
him, he breathed again.

"Continue to seek for this man, sir," 
said the king to the minister of 
police; "for if, as I am all but 
convinced, General Quesnel, who would 
have been so useful to us at this 
moment, has been murdered, his 
assassins, Bonapartists or not, shall 
be cruelly punished." It required all 
Villefort's coolness not to betray the 
terror with which this declaration of 
the king inspired him.

"How strange," continued the king, with 
some asperity; "the police think that 
they have disposed of the whole matter 
when they say, `A murder has been 
committed,' and especially so when they 
can add, `And we are on the track of 
the guilty persons.'"

"Sire, your majesty will, I trust, be 
amply satisfied on this point at least."

"We shall see. I will no longer detain 
you, M. de Villefort, for you must be 
fatigued after so long a journey; go 
and rest. Of course you stopped at your 
father's?" A feeling of faintness came 
over Villefort.

"No, sire," he replied, "I alighted at 
the Hotel de Madrid, in the Rue de 
Tournon."

"But you have seen him?"

"Sire, I went straight to the Duc de 
Blacas."

"But you will see him, then?"

"I think not, sire."

"Ah, I forgot," said Louis, smiling in 
a manner which proved that all these 
questions were not made without a 
motive; "I forgot you and M. Noirtier 
are not on the best terms possible, and 
that is another sacrifice made to the 
royal cause, and for which you should 
be recompensed."

"Sire, the kindness your majesty deigns 
to evince towards me is a recompense 
which so far surpasses my utmost 
ambition that I have nothing more to 
ask for."

"Never mind, sir, we will not forget 
you; make your mind easy. In the 
meanwhile" (the king here detached the 
cross of the Legion of Honor which he 
usually wore over his blue coat, near 
the cross of St. Louis, above the order 
of Notre-Dame-du-Mont-Carmel and St. 
Lazare, and gave it to Villefort) -- 
"in the meanwhile take this cross."

"Sire," said Villefort, "your majesty 
mistakes; this is an officer's cross."

"Ma foi," said Louis XVIII., "take it, 
such as it is, for I have not the time 
to procure you another. Blacas, let it 
be your care to see that the brevet is 
made out and sent to M. de Villefort." 
Villefort's eyes were filled with tears 
of joy and pride; he took the cross and 
kissed it.

"And now," he said, "may I inquire what 
are the orders with which your majesty 
deigns to honor me?"

"Take what rest you require, and 
remember that if you are not able to 
serve me here in Paris, you may be of 
the greatest service to me at 
Marseilles."

"Sire," replied Villefort, bowing, "in 
an hour I shall have quitted Paris."

"Go, sir," said the king; "and should I 
forget you (kings' memories are short), 
do not be afraid to bring yourself to 
my recollection. Baron, send for the 
minister of war. Blacas, remain."

"Ah, sir," said the minister of police 
to Villefort, as they left the 
Tuileries, "you entered by luck's door 
-- your fortune is made."

"Will it be long first?" muttered 
Villefort, saluting the minister, whose 
career was ended, and looking about him 
for a hackney-coach. One passed at the 
moment, which he hailed; he gave his 
address to the driver, and springing 
in, threw himself on the seat, and gave 
loose to dreams of ambition.

Ten minutes afterwards Villefort 
reached his hotel, ordered horses to be 
ready in two hours, and asked to have 
his breakfast brought to him. He was 
about to begin his repast when the 
sound of the bell rang sharp and loud. 
The valet opened the door, and 
Villefort heard some one speak his name.

"Who could know that I was here 
already?" said the young man. The valet 
entered.

"Well," said Villefort, "what is it? -- 
Who rang? -- Who asked for me?"

"A stranger who will not send in his 
name."

"A stranger who will not send in his 
name! What can he want with me?"

"He wishes to speak to you."

"To me?"

"Yes."

"Did he mention my name?"

"Yes."

"What sort of person is he?"

"Why, sir, a man of about fifty."

"Short or tall?"

"About your own height, sir."

"Dark or fair?"

"Dark, -- very dark; with black eyes, 
black hair, black eyebrows."

"And how dressed?" asked Villefort 
quickly.

"In a blue frock-coat, buttoned up 
close, decorated with the Legion of 
Honor."

"It is he!" said Villefort, turning 
pale.

"Eh, pardieu," said the individual 
whose description we have twice given, 
entering the door, "what a great deal 
of ceremony! Is it the custom in 
Marseilles for sons to keep their 
fathers waiting in their anterooms?"

"Father!" cried Villefort, "then I was 
not deceived; I felt sure it must be 
you."

"Well, then, if you felt so sure," 
replied the new-comer, putting his cane 
in a corner and his hat on a chair, 
"allow me to say, my dear Gerard, that 
it was not very filial of you to keep 
me waiting at the door."

"Leave us, Germain," said Villefort. 
The servant quitted the apartment with 
evident signs of astonishment. 

 Chapter 12 Father and Son.

M. Noirtier -- for it was, indeed, he 
who entered -- looked after the servant 
until the door was closed, and then, 
fearing, no doubt, that he might be 
overheard in the ante-chamber, he 
opened the door again, nor was the 
precaution useless, as appeared from 
the rapid retreat of Germain, who 
proved that he was not exempt from the 
sin which ruined our first parents. M. 
Noirtier then took the trouble to close 
and bolt the ante-chamber door, then 
that of the bed-chamber, and then 
extended his hand to Villefort, who had 
followed all his motions with surprise 
which he could not conceal.

"Well, now, my dear Gerard," said he to 
the young man, with a very significant 
look, "do you know, you seem as if you 
were not very glad to see me?"

"My dear father," said Villefort, "I 
am, on the contrary, delighted; but I 
so little expected your visit, that it 
has somewhat overcome me."

"But, my dear fellow," replied M. 
Noirtier, seating himself, "I might say 
the same thing to you, when you 
announce to me your wedding for the 
28th of February, and on the 3rd of 
March you turn up here in Paris."

"And if I have come, my dear father," 
said Gerard, drawing closer to M. 
Noirtier, "do not complain, for it is 
for you that I came, and my journey 
will be your salvation."

"Ah, indeed!" said M. Noirtier, 
stretching himself out at his ease in 
the chair. "Really, pray tell me all 
about it, for it must be interesting."

"Father, you have heard speak of a 
certain Bonapartist club in the Rue 
Saint-Jacques?"

"No. 53; yes, I am vice-president."

"Father, your coolness makes me 
shudder."

"Why, my dear boy, when a man has been 
proscribed by the mountaineers, has 
escaped from Paris in a hay-cart, been 
hunted over the plains of Bordeaux by 
Robespierre's bloodhounds, he becomes 
accustomed to most things. But go on, 
what about the club in the Rue 
Saint-Jacques?"

"Why, they induced General Quesnel to 
go there, and General Quesnel, who 
quitted his own house at nine o'clock 
in the evening, was found the next day 
in the Seine."

"And who told you this fine story?"

"The king himself."

"Well, then, in return for your story," 
continued Noirtier, "I will tell you 
another."

"My dear father, I think I already know 
what you are about to tell me."

"Ah, you have heard of the landing of 
the emperor?"

"Not so loud, father, I entreat of you 
-- for your own sake as well as mine. 
Yes, I heard this news, and knew it 
even before you could; for three days 
ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris 
with all possible speed, half-desperate 
at the enforced delay."

"Three days ago? You are crazy. Why, 
three days ago the emperor had not 
landed."

"No matter, I was aware of his 
intention."

"How did you know about it?"

"By a letter addressed to you from the 
Island of Elba."

"To me?"

"To you; and which I discovered in the 
pocket-book of the messenger. Had that 
letter fallen into the hands of 
another, you, my dear father, would 
probably ere this have been shot." 
Villefort's father laughed.

"Come, come," said he, "will the 
Restoration adopt imperial methods so 
promptly? Shot, my dear boy? What an 
idea! Where is the letter you speak of? 
I know you too well to suppose you 
would allow such a thing to pass you."

"I burnt it, for fear that even a 
fragment should remain; for that letter 
must have led to your condemnation."

"And the destruction of your future 
prospects," replied Noirtier; "yes, I 
can easily comprehend that. But I have 
nothing to fear while I have you to 
protect me."

"I do better than that, sir -- I save 
you."

"You do? Why, really, the thing becomes 
more and more dramatic -- explain 
yourself."

"I must refer again to the club in the 
Rue Saint-Jacques."

"It appears that this club is rather a 
bore to the police. Why didn't they 
search more vigilantly? they would have 
found" --

"They have not found; but they are on 
the track."

"Yes, that the usual phrase; I am quite 
familiar with it. When the police is at 
fault, it declares that it is on the 
track; and the government patiently 
awaits the day when it comes to say, 
with a sneaking air, that the track is 
lost."

"Yes, but they have found a corpse; the 
general has been killed, and in all 
countries they call that a murder."

"A murder do you call it? why, there is 
nothing to prove that the general was 
murdered. People are found every day in 
the Seine, having thrown themselves in, 
or having been drowned from not knowing 
how to swim."

"Father, you know very well that the 
general was not a man to drown himself 
in despair, and people do not bathe in 
the Seine in the month of January. No, 
no, do not be deceived; this was murder 
in every sense of the word."

"And who thus designated it?"

"The king himself."

"The king! I thought he was philosopher 
enough to allow that there was no 
murder in politics. In politics, my 
dear fellow, you know, as well as I do, 
there are no men, but ideas -- no 
feelings, but interests; in politics we 
do not kill a man, we only remove an 
obstacle, that is all. Would you like 
to know how matters have progressed? 
Well, I will tell you. It was thought 
reliance might be placed in General 
Quesnel; he was recommended to us from 
the Island of Elba; one of us went to 
him, and invited him to the Rue 
Saint-Jacques, where he would find some 
friends. He came there, and the plan 
was unfolded to him for leaving Elba, 
the projected landing, etc. When he had 
heard and comprehended all to the 
fullest extent, he replied that he was 
a royalist. Then all looked at each 
other, -- he was made to take an oath, 
and did so, but with such an ill grace 
that it was really tempting Providence 
to swear him, and yet, in spite of 
that, the general was allowed to depart 
free -- perfectly free. Yet he did not 
return home. What could that mean? why, 
my dear fellow, that on leaving us he 
lost his way, that's all. A murder? 
really, Villefort, you surprise me. 
You, a deputy procureur, to found an 
accusation on such bad premises! Did I 
ever say to you, when you were 
fulfilling your character as a 
royalist, and cut off the head of one 
of my party, `My son, you have 
committed a murder?' No, I said, `Very 
well, sir, you have gained the victory; 
to-morrow, perchance, it will be our 
turn.'"

"But, father, take care; when our turn 
comes, our revenge will be sweeping."

"I do not understand you."

"You rely on the usurper's return?"

"We do."

"You are mistaken; he will not advance 
two leagues into the interior of France 
without being followed, tracked, and 
caught like a wild beast."

"My dear fellow, the emperor is at this 
moment on the way to Grenoble; on the 
10th or 12th he will be at Lyons, and 
on the 20th or 25th at Paris."

"The people will rise."

"Yes, to go and meet him."

"He has but a handful of men with him, 
and armies will be despatched against 
him."

"Yes, to escort him into the capital. 
Really, my dear Gerard, you are but a 
child; you think yourself well informed 
because the telegraph has told you, 
three days after the landing, `The 
usurper has landed at Cannes with 
several men. He is pursued.' But where 
is he? what is he doing? You do not 
know at all, and in this way they will 
chase him to Paris, without drawing a 
trigger."

"Grenoble and Lyons are faithful 
cities, and will oppose to him an 
impassable barrier."

"Grenoble will open her gates to him 
with enthusiasm -- all Lyons will 
hasten to welcome him. Believe me, we 
are as well informed as you, and our 
police are as good as your own. Would 
you like a proof of it? well, you 
wished to conceal your journey from me, 
and yet I knew of your arrival half an 
hour after you had passed the barrier. 
You gave your direction to no one but 
your postilion, yet I have your 
address, and in proof I am here the 
very instant you are going to sit at 
table. Ring, then, if you please, for a 
second knife, fork, and plate, and we 
will dine together."

"Indeed!" replied Villefort, looking at 
his father with astonishment, "you 
really do seem very well informed."

"Eh? the thing is simple enough. You 
who are in power have only the means 
that money produces -- we who are in 
expectation, have those which devotion 
prompts."

"Devotion!" said Villefort, with a 
sneer.

"Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe, 
the phrase for hopeful ambition."

And Villefort's father extended his 
hand to the bell-rope, to summon the 
servant whom his son had not called. 
Villefort caught his arm.

"Wait, my dear father," said the young 
man, "one word more."

"Say on."

"However stupid the royalist police may 
be, they do know one terrible thing."

"What is that?"

"The description of the man who, on the 
morning of the day when General Quesnel 
disappeared, presented himself at his 
house."

"Oh, the admirable police have found 
that out, have they? And what may be 
that description?"

"Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and 
whiskers, black; blue frock-coat, 
buttoned up to the chin; rosette of an 
officer of the Legion of Honor in his 
button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and 
a cane."

"Ah, ha, that's it, is it?" said 
Noirtier; "and why, then, have they not 
laid hands on him?"

"Because yesterday, or the day before, 
they lost sight of him at the corner of 
the Rue Coq-Heron."

"Didn't I say that your police were 
good for nothing?"

"Yes; but they may catch him yet."

"True," said Noirtier, looking 
carelessly around him, "true, if this 
person were not on his guard, as he 
is;" and he added with a smile, "He 
will consequently make a few changes in 
his personal appearance." At these 
words he rose, and put off his 
frock-coat and cravat, went towards a 
table on which lay his son's toilet 
articles, lathered his face, took a 
razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off 
the compromising whiskers. Villefort 
watched him with alarm not devoid of 
admiration.

His whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave 
another turn to his hair; took, instead 
of his black cravat, a colored 
neckerchief which lay at the top of an 
open portmanteau; put on, in lieu of 
his blue and high-buttoned frock-coat, 
a coat of Villefort's of dark brown, 
and cut away in front; tried on before 
the glass a narrow-brimmed hat of his 
son's, which appeared to fit him 
perfectly, and, leaving his cane in the 
corner where he had deposited it, he 
took up a small bamboo switch, cut the 
air with it once or twice, and walked 
about with that easy swagger which was 
one of his principal characteristics.

"Well," he said, turning towards his 
wondering son, when this disguise was 
completed, "well, do you think your 
police will recognize me now."

"No, father," stammered Villefort; "at 
least, I hope not."

"And now, my dear boy," continued 
Noirtier, "I rely on your prudence to 
remove all the things which I leave in 
your care."

"Oh, rely on me," said Villefort.

"Yes, yes; and now I believe you are 
right, and that you have really saved 
my life; be assured I will return the 
favor hereafter." Villefort shook his 
head.

"You are not convinced yet?"

"I hope at least, that you may be 
mistaken."

"Shall you see the king again?"

"Perhaps."

"Would you pass in his eyes for a 
prophet?"

"Prophets of evil are not in favor at 
the court, father."

"True, but some day they do them 
justice; and supposing a second 
restoration, you would then pass for a 
great man."

"Well, what should I say to the king?"

"Say this to him: `Sire, you are 
deceived as to the feeling in France, 
as to the opinions of the towns, and 
the prejudices of the army; he whom in 
Paris you call the Corsican ogre, who 
at Nevers is styled the usurper, is 
already saluted as Bonaparte at Lyons, 
and emperor at Grenoble. You think he 
is tracked, pursued, captured; he is 
advancing as rapidly as his own eagles. 
The soldiers you believe to be dying 
with hunger, worn out with fatigue, 
ready to desert, gather like atoms of 
snow about the rolling ball as it 
hastens onward. Sire, go, leave France 
to its real master, to him who acquired 
it, not by purchase, but by right of 
conquest; go, sire, not that you incur 
any risk, for your adversary is 
powerful enough to show you mercy, but 
because it would be humiliating for a 
grandson of Saint Louis to owe his life 
to the man of Arcola, Marengo, 
Austerlitz.' Tell him this, Gerard; or, 
rather, tell him nothing. Keep your 
journey a secret; do not boast of what 
you have come to Paris to do, or have 
done; return with all speed; enter 
Marseilles at night, and your house by 
the back-door, and there remain, quiet, 
submissive, secret, and, above all, 
inoffensive; for this time, I swear to 
you, we shall act like powerful men who 
know their enemies. Go, my son -- go, 
my dear Gerard, and by your obedience 
to my paternal orders, or, if you 
prefer it, friendly counsels, we will 
keep you in your place. This will be," 
added Noirtier, with a smile, "one 
means by which you may a second time 
save me, if the political balance 
should some day take another turn, and 
cast you aloft while hurling me down. 
Adieu, my dear Gerard, and at your next 
journey alight at my door." Noirtier 
left the room when he had finished, 
with the same calmness that had 
characterized him during the whole of 
this remarkable and trying 
conversation. Villefort, pale and 
agitated, ran to the window, put aside 
the curtain, and saw him pass, cool and 
collected, by two or three ill-looking 
men at the corner of the street, who 
were there, perhaps, to arrest a man 
with black whiskers, and a blue 
frock-coat, and hat with broad brim.

Villefort stood watching, breathless, 
until his father had disappeared at the 
Rue Bussy. Then he turned to the 
various articles he had left behind 
him, put the black cravat and blue 
frock-coat at the bottom of the 
portmanteau, threw the hat into a dark 
closet, broke the cane into small bits 
and flung it in the fire, put on his 
travelling-cap, and calling his valet, 
checked with a look the thousand 
questions he was ready to ask, paid his 
bill, sprang into his carriage, which 
was ready, learned at Lyons that 
Bonaparte had entered Grenoble, and in 
the midst of the tumult which prevailed 
along the road, at length reached 
Marseilles, a prey to all the hopes and 
fears which enter into the heart of man 
with ambition and its first successes. 

 Chapter 13 The Hundred Days.

M. Noirtier was a true prophet, and 
things progressed rapidly, as he had 
predicted. Every one knows the history 
of the famous return from Elba, a 
return which was unprecedented in the 
past, and will probably remain without 
a counterpart in the future.

Louis XVIII. made but a faint attempt 
to parry this unexpected blow; the 
monarchy he had scarcely reconstructed 
tottered on its precarious foundation, 
and at a sign from the emperor the 
incongruous structure of ancient 
prejudices and new ideas fell to the 
ground. Villefort, therefore, gained 
nothing save the king's gratitude 
(which was rather likely to injure him 
at the present time) and the cross of 
the Legion of Honor, which he had the 
prudence not to wear, although M. de 
Blacas had duly forwarded the brevet.

Napoleon would, doubtless, have 
deprived Villefort of his office had it 
not been for Noirtier, who was all 
powerful at court, and thus the 
Girondin of '93 and the Senator of 1806 
protected him who so lately had been 
his protector. All Villefort's 
influence barely enabled him to stifle 
the secret Dantes had so nearly 
divulged. The king's procureur alone 
was deprived of his office, being 
suspected of royalism.

However, scarcely was the imperial 
power established -- that is, scarcely 
had the emperor re-entered the 
Tuileries and begun to issue orders 
from the closet into which we have 
introduced our readers, -- he found on 
the table there Louis XVIII.'s 
half-filled snuff-box, -- scarcely had 
this occurred when Marseilles began, in 
spite of the authorities, to rekindle 
the flames of civil war, always 
smouldering in the south, and it 
required but little to excite the 
populace to acts of far greater 
violence than the shouts and insults 
with which they assailed the royalists 
whenever they ventured abroad.

Owing to this change, the worthy 
shipowner became at that moment -- we 
will not say all powerful, because 
Morrel was a prudent and rather a timid 
man, so much so, that many of the most 
zealous partisans of Bonaparte accused 
him of "moderation" -- but sufficiently 
influential to make a demand in favor 
of Dantes.

Villefort retained his place, but his 
marriage was put off until a more 
favorable opportunity. If the emperor 
remained on the throne, Gerard required 
a different alliance to aid his career; 
if Louis XVIII. returned, the influence 
of M. de Saint-Meran, like his own, 
could be vastly increased, and the 
marriage be still more suitable. The 
deputy-procureur was, therefore, the 
first magistrate of Marseilles, when 
one morning his door opened, and M. 
Morrel was announced.

Any one else would have hastened to 
receive him; but Villefort was a man of 
ability, and he knew this would be a 
sign of weakness. He made Morrel wait 
in the ante-chamber, although he had no 
one with him, for the simple reason 
that the king's procureur always makes 
every one wait, and after passing a 
quarter of an hour in reading the 
papers, he ordered M. Morrel to be 
admitted.

Morrel expected Villefort would be 
dejected; he found him as he had found 
him six weeks before, calm, firm, and 
full of that glacial politeness, that 
most insurmountable barrier which 
separates the well-bred from the vulgar 
man.

He had entered Villefort's office 
expecting that the magistrate would 
tremble at the sight of him; on the 
contrary, he felt a cold shudder all 
over him when he saw Villefort sitting 
there with his elbow on his desk, and 
his head leaning on his hand. He 
stopped at the door; Villefort gazed at 
him as if he had some difficulty in 
recognizing him; then, after a brief 
interval, during which the honest 
shipowner turned his hat in his hands, 
--

"M. Morrel, I believe?" said Villefort.

"Yes, sir."

"Come nearer," said the magistrate, 
with a patronizing wave of the hand, 
"and tell me to what circumstance I owe 
the honor of this visit."

"Do you not guess, monsieur?" asked 
Morrel.

"Not in the least; but if I can serve 
you in any way I shall be delighted."

"Everything depends on you."

"Explain yourself, pray."

"Monsieur," said Morrel, recovering his 
assurance as he proceeded, "do you 
recollect that a few days before the 
landing of his majesty the emperor, I 
came to intercede for a young man, the 
mate of my ship, who was accused of 
being concerned in correspondence with 
the Island of Elba? What was the other 
day a crime is to-day a title to favor. 
You then served Louis XVIII., and you 
did not show any favor -- it was your 
duty; to-day you serve Napoleon, and 
you ought to protect him -- it is 
equally your duty; I come, therefore, 
to ask what has become of him?"

Villefort by a strong effort sought to 
control himself. "What is his name?" 
said he. "Tell me his name."

"Edmond Dantes."

Villefort would probably have rather 
stood opposite the muzzle of a pistol 
at five-and-twenty paces than have 
heard this name spoken; but he did not 
blanch.

"Dantes," repeated he, "Edmond Dantes."

"Yes, monsieur." Villefort opened a 
large register, then went to a table, 
from the table turned to his registers, 
and then, turning to Morrel, --

"Are you quite sure you are not 
mistaken, monsieur?" said he, in the 
most natural tone in the world.

Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted 
man, or better versed in these matters, 
he would have been surprised at the 
king's procureur answering him on such 
a subject, instead of referring him to 
the governors of the prison or the 
prefect of the department. But Morrel, 
disappointed in his expectations of 
exciting fear, was conscious only of 
the other's condescension. Villefort 
had calculated rightly.

"No," said Morrel; "I am not mistaken. 
I have known him for ten years, the 
last four of which he was in my 
service. Do not you recollect, I came 
about six weeks ago to plead for 
clemency, as I come to-day to plead for 
justice. You received me very coldly. 
Oh, the royalists were very severe with 
the Bonapartists in those days."

"Monsieur," returned Villefort, "I was 
then a royalist, because I believed the 
Bourbons not only the heirs to the 
throne, but the chosen of the nation. 
The miraculous return of Napoleon has 
conquered me, the legitimate monarch is 
he who is loved by his people."

"That's right!" cried Morrel. "I like 
to hear you speak thus, and I augur 
well for Edmond from it."

"Wait a moment," said Villefort, 
turning over the leaves of a register; 
"I have it -- a sailor, who was about 
to marry a young Catalan girl. I 
recollect now; it was a very serious 
charge."

"How so?"

"You know that when he left here he was 
taken to the Palais de Justice."

"Well?"

"I made my report to the authorities at 
Paris, and a week after he was carried 
off."

"Carried off!" said Morrel. "What can 
they have done with him?"

"Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, 
to Pignerol, or to the 
Sainte-Marguerite islands. Some fine 
morning he will return to take command 
of your vessel."

"Come when he will, it shall be kept 
for him. But how is it he is not 
already returned? It seems to me the 
first care of government should be to 
set at liberty those who have suffered 
for their adherence to it."

"Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel," 
replied Villefort. "The order of 
imprisonment came from high authority, 
and the order for his liberation must 
proceed from the same source; and, as 
Napoleon has scarcely been reinstated a 
fortnight, the letters have not yet 
been forwarded."

"But," said Morrel, "is there no way of 
expediting all these formalities -- of 
releasing him from arrest?"

"There has been no arrest."

"How?"

"It is sometimes essential to 
government to cause a man's 
disappearance without leaving any 
traces, so that no written forms or 
documents may defeat their wishes."

"It might be so under the Bourbons, but 
at present" --

"It has always been so, my dear Morrel, 
since the reign of Louis XIV. The 
emperor is more strict in prison 
discipline than even Louis himself, and 
the number of prisoners whose names are 
not on the register is incalculable." 
Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much 
kindness would have dispelled them.

"Well, M. de Villefort, how would you 
advise me to act?" asked he.

"Petition the minister."

"Oh, I know what that is; the minister 
receives two hundred petitions every 
day, and does not read three."

"That is true; but he will read a 
petition countersigned and presented by 
me."

"And will you undertake to deliver it?"

"With the greatest pleasure. Dantes was 
then guilty, and now he is innocent, 
and it is as much my duty to free him 
as it was to condemn him." Villefort 
thus forestalled any danger of an 
inquiry, which, however improbable it 
might be, if it did take place would 
leave him defenceless.

"But how shall I address the minister?"

"Sit down there," said Villefort, 
giving up his place to Morrel, "and 
write what I dictate."

"Will you be so good?"

"Certainly. But lose no time; we have 
lost too much already."

"That is true. Only think what the poor 
fellow may even now be suffering." 
Villefort shuddered at the suggestion; 
but he had gone too far to draw back. 
Dantes must be crushed to gratify 
Villefort's ambition.

Villefort dictated a petition, in 
which, from an excellent intention, no 
doubt, Dantes' patriotic services were 
exaggerated, and he was made out one of 
the most active agents of Napoleon's 
return. It was evident that at the 
sight of this document the minister 
would instantly release him. The 
petition finished, Villefort read it 
aloud.

"That will do," said he; "leave the 
rest to me."

"Will the petition go soon?"

"To-day."

"Countersigned by you?"

"The best thing I can do will be to 
certify the truth of the contents of 
your petition." And, sitting down, 
Villefort wrote the certificate at the 
bottom.

"What more is to be done?"

"I will do whatever is necessary." This 
assurance delighted Morrel, who took 
leave of Villefort, and hastened to 
announce to old Dantes that he would 
soon see his son.

As for Villefort, instead of sending to 
Paris, he carefully preserved the 
petition that so fearfully compromised 
Dantes, in the hopes of an event that 
seemed not unlikely, -- that is, a 
second restoration. Dantes remained a 
prisoner, and heard not the noise of 
the fall of Louis XVIII.'s throne, or 
the still more tragic destruction of 
the empire.

Twice during the Hundred Days had 
Morrel renewed his demand, and twice 
had Villefort soothed him with 
promises. At last there was Waterloo, 
and Morrel came no more; he had done 
all that was in his power, and any 
fresh attempt would only compromise 
himself uselessly.

Louis XVIII. remounted the throne; 
Villefort, to whom Marseilles had 
become filled with remorseful memories, 
sought and obtained the situation of 
king's procureur at Toulouse, and a 
fortnight afterwards he married 
Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, whose 
father now stood higher at court than 
ever.

And so Dantes, after the Hundred Days 
and after Waterloo, remained in his 
dungeon, forgotten of earth and heaven. 
Danglars comprehended the full extent 
of the wretched fate that overwhelmed 
Dantes; and, when Napoleon returned to 
France, he, after the manner of 
mediocre minds, termed the coincidence, 
"a decree of Providence." But when 
Napoleon returned to Paris, Danglars' 
heart failed him, and he lived in 
constant fear of Dantes' return on a 
mission of vengeance. He therefore 
informed M. Morrel of his wish to quit 
the sea, and obtained a recommendation 
from him to a Spanish merchant, into 
whose service he entered at the end of 
March, that is, ten or twelve days 
after Napoleon's return. He then left 
for Madrid, and was no more heard of.

Fernand understood nothing except that 
Dantes was absent. What had become of 
him he cared not to inquire. Only, 
during the respite the absence of his 
rival afforded him, he reflected, 
partly on the means of deceiving 
Mercedes as to the cause of his 
absence, partly on plans of emigration 
and abduction, as from time to time he 
sat sad and motionless on the summit of 
Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence 
Marseilles and the Catalans are 
visible, watching for the apparition of 
a young and handsome man, who was for 
him also the messenger of vengeance. 
Fernand's mind was made up; he would 
shoot Dantes, and then kill himself. 
But Fernand was mistaken; a man of his 
disposition never kills himself, for he 
constantly hopes.

During this time the empire made its 
last conscription, and every man in 
France capable of bearing arms rushed 
to obey the summons of the emperor. 
Fernand departed with the rest, bearing 
with him the terrible thought that 
while he was away, his rival would 
perhaps return and marry Mercedes. Had 
Fernand really meant to kill himself, 
he would have done so when he parted 
from Mercedes. His devotion, and the 
compassion he showed for her 
misfortunes, produced the effect they 
always produce on noble minds -- 
Mercedes had always had a sincere 
regard for Fernand, and this was now 
strengthened by gratitude.

"My brother," said she as she placed 
his knapsack on his shoulders, "be 
careful of yourself, for if you are 
killed, I shall be alone in the world." 
These words carried a ray of hope into 
Fernand's heart. Should Dantes not 
return, Mercedes might one day be his.

Mercedes was left alone face to face 
with the vast plain that had never 
seemed so barren, and the sea that had 
never seemed so vast. Bathed in tears 
she wandered about the Catalan village. 
Sometimes she stood mute and motionless 
as a statue, looking towards 
Marseilles, at other times gazing on 
the sea, and debating as to whether it 
were not better to cast herself into 
the abyss of the ocean, and thus end 
her woes. It was not want of courage 
that prevented her putting this 
resolution into execution; but her 
religious feelings came to her aid and 
saved her. Caderousse was, like 
Fernand, enrolled in the army, but, 
being married and eight years older, he 
was merely sent to the frontier. Old 
Dantes, who was only sustained by hope, 
lost all hope at Napoleon's downfall. 
Five months after he had been separated 
from his son, and almost at the hour of 
his arrest, he breathed his last in 
Mercedes' arms. M. Morrel paid the 
expenses of his funeral, and a few 
small debts the poor old man had 
contracted.

There was more than benevolence in this 
action; there was courage; the south 
was aflame, and to assist, even on his 
death-bed, the father of so dangerous a 
Bonapartist as Dantes, was stigmatized 
as a crime. 

 Chapter 14 The Two Prisoners.

A year after Louis XVIII.'s 
restoration, a visit was made by the 
inspector-general of prisons. Dantes in 
his cell heard the noise of 
preparation, -- sounds that at the 
depth where he lay would have been 
inaudible to any but the ear of a 
prisoner, who could hear the plash of 
the drop of water that every hour fell 
from the roof of his dungeon. He 
guessed something uncommon was passing 
among the living; but he had so long 
ceased to have any intercourse with the 
world, that he looked upon himself as 
dead.

The inspector visited, one after 
another, the cells and dungeons of 
several of the prisoners, whose good 
behavior or stupidity recommended them 
to the clemency of the government. He 
inquired how they were fed, and if they 
had any request to make. The universal 
response was, that the fare was 
detestable, and that they wanted to be 
set free.

The inspector asked if they had 
anything else to ask for. They shook 
their heads. What could they desire 
beyond their liberty? The inspector 
turned smilingly to the governor.

"I do not know what reason government 
can assign for these useless visits; 
when you see one prisoner, you see all, 
-- always the same thing, -- ill fed 
and innocent. Are there any others?"

"Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners 
are in the dungeons."

"Let us visit them," said the inspector 
with an air of fatigue. "We must play 
the farce to the end. Let us see the 
dungeons."

"Let us first send for two soldiers," 
said the governor. "The prisoners 
sometimes, through mere uneasiness of 
life, and in order to be sentenced to 
death, commit acts of useless violence, 
and you might fall a victim."

"Take all needful precautions," replied 
the inspector.

Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, 
and the inspector descended a stairway, 
so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be 
loathsome to sight, smell, and 
respiration.

"Oh," cried the inspector, "who can 
live here?"

"A most dangerous conspirator, a man we 
are ordered to keep the most strict 
watch over, as he is daring and 
resolute."

"He is alone?"

"Certainly."

"How long his he been there?"

"Nearly a year."

"Was he placed here when he first 
arrived?"

"No; not until he attempted to kill the 
turnkey, who took his food to him."

"To kill the turnkey?"

"Yes, the very one who is lighting us. 
Is it not true, Antoine?" asked the 
governor.

"True enough; he wanted to kill me!" 
returned the turnkey.

"He must be mad," said the inspector.

"He is worse than that, -- he is a 
devil!" returned the turnkey.

"Shall I complain of him?" demanded the 
inspector.

"Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is 
almost mad now, and in another year he 
will be quite so."

"So much the better for him, -- he will 
suffer less," said the inspector. He 
was, as this remark shows, a man full 
of philanthropy, and in every way fit 
for his office.

"You are right, sir," replied the 
governor; "and this remark proves that 
you have deeply considered the subject. 
Now we have in a dungeon about twenty 
feet distant, and to which you descend 
by another stair, an abbe, formerly 
leader of a party in Italy, who has 
been here since 1811, and in 1813 he 
went mad, and the change is 
astonishing. He used to weep, he now 
laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. 
You had better see him, for his madness 
is amusing."

"I will see them both," returned the 
inspector; "I must conscientiously 
perform my duty." This was the 
inspector's first visit; he wished to 
display his authority.

"Let us visit this one first," added he.

"By all means," replied the governor, 
and he signed to the turnkey to open 
the door. At the sound of the key 
turning in the lock, and the creaking 
of the hinges, Dantes, who was crouched 
in a corner of the dungeon, whence he 
could see the ray of light that came 
through a narrow iron grating above, 
raised his head. Seeing a stranger, 
escorted by two turnkeys holding 
torches and accompanied by two 
soldiers, and to whom the governor 
spoke bareheaded, Dantes, who guessed 
the truth, and that the moment to 
address himself to the superior 
authorities was come, sprang forward 
with clasped hands.

The soldiers interposed their bayonets, 
for they thought that he was about to 
attack the inspector, and the latter 
recoiled two or three steps. Dantes saw 
that he was looked upon as dangerous. 
Then, infusing all the humility he 
possessed into his eyes and voice, he 
addressed the inspector, and sought to 
inspire him with pity.

The inspector listened attentively; 
then, turning to the governor, 
observed, "He will become religious -- 
he is already more gentle; he is 
afraid, and retreated before the 
bayonets -- madmen are not afraid of 
anything; I made some curious 
observations on this at Charenton." 
Then, turning to the prisoner, "What is 
it you want?" said he.

"I want to know what crime I have 
committed -- to be tried; and if I am 
guilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be 
set at liberty."

"Are you well fed?" said the inspector.

"I believe so; I don't know; it's of no 
consequence. What matters really, not 
only to me, but to officers of justice 
and the king, is that an innocent man 
should languish in prison, the victim 
of an infamous denunciation, to die 
here cursing his executioners."

"You are very humble to-day," remarked 
the governor; "you are not so always; 
the other day, for instance, when you 
tried to kill the turnkey."

"It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, 
for he his always been very good to me, 
but I was mad."

"And you are not so any longer?"

"No; captivity his subdued me -- I have 
been here so long."

"So long? -- when were you arrested, 
then?" asked the inspector.

"The 28th of February, 1815, at 
half-past two in the afternoon."

"To-day is the 30th of July, 1816, -- 
why it is but seventeen months."

"Only seventeen months," replied 
Dantes. "Oh, you do not know what is 
seventeen months in prison! -- 
seventeen ages rather, especially to a 
man who, like me, had arrived at the 
summit of his ambition -- to a man, 
who, like me, was on the point of 
marrying a woman he adored, who saw an 
honorable career opened before him, and 
who loses all in an instant -- who sees 
his prospects destroyed, and is 
ignorant of the fate of his affianced 
wife, and whether his aged father be 
still living! Seventeen months 
captivity to a sailor accustomed to the 
boundless ocean, is a worse punishment 
than human crime ever merited. Have 
pity on me, then, and ask for me, not 
intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, 
but a verdict -- a trial, sir, I ask 
only for a trial; that, surely, cannot 
be denied to one who is accused!"

"We shall see," said the inspector; 
then, turning to the governor, "On my 
word, the poor devil touches me. You 
must show me the proofs against him."

"Certainly; but you will find terrible 
charges."

"Monsieur," continued Dantes, "I know 
it is not in your power to release me; 
but you can plead for me -- you can 
have me tried -- and that is all I ask. 
Let me know my crime, and the reason 
why I was condemned. Uncertainty is 
worse than all."

"Go on with the lights," said the 
inspector.

"Monsieur," cried Dantes, "I can tell 
by your voice you are touched with 
pity; tell me at least to hope."

"I cannot tell you that," replied the 
inspector; "I can only promise to 
examine into your case."

"Oh, I am free -- then I am saved!"

"Who arrested you?"

"M. Villefort. See him, and hear what 
he says."

"M. Villefort is no longer at 
Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse."

"I am no longer surprised at my 
detention," murmured Dantes, "since my 
only protector is removed."

"Had M. de Villefort any cause of 
personal dislike to you?"

"None; on the contrary, he was very 
kind to me."

"I can, then, rely on the notes he has 
left concerning you?"

"Entirely."

"That is well; wait patiently, then." 
Dantes fell on his knees, and prayed 
earnestly. The door closed; but this 
time a fresh inmate was left with 
Dantes -- hope.

"Will you see the register at once," 
asked the governor, "or proceed to the 
other cell?"

"Let us visit them all," said the 
inspector. "If I once went up those 
stairs. I should never have the courage 
to come down again."

"Ah, this one is not like the other, 
and his madness is less affecting than 
this one's display of reason."

"What is his folly?"

"He fancies he possesses an immense 
treasure. The first year he offered 
government a million of francs for his 
release; the second, two; the third, 
three; and so on progressively. He is 
now in his fifth year of captivity; he 
will ask to speak to you in private, 
and offer you five millions."

"How curious! -- what is his name?"

"The Abbe Faria."

"No. 27," said the inspector.

"It is here; unlock the door, Antoine." 
The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector 
gazed curiously into the chamber of the 
"mad abbe."

In the centre of the cell, in a circle 
traced with a fragment of plaster 
detached from the wall, sat a man whose 
tattered garments scarcely covered him. 
He was drawing in this circle 
geometrical lines, and seemed as much 
absorbed in his problem as Archimedes 
was when the soldier of Marcellus slew 
him.

He did not move at the sound of the 
door, and continued his calculations 
until the flash of the torches lighted 
up with an unwonted glare the sombre 
walls of his cell; then, raising his 
head, he perceived with astonishment 
the number of persons present. He 
hastily seized the coverlet of his bed, 
and wrapped it round him.

"What is it you want?" said the 
inspector.

"I, monsieur," replied the abbe with an 
air of surprise -- "I want nothing."

"You do not understand," continued the 
inspector; "I am sent here by 
government to visit the prison, and 
hear the requests of the prisoners."

"Oh, that is different," cried the 
abbe; "and we shall understand each 
other, I hope."

"There, now," whispered the governor, 
"it is just as I told you."

"Monsieur," continued the prisoner, "I 
am the Abbe Faria, born at Rome. I was 
for twenty years Cardinal Spada's 
secretary; I was arrested, why, I know 
not, toward the beginning of the year 
1811; since then I have demanded my 
liberty from the Italian and French 
government."

"Why from the French government?"

"Because I was arrested at Piombino, 
and I presume that, like Milan and 
Florence, Piombino has become the 
capital of some French department."

"Ah," said the inspector, "you have not 
the latest news from Italy?"

"My information dates from the day on 
which I was arrested," returned the 
Abbe Faria; "and as the emperor had 
created the kingdom of Rome for his 
infant son, I presume that he has 
realized the dream of Machiavelli and 
Caesar Borgia, which was to make Italy 
a united kingdom."

"Monsieur," returned the inspector, 
"providence has changed this gigantic 
plan you advocate so warmly."

"It is the only means of rendering 
Italy strong, happy, and independent."

"Very possibly; only I am not come to 
discuss politics, but to inquire if you 
have anything to ask or to complain of."

"The food is the same as in other 
prisons, -- that is, very bad; the 
lodging is very unhealthful, but, on 
the whole, passable for a dungeon; but 
it is not that which I wish to speak 
of, but a secret I have to reveal of 
the greatest importance."

"We are coming to the point," whispered 
the governor.

"It is for that reason I am delighted 
to see you," continued the abbe, 
"although you have disturbed me in a 
most important calculation, which, if 
it succeeded, would possibly change 
Newton's system. Could you allow me a 
few words in private."

"What did I tell you?" said the 
governor.

"You knew him," returned the inspector 
with a smile.

"What you ask is impossible, monsieur," 
continued he, addressing Faria.

"But," said the abbe, "I would speak to 
you of a large sum, amounting to five 
millions."

"The very sum you named," whispered the 
inspector in his turn.

"However," continued Faria, seeing that 
the inspector was about to depart, "it 
is not absolutely necessary for us to 
be alone; the governor can be present."

"Unfortunately," said the governor, "I 
know beforehand what you are about to 
say; it concerns your treasures, does 
it not?" Faria fixed his eyes on him 
with an expression that would have 
convinced any one else of his sanity.

"Of course," said he; "of what else 
should I speak?"

"Mr. Inspector," continued the 
governor, "I can tell you the story as 
well as he, for it has been dinned in 
my ears for the last four or five 
years."

"That proves," returned the abbe, "that 
you are like those of Holy Writ, who 
having ears hear not, and having eyes 
see not."

"My dear sir, the government is rich 
and does not want your treasures," 
replied the inspector; "keep them until 
you are liberated." The abbe's eyes 
glistened; he seized the inspector's 
hand.

"But what if I am not liberated," cried 
he, "and am detained here until my 
death? this treasure will be lost. Had 
not government better profit by it? I 
will offer six millions, and I will 
content myself with the rest, if they 
will only give me my liberty."

"On my word," said the inspector in a 
low tone, "had I not been told 
beforehand that this man was mad, I 
should believe what he says."

"I am not mad," replied Faria, with 
that acuteness of hearing peculiar to 
prisoners. "The treasure I speak of 
really exists, and I offer to sign an 
agreement with you, in which I promise 
to lead you to the spot where you shall 
dig; and if I deceive you, bring me 
here again, -- I ask no more."

The governor laughed. "Is the spot far 
from here?"

"A hundred leagues."

"It is not ill-planned," said the 
governor. "If all the prisoners took it 
into their heads to travel a hundred 
leagues, and their guardians consented 
to accompany them, they would have a 
capital chance of escaping."

"The scheme is well known," said the 
inspector; "and the abbe's plan has not 
even the merit of originality."

Then turning to Faria -- "I inquired if 
you are well fed?" said he.

"Swear to me," replied Faria, "to free 
me if what I tell you prove true, and I 
will stay here while you go to the 
spot."

"Are you well fed?" repeated the 
inspector.

"Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I 
told you, I will stay here; so there is 
no chance of my escaping."

"You do not reply to my question," 
replied the inspector impatiently.

"Nor you to mine," cried the abbe. "You 
will not accept my gold; I will keep it 
for myself. You refuse me my liberty; 
God will give it me." And the abbe, 
casting away his coverlet, resumed his 
place, and continued his calculations.

"What is he doing there?" said the 
inspector.

"Counting his treasures," replied the 
governor.

Faria replied to this sarcasm with a 
glance of profound contempt. They went 
out. The turnkey closed the door behind 
them.

"He was wealthy once, perhaps?" said 
the inspector.

"Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad."

"After all," said the inspector, "if he 
had been rich, he would not have been 
here." So the matter ended for the Abbe 
Faria. He remained in his cell, and 
this visit only increased the belief in 
his insanity.

Caligula or Nero, those 
treasure-seekers, those desirers of the 
impossible, would have accorded to the 
poor wretch, in exchange for his 
wealth, the liberty he so earnestly 
prayed for. But the kings of modern 
times, restrained by the limits of mere 
probability, have neither courage nor 
desire. They fear the ear that hears 
their orders, and the eye that 
scrutinizes their actions. Formerly 
they believed themselves sprung from 
Jupiter, and shielded by their birth; 
but nowadays they are not inviolable.

It has always been against the policy 
of despotic governments to suffer the 
victims of their persecutions to 
reappear. As the Inquisition rarely 
allowed its victims to be seen with 
their limbs distorted and their flesh 
lacerated by torture, so madness is 
always concealed in its cell, from 
whence, should it depart, it is 
conveyed to some gloomy hospital, where 
the doctor has no thought for man or 
mind in the mutilated being the jailer 
delivers to him. The very madness of 
the Abbe Faria, gone mad in prison, 
condemned him to perpetual captivity.

The inspector kept his word with 
Dantes; he examined the register, and 
found the following note concerning 
him: --

Edmond Dantes:

Violent Bonapartist; took an active 
part in the return from Elba.

The greatest watchfulness and care to 
be exercised.

This note was in a different hand from 
the rest, which showed that it had been 
added since his confinement. The 
inspector could not contend against 
this accusation; he simply wrote, -- 
"Nothing to be done."

This visit had infused new vigor into 
Dantes; he had, till then, forgotten 
the date; but now, with a fragment of 
plaster, he wrote the date, 30th July, 
1816, and made a mark every day, in 
order not to lose his reckoning again. 
Days and weeks passed away, then months 
-- Dantes still waited; he at first 
expected to be freed in a fortnight. 
This fortnight expired, he decided that 
the inspector would do nothing until 
his return to Paris, and that he would 
not reach there until his circuit was 
finished, he therefore fixed three 
months; three months passed away, then 
six more. Finally ten months and a half 
had gone by and no favorable change had 
taken place, and Dantes began to fancy 
the inspector's visit but a dream, an 
illusion of the brain.

At the expiration of a year the 
governor was transferred; he had 
obtained charge of the fortress at Ham. 
He took with him several of his 
subordinates, and amongst them Dantes' 
jailer. A new governor arrived; it 
would have been too tedious to acquire 
the names of the prisoners; he learned 
their numbers instead. This horrible 
place contained fifty cells; their 
inhabitants were designated by the 
numbers of their cell, and the unhappy 
young man was no longer called Edmond 
Dantes -- he was now number 34.

