 Chapter 50 The Morrel Family.

In a very few minutes the count reached 
No. 7 in the Rue Meslay. The house was 
of white stone, and in a small court 
before it were two small beds full of 
beautiful flowers. In the concierge 
that opened the gate the count 
recognized Cocles; but as he had but 
one eye, and that eye had become 
somewhat dim in the course of nine 
years, Cocles did not recognize the 
count. The carriages that drove up to 
the door were compelled to turn, to 
avoid a fountain that played in a basin 
of rockwork, -- an ornament that had 
excited the jealousy of the whole 
quarter, and had gained for the place 
the appellation of "The Little 
Versailles." It is needless to add that 
there were gold and silver fish in the 
basin. The house, with kitchens and 
cellars below, had above the 
ground-floor, two stories and attics. 
The whole of the property, consisting 
of an immense workshop, two pavilions 
at the bottom of the garden, and the 
garden itself, had been purchased by 
Emmanuel, who had seen at a glance that 
he could make of it a profitable 
speculation. He had reserved the house 
and half the garden, and building a 
wall between the garden and the 
workshops, had let them upon lease with 
the pavilions at the bottom of the 
garden. So that for a trifling sum he 
was as well lodged, and as perfectly 
shut out from observation, as the 
inhabitants of the finest mansion in 
the Faubourg St. Germain. The 
breakfast-room was finished in oak; the 
salon in mahogany, and the furnishings 
were of blue velvet; the bedroom was in 
citronwood and green damask. There was 
a study for Emmanuel, who never 
studied, and a music-room for Julie, 
who never played. The whole of the 
second story was set apart for 
Maximilian; it was precisely similar to 
his sister's apartments, except that 
for the breakfast-parlor he had a 
billiard-room, where he received his 
friends. He was superintending the 
grooming of his horse, and smoking his 
cigar at the entrance of the garden, 
when the count's carriage stopped at 
the gate.

Cocles opened the gate, and Baptistin, 
springing from the box, inquired 
whether Monsieur and Madame Herbault 
and Monsieur Maximilian Morrel would 
see his excellency the Count of Monte 
Cristo. "The Count of Monte Cristo?" 
cried Morrel, throwing away his cigar 
and hastening to the carriage; "I 
should think we would see him. Ah, a 
thousand thanks, count, for not having 
forgotten your promise." And the young 
officer shook the count's hand so 
warmly, that Monte Cristo could not be 
mistaken as to the sincerity of his 
joy, and he saw that he had been 
expected with impatience, and was 
received with pleasure. "Come, come," 
said Maximilian, "I will serve as your 
guide; such a man as you are ought not 
to be introduced by a servant. My 
sister is in the garden plucking the 
dead roses; my brother is reading his 
two papers, the Presse and the Debats, 
within six steps of her; for wherever 
you see Madame Herbault, you have only 
to look within a circle of four yards 
and you will find M. Emmanuel, and 
`reciprocally,' as they say at the 
Polytechnic School." At the sound of 
their steps a young woman of twenty to 
five and twenty, dressed in a silk 
morning gown, and busily engaged in 
plucking the dead leaves off a noisette 
rose-tree, raised her head. This was 
Julie, who had become, as the clerk of 
the house of Thomson & French had 
predicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault. 
She uttered a cry of surprise at the 
sight of a stranger, and Maximilian 
began to laugh. "Don't disturb 
yourself, Julie," said he. "The count 
has only been two or three days in 
Paris, but he already knows what a 
fashionable woman of the Marais is, and 
if he does not, you will show him."

"Ah, monsieur," returned Julie, "it is 
treason in my brother to bring you 
thus, but he never has any regard for 
his poor sister. Penelon, Penelon!" An 
old man, who was digging busily at one 
of the beds, stuck his spade in the 
earth, and approached, cap in hand, 
striving to conceal a quid of tobacco 
he had just thrust into his cheek. A 
few locks of gray mingled with his 
hair, which was still thick and matted, 
while his bronzed features and 
determined glance well suited an old 
sailor who had braved the heat of the 
equator and the storms of the tropics. 
"I think you hailed me, Mademoiselle 
Julie?" said he. Penelon had still 
preserved the habit of calling his 
master's daughter "Mademoiselle Julie," 
and had never been able to change the 
name to Madame Herbault. "Penelon," 
replied Julie, "go and inform M. 
Emmanuel of this gentleman's visit, and 
Maximilian will conduct him to the 
salon." Then, turning to Monte Cristo, 
-- "I hope you will permit me to leave 
you for a few minutes," continued she; 
and without awaiting any reply, 
disappeared behind a clump of trees, 
and escaped to the house by a lateral 
alley.

"I am sorry to see," observed Monte 
Cristo to Morrel, "that I cause no 
small disturbance in your house."

"Look there," said Maximilian, 
laughing; "there is her husband 
changing his jacket for a coat. I 
assure you, you are well known in the 
Rue Meslay."

"Your family appears to be a very happy 
one," said the count, as if speaking to 
himself.

"Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they 
want nothing that can render them 
happy; they are young and cheerful, 
they are tenderly attached to each 
other, and with twenty-five thousand 
francs a year they fancy themselves as 
rich as Rothschild."

"Five and twenty thousand francs is not 
a large sum, however," replied Monte 
Cristo, with a tone so sweet and 
gentle, that it went to Maximilian's 
heart like the voice of a father; "but 
they will not be content with that. 
Your brother-in-law is a barrister? a 
doctor?"

"He was a merchant, monsieur, and had 
succeeded to the business of my poor 
father. M. Morrel, at his death, left 
500,000 francs, which were divided 
between my sister and myself, for we 
were his only children. Her husband, 
who, when he married her, had no other 
patrimony than his noble probity, his 
first-rate ability, and his spotless 
reputation, wished to possess as much 
as his wife. He labored and toiled 
until he had amassed 250,000 francs; 
six years sufficed to achieve this 
object. Oh, I assure you, sir, it was a 
touching spectacle to see these young 
creatures, destined by their talents 
for higher stations, toiling together, 
and through their unwillingness to 
change any of the customs of their 
paternal house, taking six years to 
accomplish what less scrupulous people 
would have effected in two or three. 
Marseilles resounded with their 
well-earned praises. At last, one day, 
Emmanuel came to his wife, who had just 
finished making up the accounts. 
`Julie,' said he to her, `Cocles has 
just given me the last rouleau of a 
hundred francs; that completes the 
250,000 francs we had fixed as the 
limits of our gains. Can you content 
yourself with the small fortune which 
we shall possess for the future? Listen 
to me. Our house transacts business to 
the amount of a million a year, from 
which we derive an income of 40,000 
francs. We can dispose of the business, 
if we please, in an hour, for I have 
received a letter from M. Delaunay, in 
which he offers to purchase the 
good-will of the house, to unite with 
his own, for 300,000 francs. Advise me 
what I had better do.' -- `Emmanuel,' 
returned my sister, `the house of 
Morrel can only be carried on by a 
Morrel. Is it not worth 300,000 francs 
to save our father's name from the 
chances of evil fortune and failure?' 
-- `I thought so,' replied Emmanuel; 
`but I wished to have your advice.' -- 
`This is my counsel: -- Our accounts 
are made up and our bills paid; all we 
have to do is to stop the issue of any 
more, and close our office.' This was 
done instantly. It was three o'clock; 
at a quarter past, a merchant presented 
himself to insure two ships; it was a 
clear profit of 15,000 francs. 
`Monsieur,' said Emmanuel, `have the 
goodness to address yourself to M. 
Delaunay. We have quitted business.' -- 
`How long?' inquired the astonished 
merchant. `A quarter of an hour,' was 
the reply. And this is the reason, 
monsieur," continued Maximilian, "of my 
sister and brother-in-law having only 
25,000 francs a year."

Maximilian had scarcely finished his 
story, during which the count's heart 
had swelled within him, when Emmanuel 
entered wearing a hat and coat. He 
saluted the count with the air of a man 
who is aware of the rank of his guest; 
then, after having led Monte Cristo 
around the little garden, he returned 
to the house. A large vase of Japan 
porcelain, filled with flowers that 
loaded the air with their perfume, 
stood in the salon. Julie, suitably 
dressed, and her hair arranged (she had 
accomplished this feat in less than ten 
minutes), received the count on his 
entrance. The songs of the birds were 
heard in an aviary hard by, and the 
branches of laburnums and rose acacias 
formed an exquisite framework to the 
blue velvet curtains. Everything in 
this charming retreat, from the warble 
of the birds to the smile of the 
mistress, breathed tranquillity and 
repose. The count had felt the 
influence of this happiness from the 
moment he entered the house, and he 
remained silent and pensive, forgetting 
that he was expected to renew the 
conversation, which had ceased after 
the first salutations had been 
exchanged. The silence became almost 
painful when, by a violent effort, 
tearing himself from his pleasing 
reverie -- "Madame," said he at length, 
"I pray you to excuse my emotion, which 
must astonish you who are only 
accustomed to the happiness I meet 
here; but contentment is so new a sight 
to me, that I could never be weary of 
looking at yourself and your husband."

"We are very happy, monsieur," replied 
Julie; "but we have also known 
unhappiness, and few have ever 
undergone more bitter sufferings than 
ourselves." The Count's features 
displayed an expression of the most 
intense curiosity.

"Oh, all this is a family history, as 
Chateau-Renaud told you the other day," 
observed Maximilian. "This humble 
picture would have but little interest 
for you, accustomed as you are to 
behold the pleasures and the 
misfortunes of the wealthy and 
industrious; but such as we are, we 
have experienced bitter sorrows."

"And God has poured balm into your 
wounds, as he does into those of all 
who are in affliction?" said Monte 
Cristo inquiringly.

"Yes, count," returned Julie, "we may 
indeed say he has, for he has done for 
us what he grants only to his chosen; 
he sent us one of his angels." The 
count's cheeks became scarlet, and he 
coughed, in order to have an excuse for 
putting his handkerchief to his mouth. 
"Those born to wealth, and who have the 
means of gratifying every wish," said 
Emmanuel, "know not what is the real 
happiness of life, just as those who 
have been tossed on the stormy waters 
of the ocean on a few frail planks can 
alone realize the blessings of fair 
weather."

Monte Cristo rose, and without making 
any answer (for the tremulousness of 
his voice would have betrayed his 
emotion) walked up and down the 
apartment with a slow step.

"Our magnificence makes you smile, 
count," said Maximilian, who had 
followed him with his eyes. "No, no," 
returned Monte Cristo, pale as death, 
pressing one hand on his heart to still 
its throbbings, while with the other he 
pointed to a crystal cover, beneath 
which a silken purse lay on a black 
velvet cushion. "I was wondering what 
could be the significance of this 
purse, with the paper at one end and 
the large diamond at the other."

"Count," replied Maximilian, with an 
air of gravity, "those are our most 
precious family treasures."

"The stone seems very brilliant," 
answered the count.

"Oh, my brother does not allude to its 
value, although it has been estimated 
at 100,000 francs; he means, that the 
articles contained in this purse are 
the relics of the angel I spoke of just 
now."

"This I do not comprehend; and yet I 
may not ask for an explanation, 
madame," replied Monte Cristo bowing. 
"Pardon me, I had no intention of 
committing an indiscretion."

"Indiscretion, -- oh, you make us happy 
by giving us an excuse for expatiating 
on this subject. If we wanted to 
conceal the noble action this purse 
commemorates, we should not expose it 
thus to view. Oh, would we could relate 
it everywhere, and to every one, so 
that the emotion of our unknown 
benefactor might reveal his presence."

"Ah, really," said Monte Cristo in a 
half-stifled voice.

"Monsieur," returned Maximilian, 
raising the glass cover, and 
respectfully kissing the silken purse, 
"this has touched the hand of a man who 
saved my father from suicide, us from 
ruin, and our name from shame and 
disgrace, -- a man by whose matchless 
benevolence we poor children, doomed to 
want and wretchedness, can at present 
hear every one envying our happy lot. 
This letter" (as he spoke, Maximilian 
drew a letter from the purse and gave 
it to the count) -- "this letter was 
written by him the day that my father 
had taken a desperate resolution, and 
this diamond was given by the generous 
unknown to my sister as her dowry." 
Monte Cristo opened the letter, and 
read it with an indescribable feeling 
of delight. It was the letter written 
(as our readers know) to Julie, and 
signed "Sinbad the Sailor." "Unknown 
you say, is the man who rendered you 
this service -- unknown to you?"

"Yes; we have never had the happiness 
of pressing his hand," continued 
Maximilian. "We have supplicated heaven 
in vain to grant us this favor, but the 
whole affair has had a mysterious 
meaning that we cannot comprehend -- we 
have been guided by an invisible hand, 
-- a hand as powerful as that of an 
enchanter."

"Oh," cried Julie, "I have not lost all 
hope of some day kissing that hand, as 
I now kiss the purse which he has 
touched. Four years ago, Penelon was at 
Trieste -- Penelon, count, is the old 
sailor you saw in the garden, and who, 
from quartermaster, has become gardener 
-- Penelon, when he was at Trieste, saw 
on the quay an Englishman, who was on 
the point of embarking on board a 
yacht, and he recognized him as the 
person who called on my father the 
fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me 
this letter on the fifth of September. 
He felt convinced of his identity, but 
he did not venture to address him."

"An Englishman," said Monte Cristo, who 
grew uneasy at the attention with which 
Julie looked at him. "An Englishman you 
say?"

"Yes," replied Maximilian, "an 
Englishman, who represented himself as 
the confidential clerk of the house of 
Thomson & French, at Rome. It was this 
that made me start when you said the 
other day, at M. de Morcerf's, that 
Messrs. Thomson & French were your 
bankers. That happened, as I told you, 
in 1829. For God's sake, tell me, did 
you know this Englishman?"

"But you tell me, also, that the house 
of Thomson & French have constantly 
denied having rendered you this 
service?"

"Yes."

"Then is it not probable that this 
Englishman may be some one who, 
grateful for a kindness your father had 
shown him, and which he himself had 
forgotten, has taken this method of 
requiting the obligation?"

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

"What was his name?" asked Monte Cristo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Without revealing himself?"

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

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

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

"And do you know this gentleman, 
monsieur?" inquired Emmanuel.

"Oh, if you do know him," cried Julie, 
"can you tell us where he is -- where 
we can find him? Maximilian -- Emmanuel 
-- if we do but discover him, he must 
believe in the gratitude of the heart!" 
Monte Cristo felt tears start into his 
eyes, and he again walked hastily up 
and down the room.

"In the name of heaven," said 
Maximilian, "if you know anything of 
him, tell us what it is."

"Alas," cried Monte Cristo, striving to 
repress his emotion, "if Lord Wilmore 
was your unknown benefactor, I fear you 
will never see him again. I parted from 
him two years ago at Palermo, and he 
was then on the point of setting out 
for the most remote regions; so that I 
fear he will never return."

"Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you," 
said Julie, much affected; and the 
young lady's eyes swam with tears.

"Madame," replied Monte Cristo gravely, 
and gazing earnestly on the two liquid 
pearls that trickled down Julie's 
cheeks, "had Lord Wilmore seen what I 
now see, he would become attached to 
life, for the tears you shed would 
reconcile him to mankind;" and he held 
out his hand to Julie, who gave him 
hers, carried away by the look and 
accent of the count. "But," continued 
she, "Lord Wilmore had a family or 
friends, he must have known some one, 
can we not -- "

"Oh, it is useless to inquire," 
returned the count; "perhaps, after 
all, he was not the man you seek for. 
He was my friend: he had no secrets 
from me, and if this had been so he 
would have confided in me."

"And he told you nothing?"

"Not a word."

"Nothing that would lead you to 
suppose?"

"Nothing."

"And yet you spoke of him at once."

"Ah, in such a case one supposes" --

"Sister, sister," said Maximilian, 
coming to the count's aid, "monsieur is 
quite right. Recollect what our 
excellent father so often told us, `It 
was no Englishman that thus saved us.'" 
Monte Cristo started. "What did your 
father tell you, M. Morrel?" said he 
eagerly.

"My father thought that this action had 
been miraculously performed -- he 
believed that a benefactor had arisen 
from the grave to save us. Oh, it was a 
touching superstition, monsieur, and 
although I did not myself believe it, I 
would not for the world have destroyed 
my father's faith. How often did he 
muse over it and pronounce the name of 
a dear friend -- a friend lost to him 
forever; and on his death-bed, when the 
near approach of eternity seemed to 
have illumined his mind with 
supernatural light, this thought, which 
had until then been but a doubt, became 
a conviction, and his last words were, 
`Maximilian, it was Edmond Dantes!'" At 
these words the count's paleness, which 
had for some time been increasing, 
became alarming; he could not speak; he 
looked at his watch like a man who has 
forgotten the hour, said a few hurried 
words to Madame Herbault, and pressing 
the hands of Emmanuel and Maximilian, 
-- "Madame," said he, "I trust you will 
allow me to visit you occasionally; I 
value your friendship, and feel 
grateful to you for your welcome, for 
this is the first time for many years 
that I have thus yielded to my 
feelings;" and he hastily quitted the 
apartment.

"This Count of Monte Cristo is a 
strange man," said Emmanuel.

"Yes," answered Maximilian, "but I feel 
sure he has an excellent heart, and 
that he likes us."

"His voice went to my heart," observed 
Julie; "and two or three times I 
fancied that I had heard it before." 

 Chapter 51 Pyramus and Thisbe.

About two-thirds of the way along the 
Faubourg Saint-Honore, and in the rear 
of one of the most imposing mansions in 
this rich neighborhood, where the 
various houses vie with each other for 
elegance of design and magnificence of 
construction, extended a large garden, 
where the wide-spreading chestnut-trees 
raised their heads high above the walls 
in a solid rampart, and with the coming 
of every spring scattered a shower of 
delicate pink and white blossoms into 
the large stone vases that stood upon 
the two square pilasters of a curiously 
wrought iron gate, that dated from the 
time of Louis XII. This noble entrance, 
however, in spite of its striking 
appearance and the graceful effect of 
the geraniums planted in the two vases, 
as they waved their variegated leaves 
in the wind and charmed the eye with 
their scarlet bloom, had fallen into 
utter disuse. The proprietors of the 
mansion had many years before thought 
it best to confine themselves to the 
possession of the house itself, with 
its thickly planted court-yard, opening 
into the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and to 
the garden shut in by this gate, which 
formerly communicated with a fine 
kitchen-garden of about an acre. For 
the demon of speculation drew a line, 
or in other words projected a street, 
at the farther side of the 
kitchen-garden. The street was laid 
out, a name was chosen and posted up on 
an iron plate, but before construction 
was begun, it occurred to the possessor 
of the property that a handsome sum 
might be obtained for the ground then 
devoted to fruits and vegetables, by 
building along the line of the proposed 
street, and so making it a branch of 
communication with the Faubourg 
Saint-Honore itself, one of the most 
important thoroughfares in the city of 
Paris.

In matters of speculation, however, 
though "man proposes," "money 
disposes." From some such difficulty 
the newly named street died almost in 
birth, and the purchaser of the 
kitchen-garden, having paid a high 
price for it, and being quite unable to 
find any one willing to take his 
bargain off his hands without a 
considerable loss, yet still clinging 
to the belief that at some future day 
he should obtain a sum for it that 
would repay him, not only for his past 
outlay, but also the interest upon the 
capital locked up in his new 
acquisition, contented himself with 
letting the ground temporarily to some 
market-gardeners, at a yearly rental of 
500 francs. And so, as we have said, 
the iron gate leading into the 
kitchen-garden had been closed up and 
left to the rust, which bade fair 
before long to eat off its hinges, 
while to prevent the ignoble glances of 
the diggers and delvers of the ground 
from presuming to sully the 
aristocratic enclosure belonging to the 
mansion, the gate had been boarded up 
to a height of six feet. True, the 
planks were not so closely adjusted but 
that a hasty peep might be obtained 
through their interstices; but the 
strict decorum and rigid propriety of 
the inhabitants of the house left no 
grounds for apprehending that advantage 
would be taken of that circumstance.

Horticulture seemed, however, to have 
been abandoned in the deserted 
kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, 
carrots, radishes, pease, and melons 
had once flourished, a scanty crop of 
lucerne alone bore evidence of its 
being deemed worthy of cultivation. A 
small, low door gave egress from the 
walled space we have been describing 
into the projected street, the ground 
having been abandoned as unproductive 
by its various renters, and had now 
fallen so completely in general 
estimation as to return not even the 
one-half per cent it had originally 
paid. Towards the house the 
chestnut-trees we have before mentioned 
rose high above the wall, without in 
any way affecting the growth of other 
luxuriant shrubs and flowers that 
eagerly dressed forward to fill up the 
vacant spaces, as though asserting 
their right to enjoy the boon of light 
and air. At one corner, where the 
foliage became so thick as almost to 
shut out day, a large stone bench and 
sundry rustic seats indicated that this 
sheltered spot was either in general 
favor or particular use by some 
inhabitant of the house, which was 
faintly discernible through the dense 
mass of verdure that partially 
concealed it, though situated but a 
hundred paces off.

Whoever had selected this retired 
portion of the grounds as the boundary 
of a walk, or as a place for 
meditation, was abundantly justified in 
the choice by the absence of all glare, 
the cool, refreshing shade, the screen 
it afforded from the scorching rays of 
the sun, that found no entrance there 
even during the burning days of hottest 
summer, the incessant and melodious 
warbling of birds, and the entire 
removal from either the noise of the 
street or the bustle of the mansion. On 
the evening of one of the warmest days 
spring had yet bestowed on the 
inhabitants of Paris, might be seen 
negligently thrown upon the stone 
bench, a book, a parasol, and a 
work-basket, from which hung a partly 
embroidered cambric handkerchief, while 
at a little distance from these 
articles was a young woman, standing 
close to the iron gate, endeavoring to 
discern something on the other side by 
means of the openings in the planks, -- 
the earnestness of her attitude and the 
fixed gaze with which she seemed to 
seek the object of her wishes, proving 
how much her feelings were interested 
in the matter. At that instant the 
little side-gate leading from the waste 
ground to the street was noiselessly 
opened, and a tall, powerful young man 
appeared. He was dressed in a common 
gray blouse and velvet cap, but his 
carefully arranged hair, beard and 
mustache, all of the richest and 
glossiest black, ill accorded with his 
plebeian attire. After casting a rapid 
glance around him, in order to assure 
himself that he was unobserved, he 
entered by the small gate, and, 
carefully closing and securing it after 
him, proceeded with a hurried step 
towards the barrier.

At the sight of him she expected, 
though probably not in such a costume, 
the young woman started in terror, and 
was about to make a hasty retreat. But 
the eye of love had already seen, even 
through the narrow chinks of the wooden 
palisades, the movement of the white 
robe, and observed the fluttering of 
the blue sash. Pressing his lips close 
to the planks, he exclaimed, "Don't be 
alarmed, Valentine -- it is I!" Again 
the timid girl found courage to return 
to the gate, saying, as she did so, 
"And why do you come so late to-day? It 
is almost dinner-time, and I had to use 
no little diplomacy to get rid of my 
watchful mother-in-law, my too-devoted 
maid, and my troublesome brother, who 
is always teasing me about coming to 
work at my embroidery, which I am in a 
fair way never to get done. So pray 
excuse yourself as well as you can for 
having made me wait, and, after that, 
tell me why I see you in a dress so 
singular that at first I did not 
recognize you."

"Dearest Valentine," said the young 
man, "the difference between our 
respective stations makes me fear to 
offend you by speaking of my love, but 
yet I cannot find myself in your 
presence without longing to pour forth 
my soul, and tell you how fondly I 
adore you. If it be but to carry away 
with me the recollection of such sweet 
moments, I could even thank you for 
chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of 
hope, that if you did not expect me 
(and that indeed would be worse than 
vanity to suppose), at least I was in 
your thoughts. You asked me the cause 
of my being late, and why I come 
disguised. I will candidly explain the 
reason of both, and I trust to your 
goodness to pardon me. I have chosen a 
trade."

"A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you 
jest at a time when we have such deep 
cause for uneasiness?"

"Heaven keep me from jesting with that 
which is far dearer to me than life 
itself! But listen to me, Valentine, 
and I will tell you all about it. I 
became weary of ranging fields and 
scaling walls, and seriously alarmed at 
the idea suggested by you, that if 
caught hovering about here your father 
would very likely have me sent to 
prison as a thief. That would 
compromise the honor of the French 
army, to say nothing of the fact that 
the continual presence of a captain of 
Spahis in a place where no warlike 
projects could be supposed to account 
for it might well create surprise; so I 
have become a gardener, and, 
consequently, adopted the costume of my 
calling."

"What excessive nonsense you talk, 
Maximilian!"

"Nonsense? Pray do not call what I 
consider the wisest action of my life 
by such a name. Consider, by becoming a 
gardener I effectually screen our 
meetings from all suspicion or danger."

"I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease 
trifling, and tell me what you really 
mean."

"Simply, that having ascertained that 
the piece of ground on which I stand 
was to let, I made application for it, 
was readily accepted by the proprietor, 
and am now master of this fine crop of 
lucerne. Think of that, Valentine! 
There is nothing now to prevent my 
building myself a little hut on my 
plantation, and residing not twenty 
yards from you. Only imagine what 
happiness that would afford me. I can 
scarcely contain myself at the bare 
idea. Such felicity seems above all 
price -- as a thing impossible and 
unattainable. But would you believe 
that I purchase all this delight, joy, 
and happiness, for which I would 
cheerfully have surrendered ten years 
of my life, at the small cost of 500 
francs per annum, paid quarterly? 
Henceforth we have nothing to fear. I 
am on my own ground, and have an 
undoubted right to place a ladder 
against the wall, and to look over when 
I please, without having any 
apprehensions of being taken off by the 
police as a suspicious character. I may 
also enjoy the precious privilege of 
assuring you of my fond, faithful, and 
unalterable affection, whenever you 
visit your favorite bower, unless, 
indeed, it offends your pride to listen 
to professions of love from the lips of 
a poor workingman, clad in a blouse and 
cap." A faint cry of mingled pleasure 
and surprise escaped from the lips of 
Valentine, who almost instantly said, 
in a saddened tone, as though some 
envious cloud darkened the joy which 
illumined her heart, "Alas, no, 
Maximilian, this must not be, for many 
reasons. We should presume too much on 
our own strength, and, like others, 
perhaps, be led astray by our blind 
confidence in each other's prudence."

"How can you for an instant entertain 
so unworthy a thought, dear Valentine? 
Have I not, from the first blessed hour 
of our acquaintance, schooled all my 
words and actions to your sentiments 
and ideas? And you have, I am sure, the 
fullest confidence in my honor. When 
you spoke to me of experiencing a vague 
and indefinite sense of coming danger, 
I placed myself blindly and devotedly 
at your service, asking no other reward 
than the pleasure of being useful to 
you; and have I ever since, by word or 
look, given you cause of regret for 
having selected me from the numbers 
that would willingly have sacrificed 
their lives for you? You told me, my 
dear Valentine, that you were engaged 
to M. d'Epinay, and that your father 
was resolved upon completing the match, 
and that from his will there was no 
appeal, as M. de Villefort was never 
known to change a determination once 
formed. I kept in the background, as 
you wished, and waited, not for the 
decision of your heart or my own, but 
hoping that providence would graciously 
interpose in our behalf, and order 
events in our favor. But what cared I 
for delays or difficulties, Valentine, 
as long as you confessed that you loved 
me, and took pity on me? If you will 
only repeat that avowal now and then, I 
can endure anything."

"Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing 
that makes you so bold, and which 
renders me at once so happy and 
unhappy, that I frequently ask myself 
whether it is better for me to endure 
the harshness of my mother-in-law, and 
her blind preference for her own child, 
or to be, as I now am, insensible to 
any pleasure save such as I find in 
these meetings, so fraught with danger 
to both."

"I will not admit that word," returned 
the young man; "it is at once cruel and 
unjust. Is it possible to find a more 
submissive slave than myself? You have 
permitted me to converse with you from 
time to time, Valentine, but forbidden 
my ever following you in your walks or 
elsewhere -- have I not obeyed? And 
since I found means to enter this 
enclosure to exchange a few words with 
you through this gate -- to be close to 
you without really seeing you -- have I 
ever asked so much as to touch the hem 
of your gown or tried to pass this 
barrier which is but a trifle to one of 
my youth and strength? Never has a 
complaint or a murmur escaped me. I 
have been bound by my promises as 
rigidly as any knight of olden times. 
Come, come, dearest Valentine, confess 
that what I say is true, lest I be 
tempted to call you unjust."

"It is true," said Valentine, as she 
passed the end of her slender fingers 
through a small opening in the planks, 
and permitted Maximilian to press his 
lips to them, "and you are a true and 
faithful friend; but still you acted 
from motives of self-interest, my dear 
Maximilian, for you well knew that from 
the moment in which you had manifested 
an opposite spirit all would have been 
ended between us. You promised to 
bestow on me the friendly affection of 
a brother. For I have no friend but 
yourself upon earth, who am neglected 
and forgotten by my father, harassed 
and persecuted by my mother-in-law, and 
left to the sole companionship of a 
paralyzed and speechless old man, whose 
withered hand can no longer press mine, 
and who can speak to me with the eye 
alone, although there still lingers in 
his heart the warmest tenderness for 
his poor grandchild. Oh, how bitter a 
fate is mine, to serve either as a 
victim or an enemy to all who are 
stronger than myself, while my only 
friend and supporter is a living 
corpse! Indeed, indeed, Maximilian, I 
am very miserable, and if you love me 
it must be out of pity."

"Valentine," replied the young man, 
deeply affected, "I will not say you 
are all I love in the world, for I 
dearly prize my sister and 
brother-in-law; but my affection for 
them is calm and tranquil, in no manner 
resembling what I feel for you. When I 
think of you my heart beats fast, the 
blood burns in my veins, and I can 
hardly breathe; but I solemnly promise 
you to restrain all this ardor, this 
fervor and intensity of feeling, until 
you yourself shall require me to render 
them available in serving or assisting 
you. M. Franz is not expected to return 
home for a year to come, I am told; in 
that time many favorable and unforeseen 
chances may befriend us. Let us, then, 
hope for the best; hope is so sweet a 
comforter. Meanwhile, Valentine, while 
reproaching me with selfishness, think 
a little what you have been to me -- 
the beautiful but cold resemblance of a 
marble Venus. What promise of future 
reward have you made me for all the 
submission and obedience I have 
evinced? -- none whatever. What granted 
me? -- scarcely more. You tell me of M. 
Franz d'Epinay, your betrothed lover, 
and you shrink from the idea of being 
his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is 
there no other sorrow in your heart? 
You see me devoted to you, body and 
soul, my life and each warm drop that 
circles round my heart are consecrated 
to your service; you know full well 
that my existence is bound up in yours 
-- that were I to lose you I would not 
outlive the hour of such crushing 
misery; yet you speak with calmness of 
the prospect of your being the wife of 
another! Oh, Valentine, were I in your 
place, and did I feel conscious, as you 
do, of being worshipped, adored, with 
such a love as mine, a hundred times at 
least should I have passed my hand 
between these iron bars, and said, 
`Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, 
and believe that, living or dead, I am 
yours -- yours only, and forever!'" The 
poor girl made no reply, but her lover 
could plainly hear her sobs and tears. 
A rapid change took place in the young 
man's feelings. "Dearest, dearest 
Valentine," exclaimed he, "forgive me 
if I have offended you, and forget the 
words I spoke if they have unwittingly 
caused you pain."

"No, Maximilian, I am not offended," 
answered she, "but do you not see what 
a poor, helpless being I am, almost a 
stranger and an outcast in my father's 
house, where even he is seldom seen; 
whose will has been thwarted, and 
spirits broken, from the age of ten 
years, beneath the iron rod so sternly 
held over me; oppressed, mortified, and 
persecuted, day by day, hour by hour, 
minute by minute, no person has cared 
for, even observed my sufferings, nor 
have I ever breathed one word on the 
subject save to yourself. Outwardly and 
in the eyes of the world, I am 
surrounded by kindness and affection; 
but the reverse is the case. The 
general remark is, `Oh, it cannot be 
expected that one of so stern a 
character as M. Villefort could lavish 
the tenderness some fathers do on their 
daughters. What though she has lost her 
own mother at a tender age, she has had 
the happiness to find a second mother 
in Madame de Villefort.' The world, 
however, is mistaken; my father 
abandons me from utter indifference, 
while my mother-in-law detests me with 
a hatred so much the more terrible 
because it is veiled beneath a 
continual smile."

"Hate you, sweet Valentine," exclaimed 
the young man; "how is it possible for 
any one to do that?"

"Alas," replied the weeping girl, "I am 
obliged to own that my mother-in-law's 
aversion to me arises from a very 
natural source -- her overweening love 
for her own child, my brother Edward."

"But why should it?"

"I do not know; but, though unwilling 
to introduce money matters into our 
present conversation, I will just say 
this much -- that her extreme dislike 
to me has its origin there; and I much 
fear she envies me the fortune I enjoy 
in right of my mother, and which will 
be more than doubled at the death of M. 
and Mme. de Saint-Meran, whose sole 
heiress I am. Madame de Villefort has 
nothing of her own, and hates me for 
being so richly endowed. Alas, how 
gladly would I exchange the half of 
this wealth for the happiness of at 
least sharing my father's love. God 
knows, I would prefer sacrificing the 
whole, so that it would obtain me a 
happy and affectionate home."

"Poor Valentine!"

"I seem to myself as though living a 
life of bondage, yet at the same time 
am so conscious of my own weakness that 
I fear to break the restraint in which 
I am held, lest I fall utterly 
helpless. Then, too, my father is not a 
person whose orders may be infringed 
with impunity; protected as he is by 
his high position and firmly 
established reputation for talent and 
unswerving integrity, no one could 
oppose him; he is all-powerful even 
with the king; he would crush you at a 
word. Dear Maximilian, believe me when 
I assure you that if I do not attempt 
to resist my father's commands it is 
more on your account than my own."

"But why, Valentine, do you persist in 
anticipating the worst, -- why picture 
so gloomy a future?"

"Because I judge it from the past."

"Still, consider that although I may 
not be, strictly speaking, what is 
termed an illustrious match for you, I 
am, for many reasons, not altogether so 
much beneath your alliance. The days 
when such distinctions were so nicely 
weighed and considered no longer exist 
in France, and the first families of 
the monarchy have intermarried with 
those of the empire. The aristocracy of 
the lance has allied itself with the 
nobility of the cannon. Now I belong to 
this last-named class; and certainly my 
prospects of military preferment are 
most encouraging as well as certain. My 
fortune, though small, is free and 
unfettered, and the memory of my late 
father is respected in our country, 
Valentine, as that of the most upright 
and honorable merchant of the city; I 
say our country, because you were born 
not far from Marseilles."

"Don't speak of Marseilles, I beg of 
you, Maximilian; that one word brings 
back my mother to my recollection -- my 
angel mother, who died too soon for 
myself and all who knew her; but who, 
after watching over her child during 
the brief period allotted to her in 
this world, now, I fondly hope, watches 
from her home in heaven. Oh, if my 
mother were still living, there would 
be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I 
would tell her that I loved you, and 
she would protect us."

"I fear, Valentine," replied the lover, 
"that were she living I should never 
have had the happiness of knowing you; 
you would then have been too happy to 
have stooped from your grandeur to 
bestow a thought on me."

"Now it is you who are unjust, 
Maximilian," cried Valentine; "but 
there is one thing I wish to know."

"And what is that?" inquired the young 
man, perceiving that Valentine 
hesitated.

"Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in 
former days, when our fathers dwelt at 
Marseilles, there was ever any 
misunderstanding between them?"

"Not that I am aware of," replied the 
young man, "unless, indeed, any 
ill-feeling might have arisen from 
their being of opposite parties -- your 
father was, as you know, a zealous 
partisan of the Bourbons, while mine 
was wholly devoted to the emperor; 
there could not possibly be any other 
difference between them. But why do you 
ask?"

"I will tell you," replied the young 
girl, "for it is but right you should 
know. Well, on the day when your 
appointment as an officer of the Legion 
of honor was announced in the papers, 
we were all sitting with my 
grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars 
was there also -- you recollect M. 
Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the 
banker, whose horses ran away with my 
mother-in-law and little brother, and 
very nearly killed them? While the rest 
of the company were discussing the 
approaching marriage of Mademoiselle 
Danglars, I was reading the paper to my 
grandfather; but when I came to the 
paragraph about you, although I had 
done nothing else but read it over to 
myself all the morning (you know you 
had told me all about it the previous 
evening), I felt so happy, and yet so 
nervous, at the idea of speaking your 
name aloud, and before so many people, 
that I really think I should have 
passed it over, but for the fear that 
my doing so might create suspicions as 
to the cause of my silence; so I 
summoned up all my courage, and read it 
as firmly and as steadily as I could."

"Dear Valentine!"

"Well, would you believe it? directly 
my father caught the sound of your name 
he turned round quite hastily, and, 
like a poor silly thing, I was so 
persuaded that every one must be as 
much affected as myself by the 
utterance of your name, that I was not 
surprised to see my father start, and 
almost tremble; but I even thought 
(though that surely must have been a 
mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too."

"`Morrel, Morrel,' cried my father, 
`stop a bit;' then knitting his brows 
into a deep frown, he added, `surely 
this cannot be one of the Morrel family 
who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so 
much trouble from their violent 
Bonapartism -- I mean about the year 
1815.' -- `Yes,' replied M. Danglars, 
`I believe he is the son of the old 
shipowner.'"

"Indeed," answered Maximilian; "and 
what did your father say then, 
Valentine?"

"Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I 
don't dare to tell you."

"Always tell me everything," said 
Maximilian with a smile.

"`Ah,' continued my father, still 
frowning, `their idolized emperor 
treated these madmen as they deserved; 
he called them `food for powder,' which 
was precisely all they were good for; 
and I am delighted to see that the 
present government have adopted this 
salutary principle with all its 
pristine vigor; if Algiers were good 
for nothing but to furnish the means of 
carrying so admirable an idea into 
practice, it would be an acquisition 
well worthy of struggling to obtain. 
Though it certainly does cost France 
somewhat dear to assert her rights in 
that uncivilized country.'"

"Brutal politics, I must confess." said 
Maximilian; "but don't attach any 
serious importance, dear, to what your 
father said. My father was not a bit 
behind yours in that sort of talk. 
`Why,' said he, `does not the emperor, 
who has devised so many clever and 
efficient modes of improving the art of 
war, organize a regiment of lawyers, 
judges and legal practitioners, sending 
them in the hottest fire the enemy 
could maintain, and using them to save 
better men?' You see, my dear, that for 
picturesque expression and generosity 
of spirit there is not much to choose 
between the language of either party. 
But what did M. Danglars say to this 
outburst on the part of the procureur?"

"Oh, he laughed, and in that singular 
manner so peculiar to himself -- 
half-malicious, half-ferocious; he 
almost immediately got up and took his 
leave; then, for the first time, I 
observed the agitation of my 
grandfather, and I must tell you, 
Maximilian, that I am the only person 
capable of discerning emotion in his 
paralyzed frame. And I suspected that 
the conversation that had been carried 
on in his presence (for they always say 
and do what they like before the dear 
old man, without the smallest regard 
for his feelings) had made a strong 
impression on his mind; for, naturally 
enough, it must have pained him to hear 
the emperor he so devotedly loved and 
served spoken of in that depreciating 
manner."

"The name of M. Noirtier," interposed 
Maximilian, "is celebrated throughout 
Europe; he was a statesman of high 
standing, and you may or may not know, 
Valentine, that he took a leading part 
in every Bonapartist conspiracy set on 
foot during the restoration of the 
Bourbons."

"Oh, I have often heard whispers of 
things that seem to me most strange -- 
the father a Bonapartist, the son a 
Royalist; what can have been the reason 
of so singular a difference in parties 
and politics? But to resume my story; I 
turned towards my grandfather, as 
though to question him as to the cause 
of his emotion; he looked expressively 
at the newspaper I had been reading. 
`What is the matter, dear grandfather?' 
said I, `are you pleased?' He gave me a 
sign in the affirmative. `With what my 
father said just now?' He returned a 
sign in the negative. `Perhaps you 
liked what M. Danglars said?' Another 
sign in the negative. `Oh, then, you 
were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I 
didn't dare to say Maximilian) had been 
made an officer of the Legion of 
Honor?' He signified assent; only think 
of the poor old man's being so pleased 
to think that you, who were a perfect 
stranger to him, had been made an 
officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps 
it was a mere whim on his part, for he 
is falling, they say, into second 
childhood, but I love him for showing 
so much interest in you."

"How singular," murmured Maximilian; 
"your father hates me, while your 
grandfather, on the contrary -- What 
strange feelings are aroused by 
politics."

"Hush," cried Valentine, suddenly; 
"some one is coming!" Maximilian leaped 
at one bound into his crop of lucerne, 
which he began to pull up in the most 
ruthless way, under the pretext of 
being occupied in weeding it.

"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" exclaimed 
a voice from behind the trees. "Madame 
is searching for you everywhere; there 
is a visitor in the drawing-room."

"A visitor?" inquired Valentine, much 
agitated; "who is it?"

"Some grand personage -- a prince I 
believe they said -- the Count of Monte 
Cristo."

"I will come directly," cried Valentine 
aloud. The name of Monte Cristo sent an 
electric shock through the young man on 
the other side of the iron gate, to 
whom Valentine's "I am coming" was the 
customary signal of farewell. "Now, 
then," said Maximilian, leaning on the 
handle of his spade, "I would give a 
good deal to know how it comes about 
that the Count of Monte Cristo is 
acquainted with M. de Villefort." 

 Chapter 52 Toxicology.

It was really the Count of Monte Cristo 
who had just arrived at Madame de 
Villefort's for the purpose of 
returning the procureur's visit, and at 
his name, as may be easily imagined, 
the whole house was in confusion. 
Madame de Villefort, who was alone in 
her drawing-room when the count was 
announced, desired that her son might 
be brought thither instantly to renew 
his thanks to the count; and Edward, 
who heard this great personage talked 
of for two whole days, made all 
possible haste to come to him, not from 
obedience to his mother, or out of any 
feeling of gratitude to the count, but 
from sheer curiosity, and that some 
chance remark might give him the 
opportunity for making one of the 
impertinent speeches which made his 
mother say, -- "Oh, that naughty child! 
But I can't be severe with him, he is 
really so bright."

After the usual civilities, the count 
inquired after M. de Villefort. "My 
husband dines with the chancellor," 
replied the young lady; "he has just 
gone, and I am sure he'll be 
exceedingly sorry not to have had the 
pleasure of seeing you before he went." 
Two visitors who were there when the 
count arrived, having gazed at him with 
all their eyes, retired after that 
reasonable delay which politeness 
admits and curiosity requires. "What is 
your sister Valentine doing?" inquired 
Madame de Villefort of Edward; "tell 
some one to bid her come here, that I 
may have the honor of introducing her 
to the count."

"You have a daughter, then, madame?" 
inquired the count; "very young, I 
presume?"

"The daughter of M. de Villefort by his 
first marriage," replied the young 
wife, "a fine well-grown girl."

"But melancholy," interrupted Master 
Edward, snatching the feathers out of 
the tail of a splendid parroquet that 
was screaming on its gilded perch, in 
order to make a plume for his hat. 
Madame de Villefort merely cried, -- 
"Be still, Edward!" She then added, -- 
"This young madcap is, however, very 
nearly right, and merely re-echoes what 
he has heard me say with pain a hundred 
times; for Mademoiselle de Villefort 
is, in spite of all we can do to rouse 
her, of a melancholy disposition and 
taciturn habit, which frequently injure 
the effect of her beauty. But what 
detains her? Go, Edward, and see."

"Because they are looking for her where 
she is not to be found."

"And where are they looking for her?"

"With grandpapa Noirtier."

"And do you think she is not there?"

"No, no, no, no, no, she is not there," 
replied Edward, singing his words.

"And where is she, then? If you know, 
why don't you tell?"

"She is under the big chestnut-tree," 
replied the spoiled brat, as he gave, 
in spite of his mother's commands, live 
flies to the parrot, which seemed 
keenly to relish such fare. Madame de 
Villefort stretched out her hand to 
ring, intending to direct her 
waiting-maid to the spot where she 
would find Valentine, when the young 
lady herself entered the apartment. She 
appeared much dejected; and any person 
who considered her attentively might 
have observed the traces of recent 
tears in her eyes.

Valentine, whom we have in the rapid 
march of our narrative presented to our 
readers without formally introducing 
her, was a tall and graceful girl of 
nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, 
deep blue eyes, and that reposeful air 
of quiet distinction which 
characterized her mother. Her white and 
slender fingers, her pearly neck, her 
cheeks tinted with varying hues 
reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen 
who have been so poetically compared in 
their manner to the gracefulness of a 
swan. She entered the apartment, and 
seeing near her stepmother the stranger 
of whom she had already heard so much, 
saluted him without any girlish 
awkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, 
and with an elegance that redoubled the 
count's attention. He rose to return 
the salutation. "Mademoiselle de 
Villefort, my daughter-in-law," said 
Madame de Villefort to Monte Cristo, 
leaning back on her sofa and motioning 
towards Valentine with her hand. "And 
M. de Monte Cristo, King of China, 
Emperor of Cochin-China," said the 
young imp, looking slyly towards his 
sister.

Madame de Villefort at this really did 
turn pale, and was very nearly angry 
with this household plague, who 
answered to the name of Edward; but the 
count, on the contrary, smiled, and 
appeared to look at the boy 
complacently, which caused the maternal 
heart to bound again with joy and 
enthusiasm.

"But, madame," replied the count, 
continuing the conversation, and 
looking by turns at Madame de Villefort 
and Valentine, "have I not already had 
the honor of meeting yourself and 
mademoiselle before? I could not help 
thinking so just now; the idea came 
over my mind, and as mademoiselle 
entered the sight of her was an 
additional ray of light thrown on a 
confused remembrance; excuse the 
remark."

"I do not think it likely, sir; 
Mademoiselle de Villefort is not very 
fond of society, and we very seldom go 
out," said the young lady.

"Then it was not in society that I met 
with mademoiselle or yourself, madame, 
or this charming little merry boy. 
Besides, the Parisian world is entirely 
unknown to me, for, as I believe I told 
you, I have been in Paris but very few 
days. No, -- but, perhaps, you will 
permit me to call to mind -- stay!" The 
Count placed his hand on his brow as if 
to collect his thoughts. "No -- it was 
somewhere -- away from here -- it was 
-- I do not know -- but it appears that 
this recollection is connected with a 
lovely sky and some religious fete; 
mademoiselle was holding flowers in her 
hand, the interesting boy was chasing a 
beautiful peacock in a garden, and you, 
madame, were under the trellis of some 
arbor. Pray come to my aid, madame; do 
not these circumstances appeal to your 
memory?"

"No, indeed," replied Madame de 
Villefort; "and yet it appears to me, 
sir, that if I had met you anywhere, 
the recollection of you must have been 
imprinted on my memory."

"Perhaps the count saw us in Italy," 
said Valentine timidly.

"Yes, in Italy; it was in Italy most 
probably," replied Monte Cristo; "you 
have travelled then in Italy, 
mademoiselle?"

"Yes; madame and I were there two years 
ago. The doctors, anxious for my lungs, 
had prescribed the air of Naples. We 
went by Bologna, Perugia, and Rome."

"Ah, yes -- true, mademoiselle," 
exclaimed Monte Cristo as if this 
simple explanation was sufficient to 
revive the recollection he sought. "It 
was at Perugia on Corpus Christi Day, 
in the garden of the Hotel des Postes, 
when chance brought us together; you, 
Madame de Villefort, and her son; I now 
remember having had the honor of 
meeting you."

"I perfectly well remember Perugia, 
sir, and the Hotel des Postes, and the 
festival of which you speak," said 
Madame de Villefort, "but in vain do I 
tax my memory, of whose treachery I am 
ashamed, for I really do not recall to 
mind that I ever had the pleasure of 
seeing you before."

"It is strange, but neither do I 
recollect meeting with you," observed 
Valentine, raising her beautiful eyes 
to the count.

"But I remember it perfectly," 
interposed the darling Edward.

"I will assist your memory, madame," 
continued the count; "the day had been 
burning hot; you were waiting for 
horses, which were delayed in 
consequence of the festival. 
Mademoiselle was walking in the shade 
of the garden, and your son disappeared 
in pursuit of the peacock."

"And I caught it, mamma, don't you 
remember?" interposed Edward, "and I 
pulled three such beautiful feathers 
out of his tail."

"You, madame, remained under the arbor; 
do you not remember, that while you 
were seated on a stone bench, and 
while, as I told you, Mademoiselle de 
Villefort and your young son were 
absent, you conversed for a 
considerable time with somebody?"

"Yes, in truth, yes," answered the 
young lady, turning very red, "I do 
remember conversing with a person 
wrapped in a long woollen mantle; he 
was a medical man, I think."

"Precisely so, madame; this man was 
myself; for a fortnight I had been at 
that hotel, during which period I had 
cured my valet de chambre of a fever, 
and my landlord of the jaundice, so 
that I really acquired a reputation as 
a skilful physician. We discoursed a 
long time, madame, on different 
subjects; of Perugino, of Raffaelle, of 
manners, customs, of the famous 
aquatofana, of which they had told you, 
I think you said, that certain 
individuals in Perugia had preserved 
the secret."

"Yes, true," replied Madame de 
Villefort, somewhat uneasily, "I 
remember now."

"I do not recollect now all the various 
subjects of which we discoursed, 
madame," continued the count with 
perfect calmness; "but I perfectly 
remember that, falling into the error 
which others had entertained respecting 
me, you consulted me as to the health 
of Mademoiselle de Villefort."

"Yes, really, sir, you were in fact a 
medical man," said Madame de Villefort, 
"since you had cured the sick."

"Moliere or Beaumarchais would reply to 
you, madame, that it was precisely 
because I was not, that I had cured my 
patients; for myself, I am content to 
say to you that I have studied 
chemistry and the natural sciences 
somewhat deeply, but still only as an 
amateur, you understand." -- At this 
moment the clock struck six. "It is six 
o'clock," said Madame de Villefort, 
evidently agitated. "Valentine, will 
you not go and see if your grandpapa 
will have his dinner?" Valentine rose, 
and saluting the count, left the 
apartment without speaking.

"Oh, madame," said the count, when 
Valentine had left the room, "was it on 
my account that you sent Mademoiselle 
de Villefort away?"

"By no means," replied the young lady 
quickly; "but this is the hour when we 
usually give M. Noirtier the unwelcome 
meal that sustains his pitiful 
existence. You are aware, sir, of the 
deplorable condition of my husband's 
father?"

"Yes, madame, M. de Villefort spoke of 
it to me -- a paralysis, I think."

"Alas, yes; the poor old gentleman is 
entirely helpless; the mind alone is 
still active in this human machine, and 
that is faint and flickering, like the 
light of a lamp about to expire. But 
excuse me, sir, for talking of our 
domestic misfortunes; I interrupted you 
at the moment when you were telling me 
that you were a skilful chemist."

"No, madame, I did not say as much as 
that," replied the count with a smile; 
"quite the contrary. I have studied 
chemistry because, having determined to 
live in eastern climates I have been 
desirous of following the example of 
King Mithridates."

"Mithridates rex Ponticus," said the 
young scamp, as he tore some beautiful 
portraits out of a splendid album, "the 
individual who took cream in his cup of 
poison every morning at breakfast."

"Edward, you naughty boy," exclaimed 
Madame de Villefort, snatching the 
mutilated book from the urchin's grasp, 
"you are positively past bearing; you 
really disturb the conversation; go, 
leave us, and join your sister 
Valentine in dear grandpapa Noirtier's 
room."

"The album," said Edward sulkily.

"What do you mean? -- the album!"

"I want the album."

"How dare you tear out the drawings?"

"Oh, it amuses me."

"Go -- go at once."

"I won't go unless you give me the 
album," said the boy, seating himself 
doggedly in an arm-chair, according to 
his habit of never giving way.

"Take it, then, and pray disturb us no 
longer," said Madame de Villefort, 
giving the album to Edward, who then 
went towards the door, led by his 
mother. The count followed her with his 
eyes.

"Let us see if she shuts the door after 
him," he muttered. Madame de Villefort 
closed the door carefully after the 
child, the count appearing not to 
notice her; then casting a scrutinizing 
glance around the chamber, the young 
wife returned to her chair, in which 
she seated herself. "Allow me to 
observe, madame," said the count, with 
that kind tone he could assume so well, 
"you are really very severe with that 
dear clever child."

"Oh, sometimes severity is quite 
necessary," replied Madame de 
Villefort, with all a mother's real 
firmness.

"It was his Cornelius Nepos that Master 
Edward was repeating when he referred 
to King Mithridates," continued the 
count, "and you interrupted him in a 
quotation which proves that his tutor 
has by no means neglected him, for your 
son is really advanced for his years."

"The fact is, count," answered the 
mother, agreeably flattered, "he has 
great aptitude, and learns all that is 
set before him. He has but one fault, 
he is somewhat wilful; but really, on 
referring for the moment to what he 
said, do you truly believe that 
Mithridates used these precautions, and 
that these precautions were 
efficacious?"

"I think so, madame, because I myself 
have made use of them, that I might not 
be poisoned at Naples, at Palermo, and 
at Smyrna -- that is to say, on three 
several occasions when, but for these 
precautions, I must have lost my life."

"And your precautions were successful?"

"Completely so."

"Yes, I remember now your mentioning to 
me at Perugia something of this sort."

"Indeed?" said the count with an air of 
surprise, remarkably well 
counterfeited; "I really did not 
remember."

"I inquired of you if poisons acted 
equally, and with the same effect, on 
men of the North as on men of the 
South; and you answered me that the 
cold and sluggish habits of the North 
did not present the same aptitude as 
the rich and energetic temperaments of 
the natives of the South."

"And that is the case," observed Monte 
Cristo. "I have seen Russians devour, 
without being visibly inconvenienced, 
vegetable substances which would 
infallibly have killed a Neapolitan or 
an Arab."

"And you really believe the result 
would be still more sure with us than 
in the East, and in the midst of our 
fogs and rains a man would habituate 
himself more easily than in a warm 
latitude to this progressive absorption 
of poison?"

"Certainly; it being at the same time 
perfectly understood that he should 
have been duly fortified against the 
poison to which he had not been 
accustomed."

"Yes, I understand that; and how would 
you habituate yourself, for instance, 
or rather, how did you habituate 
yourself to it?"

"Oh, very easily. Suppose you knew 
beforehand the poison that would be 
made use of against you; suppose the 
poison was, for instance, brucine" --

"Brucine is extracted from the false 
angostura* is it not?" inquired Madame 
de Villefort.

"Precisely, madame," replied Monte 
Cristo; "but I perceive I have not much 
to teach you. Allow me to compliment 
you on your knowledge; such learning is 
very rare among ladies."

* Brucoea ferruginea.

"Oh, I am aware of that," said Madame 
de Villefort; "but I have a passion for 
the occult sciences, which speak to the 
imagination like poetry, and are 
reducible to figures, like an algebraic 
equation; but go on, I beg of you; what 
you say interests me to the greatest 
degree."

"Well," replied Monte Cristo "suppose, 
then, that this poison was brucine, and 
you were to take a milligramme the 
first day, two milligrammes the second 
day, and so on. Well, at the end of ten 
days you would have taken a 
centigramme, at the end of twenty days, 
increasing another milligramme, you 
would have taken three hundred 
centigrammes; that is to say, a dose 
which you would support without 
inconvenience, and which would be very 
dangerous for any other person who had 
not taken the same precautions as 
yourself. Well, then, at the end of a 
month, when drinking water from the 
same carafe, you would kill the person 
who drank with you, without your 
perceiving, otherwise than from slight 
inconvenience, that there was any 
poisonous substance mingled with this 
water."

"Do you know any other counter-poisons?"

"I do not."

"I have often read, and read again, the 
history of Mithridates," said Madame de 
Villefort in a tone of reflection, "and 
had always considered it a fable."

"No, madame, contrary to most history, 
it is true; but what you tell me, 
madame, what you inquire of me, is not 
the result of a chance query, for two 
years ago you asked me the same 
questions, and said then, that for a 
very long time this history of 
Mithridates had occupied your mind."

"True, sir. The two favorite studies of 
my youth were botany and mineralogy, 
and subsequently, when I learned that 
the use of simples frequently explained 
the whole history of a people, and the 
entire life of individuals in the East, 
as flowers betoken and symbolize a love 
affair, I have regretted that I was not 
a man, that I might have been a Flamel, 
a Fontana, or a Cabanis."

"And the more, madame," said Monte 
Cristo, "as the Orientals do not 
confine themselves, as did Mithridates, 
to make a cuirass of his poisons, but 
they also made them a dagger. Science 
becomes, in their hands, not only a 
defensive weapon, but still more 
frequently an offensive one; the one 
serves against all their physical 
sufferings, the other against all their 
enemies. With opium, belladonna, 
brucaea, snake-wood, and the 
cherry-laurel, they put to sleep all 
who stand in their way. There is not 
one of those women, Egyptian, Turkish, 
or Greek, whom here you call `good 
women,' who do not know how, by means 
of chemistry, to stupefy a doctor, and 
in psychology to amaze a confessor."

"Really," said Madame de Villefort, 
whose eyes sparkled with strange fire 
at this conversation.

"Oh, yes, indeed, madame," continued 
Monte Cristo, "the secret dramas of the 
East begin with a love philtre and end 
with a death potion -- begin with 
paradise and end with -- hell. There 
are as many elixirs of every kind as 
there are caprices and peculiarities in 
the physical and moral nature of 
humanity; and I will say further -- the 
art of these chemists is capable with 
the utmost precision to accommodate and 
proportion the remedy and the bane to 
yearnings for love or desires for 
vengeance."

"But, sir," remarked the young woman, 
"these Eastern societies, in the midst 
of which you have passed a portion of 
your existence, are as fantastic as the 
tales that come from their strange 
land. A man can easily be put out of 
the way there, then; it is, indeed, the 
Bagdad and Bassora of the `Thousand and 
One Nights.' The sultans and viziers 
who rule over society there, and who 
constitute what in France we call the 
government, are really 
Haroun-al-Raschids and Giaffars, who 
not only pardon a poisoner, but even 
make him a prime minister, if his crime 
has been an ingenious one, and who, 
under such circumstances, have the 
whole story written in letters of gold, 
to divert their hours of idleness and 
ennui."

"By no means, madame; the fanciful 
exists no longer in the East. There, 
disguised under other names, and 
concealed under other costumes, are 
police agents, magistrates, 
attorneys-general, and bailiffs. They 
hang, behead, and impale their 
criminals in the most agreeable 
possible manner; but some of these, 
like clever rogues, have contrived to 
escape human justice, and succeed in 
their fraudulent enterprises by cunning 
stratagems. Amongst us a simpleton, 
possessed by the demon of hate or 
cupidity, who has an enemy to destroy, 
or some near relation to dispose of, 
goes straight to the grocer's or 
druggist's, gives a false name, which 
leads more easily to his detection than 
his real one, and under the pretext 
that the rats prevent him from 
sleeping, purchases five or six grammes 
of arsenic -- if he is really a cunning 
fellow, he goes to five or six 
different druggists or grocers, and 
thereby becomes only five or six times 
more easily traced; -- then, when he 
has acquired his specific, he 
administers duly to his enemy, or near 
kinsman, a dose of arsenic which would 
make a mammoth or mastodon burst, and 
which, without rhyme or reason, makes 
his victim utter groans which alarm the 
entire neighborhood. Then arrive a 
crowd of policemen and constables. They 
fetch a doctor, who opens the dead 
body, and collects from the entrails 
and stomach a quantity of arsenic in a 
spoon. Next day a hundred newspapers 
relate the fact, with the names of the 
victim and the murderer. The same 
evening the grocer or grocers, druggist 
or druggists, come and say, `It was I 
who sold the arsenic to the gentleman;' 
and rather than not recognize the 
guilty purchaser, they will recognize 
twenty. Then the foolish criminal is 
taken, imprisoned, interrogated, 
confronted, confounded, condemned, and 
cut off by hemp or steel; or if she be 
a woman of any consideration, they lock 
her up for life. This is the way in 
which you Northerns understand 
chemistry, madame. Desrues was, 
however, I must confess, more skilful."

"What would you have, sir?" said the 
lady, laughing; "we do what we can. All 
the world has not the secret of the 
Medicis or the Borgias."

"Now," replied the count, shrugging his 
shoulders, "shall I tell you the cause 
of all these stupidities? It is 
because, at your theatres, by what at 
least I could judge by reading the 
pieces they play, they see persons 
swallow the contents of a phial, or 
suck the button of a ring, and fall 
dead instantly. Five minutes afterwards 
the curtain falls, and the spectators 
depart. They are ignorant of the 
consequences of the murder; they see 
neither the police commissary with his 
badge of office, nor the corporal with 
his four men; and so the poor fools 
believe that the whole thing is as easy 
as lying. But go a little way from 
France -- go either to Aleppo or Cairo, 
or only to Naples or Rome, and you will 
see people passing by you in the 
streets -- people erect, smiling, and 
fresh-colored, of whom Asmodeus, if you 
were holding on by the skirt of his 
mantle, would say, `That man was 
poisoned three weeks ago; he will be a 
dead man in a month.'"

"Then," remarked Madame de Villefort, 
"they have again discovered the secret 
of the famous aquatofana that they said 
was lost at Perugia."

"Ah, but madame, does mankind ever lose 
anything? The arts change about and 
make a tour of the world; things take a 
different name, and the vulgar do not 
follow them -- that is all; but there 
is always the same result. Poisons act 
particularly on some organ or another 
-- one on the stomach, another on the 
brain, another on the intestines. Well, 
the poison brings on a cough, the cough 
an inflammation of the lungs, or some 
other complaint catalogued in the book 
of science, which, however, by no means 
precludes it from being decidedly 
mortal; and if it were not, would be 
sure to become so, thanks to the 
remedies applied by foolish doctors, 
who are generally bad chemists, and 
which will act in favor of or against 
the malady, as you please; and then 
there is a human being killed according 
to all the rules of art and skill, and 
of whom justice learns nothing, as was 
said by a terrible chemist of my 
acquaintance, the worthy Abbe Adelmonte 
of Taormina, in Sicily, who has studied 
these national phenomena very 
profoundly."

"It is quite frightful, but deeply 
interesting," said the young lady, 
motionless with attention. "I thought, 
I must confess, that these tales, were 
inventions of the Middle Ages."

"Yes, no doubt, but improved upon by 
ours. What is the use of time, rewards 
of merit, medals, crosses, Monthyon 
prizes, if they do not lead society 
towards more complete perfection? Yet 
man will never be perfect until he 
learns to create and destroy; he does 
know how to destroy, and that is half 
the battle."

"So," added Madame de Villefort, 
constantly returning to her object, 
"the poisons of the Borgias, the 
Medicis, the Renes, the Ruggieris, and 
later, probably, that of Baron de 
Trenck, whose story has been so misused 
by modern drama and romance" --

"Were objects of art, madame, and 
nothing more," replied the count. "Do 
you suppose that the real savant 
addresses himself stupidly to the mere 
individual? By no means. Science loves 
eccentricities, leaps and bounds, 
trials of strength, fancies, if I may 
be allowed so to term them. Thus, for 
instance, the excellent Abbe Adelmonte, 
of whom I spoke just now, made in this 
way some marvellous experiments."

"Really?"

"Yes; I will mention one to you. He had 
a remarkably fine garden, full of 
vegetables, flowers, and fruit. From 
amongst these vegetables he selected 
the most simple -- a cabbage, for 
instance. For three days he watered 
this cabbage with a distillation of 
arsenic; on the third, the cabbage 
began to droop and turn yellow. At that 
moment he cut it. In the eyes of 
everybody it seemed fit for table, and 
preserved its wholesome appearance. It 
was only poisoned to the Abbe 
Adelmonte. He then took the cabbage to 
the room where he had rabbits -- for 
the Abbe Adelmonte had a collection of 
rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully 
as fine as his collection of 
vegetables, flowers, and fruit. Well, 
the Abbe Adelmonte took a rabbit, and 
made it eat a leaf of the cabbage. The 
rabbit died. What magistrate would 
find, or even venture to insinuate, 
anything against this? What procureur 
has ever ventured to draw up an 
accusation against M. Magendie or M. 
Flourens, in consequence of the 
rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs they 
have killed? -- not one. So, then, the 
rabbit dies, and justice takes no 
notice. This rabbit dead, the Abbe 
Adelmonte has its entrails taken out by 
his cook and thrown on the dunghill; on 
this dunghill is a hen, who, pecking 
these intestines, is in her turn taken 
ill, and dies next day. At the moment 
when she is struggling in the 
convulsions of death, a vulture is 
flying by (there are a good many 
vultures in Adelmonte's country); this 
bird darts on the dead fowl, and 
carries it away to a rock, where it 
dines off its prey. Three days 
afterwards, this poor vulture, which 
has been very much indisposed since 
that dinner, suddenly feels very giddy 
while flying aloft in the clouds, and 
falls heavily into a fish-pond. The 
pike, eels, and carp eat greedily 
always, as everybody knows -- well, 
they feast on the vulture. Now suppose 
that next day, one of these eels, or 
pike, or carp, poisoned at the fourth 
remove, is served up at your table. 
Well, then, your guest will be poisoned 
at the fifth remove, and die, at the 
end of eight or ten days, of pains in 
the intestines, sickness, or abscess of 
the pylorus. The doctors open the body 
and say with an air of profound 
learning, `The subject his died of a 
tumor on the liver, or of typhoid 
fever!'"

"But," remarked Madame de Villefort, 
"all these circumstances which you link 
thus to one another may be broken by 
the least accident; the vulture may not 
see the fowl, or may fall a hundred 
yards from the fish-pond."

"Ah, that is where the art comes in. To 
be a great chemist in the East, one 
must direct chance; and this is to be 
achieved." -- Madame de Villefort was 
in deep thought, yet listened 
attentively. "But," she exclaimed, 
suddenly, "arsenic is indelible, 
indestructible; in whatsoever way it is 
absorbed, it will be found again in the 
body of the victim from the moment when 
it has been taken in sufficient 
quantity to cause death."

"Precisely so," cried Monte Cristo -- 
"precisely so; and this is what I said 
to my worthy Adelmonte. He reflected, 
smiled, and replied to me by a Sicilian 
proverb, which I believe is also a 
French proverb, `My son, the world was 
not made in a day -- but in seven. 
Return on Sunday.' On the Sunday 
following I did return to him. Instead 
of having watered his cabbage with 
arsenic, he had watered it this time 
with a solution of salts, having their 
basis in strychnine, strychnos 
colubrina, as the learned term it. Now, 
the cabbage had not the slightest 
appearance of disease in the world, and 
the rabbit had not the smallest 
distrust; yet, five minutes afterwards, 
the rabbit was dead. The fowl pecked at 
the rabbit, and the next day was a dead 
hen. This time we were the vultures; so 
we opened the bird, and this time all 
special symptoms had disappeared, there 
were only general symptoms. There was 
no peculiar indication in any organ -- 
an excitement of the nervous system -- 
that was it; a case of cerebral 
congestion -- nothing more. The fowl 
had not been poisoned -- she had died 
of apoplexy. Apoplexy is a rare disease 
among fowls, I believe, but very common 
among men." Madame de Villefort 
appeared more and more thoughtful.

"It is very fortunate," she observed, 
"that such substances could only be 
prepared by chemists; otherwise, all 
the world would be poisoning each 
other."

"By chemists and persons who have a 
taste for chemistry," said Monte Cristo 
carelessly.

"And then," said Madame de Villefort, 
endeavoring by a struggle, and with 
effort, to get away from her thoughts, 
"however skilfully it is prepared, 
crime is always crime, and if it avoid 
human scrutiny, it does not escape the 
eye of God. The Orientals are stronger 
than we are in cases of conscience, 
and, very prudently, have no hell -- 
that is the point."

"Really, madame, this is a scruple 
which naturally must occur to a pure 
mind like yours, but which would easily 
yield before sound reasoning. The bad 
side of human thought will always be 
defined by the paradox of Jean Jacques 
Rousseau, -- you remember, -- the 
mandarin who is killed five hundred 
leagues off by raising the tip of the 
finger. Man's whole life passes in 
doing these things, and his intellect 
is exhausted by reflecting on them. You 
will find very few persons who will go 
and brutally thrust a knife in the 
heart of a fellow-creature, or will 
administer to him, in order to remove 
him from the surface of the globe on 
which we move with life and animation, 
that quantity of arsenic of which we 
just now talked. Such a thing is really 
out of rule -- eccentric or stupid. To 
attain such a point, the blood must be 
heated to thirty-six degrees, the pulse 
be, at least, at ninety, and the 
feelings excited beyond the ordinary 
limit. But suppose one pass, as is 
permissible in philology, from the word 
itself to its softened synonym, then, 
instead of committing an ignoble 
assassination you make an 
`elimination;' you merely and simply 
remove from your path the individual 
who is in your way, and that without 
shock or violence, without the display 
of the sufferings which, in the case of 
becoming a punishment, make a martyr of 
the victim, and a butcher, in every 
sense of the word, of him who inflicts 
them. Then there will be no blood, no 
groans, no convulsions, and above all, 
no consciousness of that horrid and 
compromising moment of accomplishing 
the act, -- then one escapes the clutch 
of the human law, which says, `Do not 
disturb society!' This is the mode in 
which they manage these things, and 
succeed in Eastern climes, where there 
are grave and phlegmatic persons who 
care very little for the questions of 
time in conjunctures of importance."

"Yet conscience remains," remarked 
Madame de Villefort in an agitated 
voice, and with a stifled sigh.

"Yes," answered Monte Cristo "happily, 
yes, conscience does remain; and if it 
did not, how wretched we should be! 
After every action requiring exertion, 
it is conscience that saves us, for it 
supplies us with a thousand good 
excuses, of which we alone are judges; 
and these reasons, howsoever excellent 
in producing sleep, would avail us but 
very little before a tribunal, when we 
were tried for our lives. Thus Richard 
III., for instance, was marvellously 
served by his conscience after the 
putting away of the two children of 
Edward IV.; in fact, he could say, 
`These two children of a cruel and 
persecuting king, who have inherited 
the vices of their father, which I 
alone could perceive in their juvenile 
propensities -- these two children are 
impediments in my way of promoting the 
happiness of the English people, whose 
unhappiness they (the children) would 
infallibly have caused.' Thus was Lady 
Macbeth served by her conscience, when 
she sought to give her son, and not her 
husband (whatever Shakspeare may say), 
a throne. Ah, maternal love is a great 
virtue, a powerful motive -- so 
powerful that it excuses a multitude of 
things, even if, after Duncan's death, 
Lady Macbeth had been at all pricked by 
her conscience."

Madame de Villefort listened with 
avidity to these appalling maxims and 
horrible paradoxes, delivered by the 
count with that ironical simplicity 
which was peculiar to him. After a 
moment's silence, the lady inquired, 
"Do you know, my dear count," she said, 
"that you are a very terrible reasoner, 
and that you look at the world through 
a somewhat distempered medium? Have you 
really measured the world by 
scrutinies, or through alembics and 
crucibles? For you must indeed be a 
great chemist, and the elixir you 
administered to my son, which recalled 
him to life almost instantaneously" --

"Oh, do not place any reliance on that, 
madame; one drop of that elixir 
sufficed to recall life to a dying 
child, but three drops would have 
impelled the blood into his lungs in 
such a way as to have produced most 
violent palpitations; six would have 
suspended his respiration, and caused 
syncope more serious than that in which 
he was; ten would have destroyed him. 
You know, madame, how suddenly I 
snatched him from those phials which he 
so imprudently touched?"

"Is it then so terrible a poison?"

"Oh, no. In the first place, let us 
agree that the word poison does not 
exist, because in medicine use is made 
of the most violent poisons, which 
become, according as they are employed, 
most salutary remedies."

"What, then, is it?"

"A skilful preparation of my friend's 
the worthy Abbe Adelmonte, who taught 
me the use of it."

"Oh," observed Madame de Villefort, "it 
must be an admirable anti-spasmodic."

"Perfect, madame, as you have seen," 
replied the count; "and I frequently 
make use of it -- with all possible 
prudence though, be it observed," he 
added with a smile of intelligence.

"Most assuredly," responded Madame de 
Villefort in the same tone. "As for me, 
so nervous, and so subject to fainting 
fits, I should require a Doctor 
Adelmonte to invent for me some means 
of breathing freely and tranquillizing 
my mind, in the fear I have of dying 
some fine day of suffocation. In the 
meanwhile, as the thing is difficult to 
find in France, and your abbe is not 
probably disposed to make a journey to 
Paris on my account, I must continue to 
use Monsieur Planche's anti-spasmodics; 
and mint and Hoffman's drops are among 
my favorite remedies. Here are some 
lozenges which I have made up on 
purpose; they are compounded doubly 
strong." Monte Cristo opened the 
tortoise-shell box, which the lady 
presented to him, and inhaled the odor 
of the lozenges with the air of an 
amateur who thoroughly appreciated 
their composition. "They are indeed 
exquisite," he said; "but as they are 
necessarily submitted to the process of 
deglutition -- a function which it is 
frequently impossible for a fainting 
person to accomplish -- I prefer my own 
specific."

"Undoubtedly, and so should I prefer 
it, after the effects I have seen 
produced; but of course it is a secret, 
and I am not so indiscreet as to ask it 
of you."

"But I," said Monte Cristo, rising as 
he spoke -- "I am gallant enough to 
offer it you."

"How kind you are."

"Only remember one thing -- a small 
dose is a remedy, a large one is 
poison. One drop will restore life, as 
you have seen; five or six will 
inevitably kill, and in a way the more 
terrible inasmuch as, poured into a 
glass of wine, it would not in the 
slightest degree affect its flavor. But 
I say no more, madame; it is really as 
if I were prescribing for you." The 
clock struck half-past six, and a lady 
was announced, a friend of Madame de 
Villefort, who came to dine with her.

"If I had had the honor of seeing you 
for the third or fourth time, count, 
instead of only for the second," said 
Madame de Villefort; "if I had had the 
honor of being your friend, instead of 
only having the happiness of being 
under an obligation to you, I should 
insist on detaining you to dinner, and 
not allow myself to be daunted by a 
first refusal."

"A thousand thanks, madame," replied 
Monte Cristo "but I have an engagement 
which I cannot break. I have promised 
to escort to the Academie a Greek 
princess of my acquaintance who has 
never seen your grand opera, and who 
relies on me to conduct her thither."

"Adieu, then, sir, and do not forget 
the prescription."

"Ah, in truth, madame, to do that I 
must forget the hour's conversation I 
have had with you, which is indeed 
impossible." Monte Cristo bowed, and 
left the house. Madame de Villefort 
remained immersed in thought. "He is a 
very strange man," she said, "and in my 
opinion is himself the Adelmonte he 
talks about." As to Monte Cristo the 
result had surpassed his utmost 
expectations. "Good," said he, as he 
went away; "this is a fruitful soil, 
and I feel certain that the seed sown 
will not be cast on barren ground." 
Next morning, faithful to his promise, 
he sent the prescription requested. 

 Chapter 53 Robert le Diable.

The pretext of an opera engagement was 
so much the more feasible, as there 
chanced to be on that very night a more 
than ordinary attraction at the 
Academie Royale. Levasseur, who had 
been suffering under severe illness, 
made his reappearance in the character 
of Bertrand, and, as usual, the 
announcement of the most admired 
production of the favorite composer of 
the day had attracteda brilliant and 
fashionable audience. Morcerf, like 
most other young men of rank and 
fortune, had his orchestra stall, with 
the certainty of always finding a seat 
in at least a dozen of the principal 
boxes occupied by persons of his 
acquaintance; he had, moreover, his 
right of entry into the omnibus box. 
Chateau-Renaud rented a stall beside 
his own, while Beauchamp, as a 
journalist, had unlimited range all 
over the theatre. It happened that on 
this particular night the minister's 
box was placed at the disposal of 
Lucien Debray, who offered it to the 
Comte de Morcerf, who again, upon his 
mother's rejection of it, sent it to 
Danglars, with an intimation that he 
should probably do himself the honor of 
joining the baroness and her daughter 
during the evening, in the event of 
their accepting the box in question. 
The ladies received the offer with too 
much pleasure to dream of a refusal. To 
no class of persons is the presentation 
of a gratuitous opera-box more 
acceptable than to the wealthy 
millionaire, who still hugs economy 
while boasting of carrying a king's 
ransom in his waistcoat pocket.

Danglars had, however, protested 
against showing himself in a 
ministerial box, declaring that his 
political principles, and his 
parliamentary position as member of the 
opposition party would not permit him 
so to commit himself; the baroness had, 
therefore, despatched a note to Lucien 
Debray, bidding him call for them, it 
being wholly impossible for her to go 
alone with Eugenie to the opera. There 
is no gainsaying the fact that a very 
unfavorable construction would have 
been put upon the circumstance if the 
two women had gone without escort, 
while the addition of a third, in the 
person of her mother's admitted lover, 
enabled Mademoiselle Danglars to defy 
malice and ill-nature. One must take 
the world as one finds it.

The curtain rose, as usual, to an 
almost empty house, it being one of the 
absurdities of Parisian fashion never 
to appear at the opera until after the 
beginning of the performance, so that 
the first act is generally played 
without the slightest attention being 
paid to it, that part of the audience 
already assembled being too much 
occupied in observing the fresh 
arrivals, while nothing is heard but 
the noise of opening and shutting 
doors, and the buzz of conversation. 
"Surely," said Albert, as the door of a 
box on the first circle opened, "that 
must be the Countess G---- ."

"And who is the Countess G---- ?" 
inquired Chateau-Renaud.

"What a question! Now, do you know, 
baron, I have a great mind to pick a 
quarrel with you for asking it; as if 
all the world did not know who the 
Countess G---- was."

"Ah, to be sure," replied 
Chateau-Renaud; "the lovely Venetian, 
is it not?"

"Herself." At this moment the countess 
perceived Albert, and returned his 
salutation with a smile. "You know her, 
it seems?" said Chateau-Renaud.

"Franz introduced me to her at Rome," 
replied Albert.

"Well, then, will you do as much for me 
in Paris as Franz did for you in Rome?"

"With pleasure."

There was a cry of "Shut up!" from the 
audience. This manifestation on the 
part of the spectators of their wish to 
be allowed to hear the music, produced 
not the slightest effect on the two 
young men, who continued their 
conversation. "The countess was present 
at the races in the Champ-de-Mars," 
said Chateau-Renaud.

"To-day?"

"Yes."

"Bless me, I quite forgot the races. 
Did you bet?"

"Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis."

"And who was the winner?"

"Nautilus. I staked on him."

"But there were three races, were there 
not?"

"Yes; there was the prize given by the 
Jockey Club -- a gold cup, you know -- 
and a very singular circumstance 
occurred about that race."

"What was it?"

"Oh, shut up!" again interposed some of 
the audience.

"Why, it was won by a horse and rider 
utterly unknown on the course."

"Is that possible?"

"True as day. The fact was, nobody had 
observed a horse entered by the name of 
Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job, 
when, at the last moment, a splendid 
roan, mounted by a jockey about as big 
as your fist, presented themselves at 
the starting-post. They were obliged to 
stuff at least twenty pounds weight of 
shot in the small rider's pockets, to 
make him weight; but with all that he 
outstripped Ariel and Barbare, against 
whom he ran, by at least three whole 
lengths."

"And was it not found out at last to 
whom the horse and jockey belonged?"

"No."

"You say that the horse was entered 
under the name of Vampa?"

"Exactly; that was the title."

"Then," answered Albert, "I am better 
informed than you are, and know who the 
owner of that horse was."

"Shut up, there!" cried the pit in 
chorus. And this time the tone and 
manner in which the command was given, 
betokened such growing hostility that 
the two young men perceived, for the 
first time, that the mandate was 
addressed to them. Leisurely turning 
round, they calmly scrutinized the 
various countenances around them, as 
though demanding some one person who 
would take upon himself the 
responsibility of what they deemed 
excessive impertinence; but as no one 
responded to the challenge, the friends 
turned again to the front of the 
theatre, and affected to busy 
themselves with the stage. At this 
moment the door of the minister's box 
opened, and Madame Danglars, 
accompanied by her daughter, entered, 
escorted by Lucien Debray, who 
assiduously conducted them to their 
seats.

"Ha, ha," said Chateau-Renaud, "here 
comes some friends of yours, viscount! 
What are you looking at there? don't 
you see they are trying to catch your 
eye?" Albert turned round, just in time 
to receive a gracious wave of the fan 
from the baroness; as for Mademoiselle 
Eugenie, she scarcely vouchsafed to 
waste the glances of her large black 
eyes even upon the business of the 
stage. "I tell you what, my dear 
fellow," said Chateau-Renaud, "I cannot 
imagine what objection you can possibly 
have to Mademoiselle Danglars -- that 
is, setting aside her want of ancestry 
and somewhat inferior rank, which by 
the way I don't think you care very 
much about. Now, barring all that, I 
mean to say she is a deuced fine girl!"

"Handsome, certainly," replied Albert, 
"but not to my taste, which I confess, 
inclines to something softer, gentler, 
and more feminine."

"Ah, well," exclaimed Chateau-Renaud, 
who because he had seen his thirtieth 
summer fancied himself duly warranted 
in assuming a sort of paternal air with 
his more youthful friend, "you young 
people are never satisfied; why, what 
would you have more? your parents have 
chosen you a bride built on the model 
of Diana, the huntress, and yet you are 
not content."

"No, for that very resemblance 
affrights me; I should have liked 
something more in the manner of the 
Venus of Milo or Capua; but this 
chase-loving Diana continually 
surrounded by her nymphs gives me a 
sort of alarm lest she should some day 
bring on me the fate of Actaeon."

And, indeed, it required but one glance 
at Mademoiselle Danglars to comprehend 
the justness of Morcerf's remark -- she 
was beautiful, but her beauty was of 
too marked and decided a character to 
please a fastidious taste; her hair was 
raven black, but its natural waves 
seemed somewhat rebellious; her eyes, 
of the same color as her hair, were 
surmounted by well-arched brows, whose 
great defect, however, consisted in an 
almost habitual frown, while her whole 
physiognomy wore that expression of 
firmness and decision so little in 
accordance with the gentler attributes 
of her sex -- her nose was precisely 
what a sculptor would have chosen for a 
chiselled Juno. Her mouth, which might 
have been found fault with as too 
large, displayed teeth of pearly 
whiteness, rendered still more 
conspicuous by the brilliant carmine of 
her lips, contrasting vividly with her 
naturally pale complexion. But that 
which completed the almost masculine 
look Morcerf found so little to his 
taste, was a dark mole, of much larger 
dimensions than these freaks of nature 
generally are, placed just at the 
corner of her mouth; and the effect 
tended to increase the expression of 
self-dependence that characterized her 
countenance. The rest of Mademoiselle 
Eugenie's person was in perfect keeping 
with the head just described; she, 
indeed, reminded one of Diana, as 
Chateau-Renaud observed, but her 
bearing was more haughty and resolute. 
As regarded her attainments, the only 
fault to be found with them was the 
same that a fastidious connoisseur 
might have found with her beauty, that 
they were somewhat too erudite and 
masculine for so young a person. She 
was a perfect linguist, a first-rate 
artist, wrote poetry, and composed 
music; to the study of the latter she 
professed to be entirely devoted, 
following it with an indefatigable 
perseverance, assisted by a 
schoolfellow, -- a young woman without 
fortune whose talent promised to 
develop into remarkable powers as a 
singer. It was rumored that she was an 
object of almost paternal interest to 
one of the principal composers of the 
day, who excited her to spare no pains 
in the cultivation of her voice, which 
might hereafter prove a source of 
wealth and independence. But this 
counsel effectually decided 
Mademoiselle Danglars never to commit 
herself by being seen in public with 
one destined for a theatrical life; and 
acting upon this principle, the 
banker's daughter, though perfectly 
willing to allow Mademoiselle Louise 
d'Armilly (that was the name of the 
young virtuosa) to practice with her 
through the day, took especial care not 
to be seen in her company. Still, 
though not actually received at the 
Hotel Danglars in the light of an 
acknowledged friend, Louise was treated 
with far more kindness and 
consideration than is usually bestowed 
on a governess.

The curtain fell almost immediately 
after the entrance of Madame Danglars 
into her box, the band quitted the 
orchestra for the accustomed 
half-hour's interval allowed between 
the acts, and the audience were left at 
liberty to promenade the salon or 
lobbies, or to pay and receive visits 
in their respective boxes. Morcerf and 
Chateau-Renaud were amongst the first 
to avail themselves of this permission. 
For an instant the idea struck Madame 
Danglars that this eagerness on the 
part of the young viscount arose from 
his impatience to join her party, and 
she whispered her expectations to her 
daughter, that Albert was hurrying to 
pay his respects to them. Mademoiselle 
Eugenie, however, merely returned a 
dissenting movement of the head, while, 
with a cold smile, she directed the 
attention of her mother to an opposite 
box on the first circle, in which sat 
the Countess G---- , and where Morcerf 
had just made his appearance. "So we 
meet again, my travelling friend, do 
we?" cried the countess, extending her 
hand to him with all the warmth and 
cordiality of an old acquaintance; "it 
was really very good of you to 
recognize me so quickly, and still more 
so to bestow your first visit on me."

"Be assured," replied Albert, "that if 
I had been aware of your arrival in 
Paris, and had known your address, I 
should have paid my respects to you 
before this. Allow me to introduce my 
friend, Baron de Chateau-Renaud, one of 
the few true gentlemen now to be found 
in France, and from whom I have just 
learned that you were a spectator of 
the races in the Champ-de-Mars, 
yesterday." Chateau-Renaud bowed to the 
countess.

"So you were at the races, baron?" 
inquired the countess eagerly.

"Yes, madame."

"Well, then," pursued Madame G---- with 
considerable animation, "you can 
probably tell me who won the Jockey 
Club stakes?"

"I am sorry to say I cannot," replied 
the baron; "and I was just asking the 
same question of Albert."

"Are you very anxious to know, 
countess?" asked Albert.

"To know what?"

"The name of the owner of the winning 
horse?"

"Excessively; only imagine -- but do 
tell me, viscount, whether you really 
are acquainted with it or no?"

"I beg your pardon, madame, but you 
were about to relate some story, were 
you not? You said, `only imagine,' -- 
and then paused. Pray continue."

"Well, then, listen. You must know I 
felt so interested in the splendid roan 
horse, with his elegant little rider, 
so tastefully dressed in a pink satin 
jacket and cap, that I could not help 
praying for their success with as much 
earnestness as though the half of my 
fortune were at stake; and when I saw 
them outstrip all the others, and come 
to the winning-post in such gallant 
style, I actually clapped my hands with 
joy. Imagine my surprise, when, upon 
returning home, the first object I met 
on the staircase was the identical 
jockey in the pink jacket! I concluded 
that, by some singular chance, the 
owner of the winning horse must live in 
the same hotel as myself; but, as I 
entered my apartments, I beheld the 
very gold cup awarded as a prize to the 
unknown horse and rider. Inside the cup 
was a small piece of paper, on which 
were written these words -- `From Lord 
Ruthven to Countess G---- .'"

"Precisely; I was sure of it," said 
Morcerf.

"Sure of what?"

"That the owner of the horse was Lord 
Ruthven himself."

"What Lord Ruthven do you mean?"

"Why, our Lord Ruthven -- the Vampire 
of the Salle Argentino!"

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the 
countess; "is he here in Paris?"

"To be sure, -- why not?"

"And you visit him? -- meet him at your 
own house and elsewhere?"

"I assure you he is my most intimate 
friend, and M. de Chateau-Renaud has 
also the honor of his acquaintance."

"But why are you so sure of his being 
the winner of the Jockey Club prize?"

"Was not the winning horse entered by 
the name of Vampa?"

"What of that?"

"Why, do you not recollect the name of 
the celebrated bandit by whom I was 
made prisoner?"

"Oh, yes."

"And from whose hands the count 
extricated me in so wonderful a manner?"

"To be sure, I remember it all now."

"He called himself Vampa. You see. it's 
evident where the count got the name."

"But what could have been his motive 
for sending the cup to me?"

"In the first place, because I had 
spoken much of you to him, as you may 
believe; and in the second, because he 
delighted to see a countrywoman take so 
lively an interest in his success."

"I trust and hope you never repeated to 
the count all the foolish remarks we 
used to make about him?"

"I should not like to affirm upon oath 
that I have not. Besides, his 
presenting you the cup under the name 
of Lord Ruthven" --

"Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man 
must owe me a fearful grudge."

"Does his action appear like that of an 
enemy?"

"No; certainly not."

"Well, then" --

"And so he is in Paris?"

"Yes."

"And what effect does he produce?"

"Why," said Albert, "he was talked 
about for a week; then the coronation 
of the queen of England took place, 
followed by the theft of Mademoiselle 
Mars's diamonds; and so people talked 
of something else."

"My good fellow," said Chateau-Renaud, 
"the count is your friend and you treat 
him accordingly. Do not believe what 
Albert is telling you, countess; so far 
from the sensation excited in the 
Parisian circles by the appearance of 
the Count of Monte Cristo having 
abated, I take upon myself to declare 
that it is as strong as ever. His first 
astounding act upon coming amongst us 
was to present a pair of horses, worth 
32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his 
second, the almost miraculous 
preservation of Madame de Villefort's 
life; now it seems that he has carried 
off the prize awarded by the Jockey 
Club. I therefore maintain, in spite of 
Morcerf, that not only is the count the 
object of interest at this present 
moment, but also that he will continue 
to be so for a month longer if he 
pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of 
conduct which, after all, may be his 
ordinary mode of existence."

"Perhaps you are right," said Morcerf; 
"meanwhile, who is in the Russian 
ambassador's box?"

"Which box do you mean?" asked the 
countess.

"The one between the pillars on the 
first tier -- it seems to have been 
fitted up entirely afresh."

"Did you observe any one during the 
first act?" asked Chateau-Renaud.

"Where?"

"In that box."

"No," replied the countess, "it was 
certainly empty during the first act;" 
then, resuming the subject of their 
previous conversation, she said, "And 
so you really believe it was your 
mysterious Count of Monte Cristo that 
gained the prize?"

"I am sure of it."

"And who afterwards sent the cup to me?"

"Undoubtedly."

"But I don't know him," said the 
countess; "I have a great mind to 
return it."

"Do no such thing, I beg of you; he 
would only send you another, formed of 
a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out 
of a gigantic ruby. It is his way, and 
you must take him as you find him." At 
this moment the bell rang to announce 
the drawing up of the curtain for the 
second act. Albert rose to return to 
his place. "Shall I see you again?" 
asked the countess. "At the end of the 
next act, with your permission, I will 
come and inquire whether there is 
anything I can do for you in Paris?"

"Pray take notice," said the countess, 
"that my present residence is 22 Rue de 
Rivoli, and that I am at home to my 
friends every Saturday evening. So now, 
you are both forewarned." The young men 
bowed, and quitted the box. Upon 
reaching their stalls, they found the 
whole of the audience in the parterre 
standing up and directing their gaze 
towards the box formerly possessed by 
the Russian ambassador. A man of from 
thirty-five to forty years of age, 
dressed in deep black, had just 
entered, accompanied by a young woman 
dressed after the Eastern style. The 
lady was surpassingly beautiful, while 
the rich magnificence of her attire 
drew all eyes upon her. "Hullo," said 
Albert; "it is Monte Cristo and his 
Greek!"

The strangers were, indeed, no other 
than the count and Haidee. In a few 
moments the young girl had attracted 
the attention of the whole house, and 
even the occupants of the boxes leaned 
forward to scrutinize her magnificent 
diamonds. The second act passed away 
during one continued buzz of voices -- 
one deep whisper -- intimating that 
some great and universally interesting 
event had occurred; all eyes, all 
thoughts, were occupied with the young 
and beautiful woman, whose gorgeous 
apparel and splendid jewels made a most 
extraordinary spectacle. Upon this 
occasion an unmistakable sign from 
Madame Danglars intimated her desire to 
see Albert in her box directly the 
curtain fell on the second act, and 
neither the politeness nor good taste 
of Morcerf would permit his neglecting 
an invitation so unequivocally given. 
At the close of the act he therefore 
went to the baroness. Having bowed to 
the two ladies, he extended his hand to 
Debray. By the baroness he was most 
graciously welcomed, while Eugenie 
received him with her accustomed 
coldness.

"My dear fellow," said Debray, "you 
have come in the nick of time. There is 
madame overwhelming me with questions 
respecting the count; she insists upon 
it that I can tell her his birth, 
education, and parentage, where he came 
from, and whither he is going. Being no 
disciple of Cagliostro, I was wholly 
unable to do this; so, by way of 
getting out of the scrape, I said, `Ask 
Morcerf; he has got the whole history 
of his beloved Monte Cristo at his 
fingers' ends;' whereupon the baroness 
signified her desire to see you."

"Is it not almost incredible," said 
Madame Danglars, "that a person having 
at least half a million of 
secret-service money at his command, 
should possess so little information?"

"Let me assure you, madame," said 
Lucien, "that had I really the sum you 
mention at my disposal, I would employ 
it more profitably than in troubling 
myself to obtain particulars respecting 
the Count of Monte Cristo, whose only 
merit in my eyes consists in his being 
twice as rich as a nabob. However, I 
have turned the business over to 
Morcerf, so pray settle it with him as 
may be most agreeable to you; for my 
own part, I care nothing about the 
count or his mysterious doings."

"I am very sure no nabob would have 
sent me a pair of horses worth 32,000 
francs, wearing on their heads four 
diamonds valued at 5,000 francs each."

"He seems to have a mania for 
diamonds," said Morcerf, smiling, "and 
I verily believe that, like Potemkin, 
he keeps his pockets filled, for the 
sake of strewing them along the road, 
as Tom Thumb did his flint stones."

"Perhaps he has discovered some mine," 
said Madame Danglars. "I suppose you 
know he has an order for unlimited 
credit on the baron's banking 
establishment?"

"I was not aware of it," replied 
Albert, "but I can readily believe it."

"And, further, that he stated to M. 
Danglars his intention of only staying 
a year in Paris, during which time he 
proposed to spend six millions.

"He must be the Shah of Persia, 
travelling incog."

"Have you noticed the remarkable beauty 
of the young woman, M. Lucien?" 
inquired Eugenie.

"I really never met with one woman so 
ready to do justice to the charms of 
another as yourself," responded Lucien, 
raising his lorgnette to his eye. "A 
most lovely creature, upon my soul!" 
was his verdict.

"Who is this young person, M. de 
Morcerf?" inquired Eugenie; "does 
anybody know?"

"Mademoiselle," said Albert, replying 
to this direct appeal, "I can give you 
very exact information on that subject, 
as well as on most points relative to 
the mysterious person of whom we are 
now conversing -- the young woman is a 
Greek."

"So I should suppose by her dress; if 
you know no more than that, every one 
here is as well-informed as yourself."

"I am extremely sorry you find me so 
ignorant a cicerone," replied Morcerf, 
"but I am reluctantly obliged to 
confess, I have nothing further to 
communicate -- yes, stay, I do know one 
thing more, namely, that she is a 
musician, for one day when I chanced to 
be breakfasting with the count, I heard 
the sound of a guzla -- it is 
impossible that it could have been 
touched by any other finger than her 
own."

"Then your count entertains visitors, 
does he?" asked Madame Danglars.

"Indeed he does, and in a most lavish 
manner, I can assure you."

"I must try and persuade M. Danglars to 
invite him to a ball or dinner, or 
something of the sort, that he may be 
compelled to ask us in return."

"What," said Debray, laughing; "do you 
really mean you would go to his house?"

"Why not? my husband could accompany 
me."

"But do you know this mysterious count 
is a bachelor?"

"You have ample proof to the contrary, 
if you look opposite," said the 
baroness, as she laughingly pointed to 
the beautiful Greek.

"No, no!" exclaimed Debray; "that girl 
is not his wife: he told us himself she 
was his slave. Do you not recollect, 
Morcerf, his telling us so at your 
breakfast?"

"Well, then," said the baroness, "if 
slave she be, she has all the air and 
manner of a princess."

"Of the `Arabian Nights'?"

"If you like; but tell me, my dear 
Lucien, what it is that constitutes a 
princess. Why, diamonds -- and she is 
covered with them."

"To me she seems overloaded," observed 
Eugenie; "she would look far better if 
she wore fewer, and we should then be 
able to see her finely formed throat 
and wrists."

"See how the artist peeps out!" 
exclaimed Madame Danglars. "My poor 
Eugenie, you must conceal your passion 
for the fine arts."

"I admire all that is beautiful," 
returned the young lady.

"What do you think of the count?" 
inquired Debray; "he is not much amiss, 
according to my ideas of good looks."

"The count," repeated Eugenie, as 
though it had not occurred to her to 
observe him sooner; "the count? -- oh, 
he is so dreadfully pale."

"I quite agree with you," said Morcerf; 
"and the secret of that very pallor is 
what we want to find out. The Countess 
G---- insists upon it that he is a 
vampire."

"Then the Countess G---- has returned 
to Paris, has she?" inquired the 
baroness.

"Is that she, mamma?" asked Eugenie; 
"almost opposite to us, with that 
profusion of beautiful light hair?"

"Yes," said Madame Danglars, "that is 
she. Shall I tell you what you ought to 
do, Morcerf?"

"Command me, madame."

"Well, then, you should go and bring 
your Count of Monte Cristo to us."

"What for?" asked Eugenie.

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

"None whatever," replied Eugenie.

"Strange child," murmured the baroness.

"He will very probably come of his own 
accord," said Morcerf. "There; do you 
see, madame, he recognizes you, and 
bows." The baroness returned the salute 
in the most smiling and graceful manner.

"Well," said Morcerf, "I may as well be 
magnanimous, and tear myself away to 
forward your wishes. Adieu; I will go 
and try if there are any means of 
speaking to him."

"Go straight to his box; that will be 
the simplest plan."

"But I have never been presented."

"Presented to whom?"

"To the beautiful Greek."

"You say she is only a slave?"

"While you assert that she is a queen, 
or at least a princess. No; I hope that 
when he sees me leave you, he will come 
out."

"That is possible -- go."

"I am going," said Albert, as he made 
his parting bow. Just as he was passing 
the count's box, the door opened, and 
Monte Cristo came forth. After giving 
some directions to Ali, who stood in 
the lobby, the count took Albert's arm. 
Carefully closing the box door, Ali 
placed himself before it, while a crowd 
of spectators assembled round the 
Nubian.

"Upon my word," said Monte Cristo, 
"Paris is a strange city, and the 
Parisians a very singular people. See 
that cluster of persons collected 
around poor Ali, who is as much 
astonished as themselves; really one 
might suppose he was the only Nubian 
they had ever beheld. Now I can promise 
you, that a Frenchman might show 
himself in public, either in Tunis, 
Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, 
without being treated in that way."

"That shows that the Eastern nations 
have too much good sense to waste their 
time and attention on objects 
undeserving of either. However, as far 
as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, 
the interest he excites is merely from 
the circumstance of his being your 
attendant -- you, who are at this 
moment the most celebrated and 
fashionable person in Paris."

"Really? and what has procured me so 
fluttering a distinction?"

"What? why, yourself, to be sure! You 
give away horses worth a thousand 
louis; you save the lives of ladies of 
high rank and beauty; under the name of 
Major Brack you run thoroughbreds 
ridden by tiny urchins not larger than 
marmots; then, when you have carried 
off the golden trophy of victory, 
instead of setting any value on it, you 
give it to the first handsome woman you 
think of!"

"And who has filled your head with all 
this nonsense?"

"Why, in the first place, I heard it 
from Madame Danglars, who, by the by, 
is dying to see you in her box, or to 
have you seen there by others; 
secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp's 
journal; and thirdly, from my own 
imagination. Why, if you sought 
concealment, did you call your horse 
Vampa?"

"That was an oversight, certainly," 
replied the count; "but tell me, does 
the Count of Morcerf never visit the 
Opera? I have been looking for him, but 
without success."

"He will be here to-night."

"In what part of the house?"

"In the baroness's box, I believe."

"That charming young woman with her is 
her daughter?"

"Yes."

"I congratulate you." Morcerf smiled. 
"We will discuss that subject at length 
some future time," said he. "But what 
do you think of the music?"

"What music?"

"Why, the music you have been listening 
to."

"Oh, it is well enough as the 
production of a human composer, sung by 
featherless bipeds, to quote the late 
Diogenes."

"From which it would seem, my dear 
count, that you can at pleasure enjoy 
the seraphic strains that proceed from 
the seven choirs of paradise?"

"You are right, in some degree; when I 
wish to listen to sounds more 
exquisitely attuned to melody than 
mortal ear ever yet listened to, I go 
to sleep."

"Then sleep here, my dear count. The 
conditions are favorable; what else was 
opera invented for?"

"No, thank you. Your orchestra is too 
noisy. To sleep after the manner I 
speak of, absolute calm and silence are 
necessary, and then a certain 
preparation" --

"I know -- the famous hashish!"

"Precisely. So, my dear viscount, 
whenever you wish to be regaled with 
music come and sup with me."

"I have already enjoyed that treat when 
breakfasting with you," said Morcerf.

"Do you mean at Rome?"

"I do."

"Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haidee's 
guzla; the poor exile frequently 
beguiles a weary hour in playing over 
to me the airs of her native land." 
Morcerf did not pursue the subject, and 
Monte Cristo himself fell into a silent 
reverie. The bell rang at this moment 
for the rising of the curtain. "You 
will excuse my leaving you," said the 
count, turning in the direction of his 
box.

"What? Are you going?"

"Pray, say everything that is kind to 
Countess G---- on the part of her 
friend the Vampire."

"And what message shall I convey to the 
baroness!"

"That, with her permission, I shall do 
myself the honor of paying my respects 
in the course of the evening."

The third act had begun; and during its 
progress the Count of Morcerf, 
according to his promise, made his 
appearance in the box of Madame 
Danglars. The Count of Morcerf was not 
a person to excite either interest or 
curiosity in a place of public 
amusement; his presence, therefore, was 
wholly unnoticed, save by the occupants 
of the box in which he had just seated 
himself. The quick eye of Monte Cristo 
however, marked his coming; and a 
slight though meaning smile passed over 
his lips. Haidee, whose soul seemed 
centred in the business of the stage, 
like all unsophisticated natures, 
delighted in whatever addressed itself 
to the eye or ear.

The third act passed off as usual. 
Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julie, and 
Leroux executed the customary 
pirouettes; Robert duly challenged the 
Prince of Granada; and the royal father 
of the princess Isabella, taking his 
daughter by the hand, swept round the 
stage with majestic strides, the better 
to display the rich folds of his velvet 
robe and mantle. After which the 
curtain again fell, and the spectators 
poured forth from the theatre into the 
lobbies and salon. The count left his 
box, and a moment later was saluting 
the Baronne Danglars, who could not 
restrain a cry of mingled pleasure and 
surprise. "You are welcome, count!" she 
exclaimed, as he entered. "I have been 
most anxious to see you, that I might 
repeat orally the thanks writing can so 
ill express."

"Surely so trifling a circumstance 
cannot deserve a place in your 
remembrance. Believe me, madame, I had 
entirely forgotten it."

"But it is not so easy to forget, 
monsieur, that the very next day after 
your princely gift you saved the life 
of my dear friend, Madame de Villefort, 
which was endangered by the very 
animals your generosity restored to me."

"This time, at least, I do not deserve 
your thanks. It was Ali, my Nubian 
slave, who rendered this service to 
Madame de Villefort."

"Was it Ali," asked the Count of 
Morcerf, "who rescued my son from the 
hands of bandits?"

"No, count," replied Monte Cristo 
taking the hand held out to him by the 
general; "in this instance I may fairly 
and freely accept your thanks; but you 
have already tendered them, and fully 
discharged your debt -- if indeed there 
existed one -- and I feel almost 
mortified to find you still reverting 
to the subject. May I beg of you, 
baroness, to honor me with an 
introduction to your daughter?"

"Oh, you are no stranger -- at least 
not by name," replied Madame Danglars, 
"and the last two or three days we have 
really talked of nothing but you. 
Eugenie," continued the baroness, 
turning towards her daughter, "this is 
the Count of Monte Cristo." The Count 
bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent 
her head slightly. "You have a charming 
young person with you to-night, count," 
said Eugenie. "Is she your daughter?"

"No, mademoiselle," said Monte Cristo, 
astonished at the coolness and freedom 
of the question. "She is a poor 
unfortunate Greek left under my care."

"And what is her name?"

"Haidee," replied Monte Cristo.

"A Greek?" murmured the Count of 
Morcerf.

"Yes, indeed, count," said Madame 
Danglars; "and tell me, did you ever 
see at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom 
you so gloriously and valiantly served, 
a more exquisite beauty or richer 
costume?"

"Did I hear rightly, monsieur," said 
Monte Cristo "that you served at 
Yanina?"

"I was inspector-general of the pasha's 
troops," replied Morcerf; "and it is no 
secret that I owe my fortune, such as 
it is, to the liberality of the 
illustrious Albanese chief."

"But look!" exclaimed Madame Danglars.

"Where?" stammered Morcerf.

"There," said Monte Cristo placing his 
arms around the count, and leaning with 
him over the front of the box, just as 
Haidee, whose eyes were occupied in 
examining the theatre in search of her 
guardian, perceived his pale features 
close to Morcerf's face. It was as if 
the young girl beheld the head of 
Medusa. She bent forwards as though to 
assure herself of the reality of what 
she saw, then, uttering a faint cry, 
threw herself back in her seat. The 
sound was heard by the people about 
Ali, who instantly opened the box-door. 
"Why, count," exclaimed Eugenie, "what 
has happened to your ward? she seems to 
have been taken suddenly ill."

"Very probably," answered the count. 
"But do not be alarmed on her account. 
Haidee's nervous system is delicately 
organized, and she is peculiarly 
susceptible to the odors even of 
flowers -- nay, there are some which 
cause her to faint if brought into her 
presence. However," continued Monte 
Cristo, drawing a small phial from his 
pocket, "I have an infallible remedy." 
So saying, he bowed to the baroness and 
her daughter, exchanged a parting shake 
of the hand with Debray and the count, 
and left Madame Danglars' box. Upon his 
return to Haidee he found her still 
very pale. As soon as she saw him she 
seized his hand; her own hands were 
moist and icy cold. "Who was it you 
were talking with over there?" she 
asked.

"With the Count of Morcerf," answered 
Monte Cristo. "He tells me he served 
your illustrious father, and that he 
owes his fortune to him."

"Wretch!" exclaimed Haidee, her eyes 
flashing with rage; "he sold my father 
to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts 
of was the price of his treachery! Did 
not you know that, my dear lord?"

"Something of this I heard in Epirus," 
said Monte Cristo; "but the particulars 
are still unknown to me. You shall 
relate them to me, my child. They are, 
no doubt, both curious and interesting."

"Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as 
though it would kill me to remain long 
near that dreadful man." So saying, 
Haidee arose, and wrapping herself in 
her burnoose of white cashmire 
embroidered with pearls and coral, she 
hastily quitted the box at the moment 
when the curtain was rising upon the 
fourth act.

"Do you observe," said the Countess 
G---- to Albert, who had returned to 
her side, "that man does nothing like 
other people; he listens most devoutly 
to the third act of `Robert le Diable,' 
and when the fourth begins, takes his 
departure." 

 Chapter 54 A Flurry in Stocks.

Some days after this meeting, Albert de 
Morcerf visited the Count of Monte 
Cristo at his house in the Champs 
Elysees, which had already assumed that 
palace-like appearance which the 
count's princely fortune enabled him to 
give even to his most temporary 
residences. He came to renew the thanks 
of Madame Danglars which had been 
already conveyed to the count through 
the medium of a letter, signed "Baronne 
Danglars, nee Hermine de Servieux." 
Albert was accompanied by Lucien 
Debray, who, joining in his friend's 
conversation, added some passing 
compliments, the source of which the 
count's talent for finesse easily 
enabled him to guess. He was convinced 
that Lucien's visit was due to a double 
feeling of curiosity, the larger half 
of which sentiment emanated from the 
Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin. In short, 
Madame Danglars, not being able 
personally to examine in detail the 
domestic economy and household 
arrangements of a man who gave away 
horses worth 30,000 francs and who went 
to the opera with a Greek slave wearing 
diamonds to the amount of a million of 
money, had deputed those eyes, by which 
she was accustomed to see, to give her 
a faithful account of the mode of life 
of this incomprehensible person. But 
the count did not appear to suspect 
that there could be the slightest 
connection between Lucien's visit and 
the curiosity of the baroness.

"You are in constant communication with 
the Baron Danglars?" the count inquired 
of Albert de Morcerf.

"Yes, count, you know what I told you?"

"All remains the same, then, in that 
quarter?"

"It is more than ever a settled thing," 
said Lucien, -- and, considering that 
this remark was all that he was at that 
time called upon to make, he adjusted 
the glass to his eye, and biting the 
top of his gold headed cane, began to 
make the tour of the apartment, 
examining the arms and the pictures.

"Ah," said Monte Cristo "I did not 
expect that the affair would be so 
promptly concluded."

"Oh, things take their course without 
our assistance. While we are forgetting 
them, they are falling into their 
appointed order; and when, again, our 
attention is directed to them, we are 
surprised at the progress they have 
made towards the proposed end. My 
father and M. Danglars served together 
in Spain, my father in the army and M. 
Danglars in the commissariat 
department. It was there that my 
father, ruined by the revolution, and 
M. Danglars, who never had possessed 
any patrimony, both laid the 
foundations of their different 
fortunes."

"Yes," said Monte Cristo "I think M. 
Danglars mentioned that in a visit 
which I paid him; and," continued he, 
casting a side-glance at Lucien, who 
was turning over the leaves of an 
album, "Mademoiselle Eugenie is pretty 
-- I think I remember that to be her 
name."

"Very pretty, or rather, very 
beautiful," replied Albert, "but of 
that style of beauty which I do not 
appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow."

"You speak as if you were already her 
husband."

"Ah," returned Albert, in his turn 
looking around to see what Lucien was 
doing.

"Really," said Monte Cristo, lowering 
his voice, "you do not appear to me to 
be very enthusiastic on the subject of 
this marriage."

"Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for 
me," replied Morcerf, "and that 
frightens me."

"Bah," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "that's 
a fine reason to give. Are you not rich 
yourself?"

"My father's income is about 50,000 
francs per annum; and he will give me, 
perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I 
marry."

"That, perhaps, might not be considered 
a large sum, in Paris especially," said 
the count; "but everything does not 
depend on wealth, and it is a fine 
thing to have a good name, and to 
occupy a high station in society. Your 
name is celebrated, your position 
magnificent; and then the Comte de 
Morcerf is a soldier, and it is 
pleasing to see the integrity of a 
Bayard united to the poverty of a 
Duguesclin; disinterestedness is the 
brightest ray in which a noble sword 
can shine. As for me, I consider the 
union with Mademoiselle Danglars a most 
suitable one; she will enrich you, and 
you will ennoble her." Albert shook his 
head, and looked thoughtful. "There is 
still something else," said he.

"I confess," observed Monte Cristo, 
"that I have some difficulty in 
comprehending your objection to a young 
lady who is both rich and beautiful."

"Oh," said Morcerf, "this repugnance, 
if repugnance it may be called, is not 
all on my side."

"Whence can it arise, then? for you 
told me your father desired the 
marriage."

"It is my mother who dissents; she has 
a clear and penetrating judgment, and 
does not smile on the proposed union. I 
cannot account for it, but she seems to 
entertain some prejudice against the 
Danglars."

"Ah," said the count, in a somewhat 
forced tone, "that may be easily 
explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who 
is aristocracy and refinement itself, 
does not relish the idea of being 
allied by your marriage with one of 
ignoble birth; that is natural enough."

"I do not know if that is her reason," 
said Albert, "but one thing I do know, 
that if this marriage be consummated, 
it will render her quite miserable. 
There was to have been a meeting six 
weeks ago in order to talk over and 
settle the affair; but I had such a 
sudden attack of indisposition" --

"Real?" interrupted the count, smiling.

"Oh, real enough, from anxiety 
doubtless, -- at any rate they 
postponed the matter for two months. 
There is no hurry, you know. I am not 
yet twenty-one, and Eugenie is only 
seventeen; but the two months expire 
next week. It must be done. My dear 
count, you cannot imagine now my mind 
is harassed. How happy you are in being 
exempt from all this!"

"Well, and why should not you be free, 
too? What prevents you from being so?"

"Oh, it will be too great a 
disappointment to my father if I do not 
marry Mademoiselle Danglars."

"Marry her then," said the count, with 
a significant shrug of the shoulders.

"Yes," replied Morcerf, "but that will 
plunge my mother into positive grief."

"Then do not marry her," said the count.

"Well, I shall see. I will try and 
think over what is the best thing to be 
done; you will give me your advice, 
will you not, and if possible extricate 
me from my unpleasant position? I 
think, rather than give pain to my dear 
mother, I would run the risk of 
offending the count." Monte Cristo 
turned away; he seemed moved by this 
last remark. "Ah," said he to Debray, 
who had thrown himself into an 
easy-chair at the farthest extremity of 
the salon, and who held a pencil in his 
right hand and an account book in his 
left, "what are you doing there? Are 
you making a sketch after Poussin?"

"Oh, no," was the tranquil response; "I 
am too fond of art to attempt anything 
of that sort. I am doing a little sum 
in arithmetic."

"In arithmetic?"

"Yes; I am calculating -- by the way, 
Morcerf, that indirectly concerns you 
-- I am calculating what the house of 
Danglars must have gained by the last 
rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have 
risen to 409 in three days, and the 
prudent banker had purchased at 206; 
therefore he must have made 300,000 
livres."

"That is not his biggest scoop," said 
Morcerf; "did he not make a million in 
Spaniards this last year?"

"My dear fellow," said Lucien, "here is 
the Count of Monte Cristo, who will say 
to you, as the Italians do, --

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

* "Money and sanctity, Each in a moiety.

"When they tell me such things, I only 
shrug my shoulders and say nothing."

"But you were speaking of Haitians?" 
said Monte Cristo.

"Ah, Haitians, -- that is quite another 
thing! Haitians are the ecarte of 
French stock-jobbing. We may like 
bouillotte, delight in whist, be 
enraptured with boston, and yet grow 
tired of them all; but we always come 
back to ecarte -- it is not only a 
game, it is a hors-d'oeuvre! M. 
Danglars sold yesterday at 405, and 
pockets 300,000 francs. Had he but 
waited till to-day, the price would 
have fallen to 205, and instead of 
gaining 300,000 francs, he would have 
lost 20 or 25,000."

"And what has caused the sudden fall 
from 409 to 206?" asked Monte Cristo. 
"I am profoundly ignorant of all these 
stock-jobbing intrigues."

"Because," said Albert, laughing, "one 
piece of news follows another, and 
there is often great dissimilarity 
between them."

"Ah," said the count, "I see that M. 
Danglars is accustomed to play at 
gaining or losing 300,000 francs in a 
day; he must be enormously rich."

"It is not he who plays!" exclaimed 
Lucien; "it is Madame Danglars: she is 
indeed daring."

"But you who are a reasonable being, 
Lucien, and who know how little 
dependence is to be placed on the news, 
since you are at the fountain-head, 
surely you ought to prevent it," said 
Morcerf, with a smile.

"How can I, if her husband fails in 
controlling her?" asked Lucien; "you 
know the character of the baroness -- 
no one has any influence with her, and 
she does precisely what she pleases."

"Ah, if I were in your place" -- said 
Albert.

"Well?"

"I would reform her; it would be 
rendering a service to her future 
son-in-law."

"How would you set about it?"

"Ah, that would be easy enough -- I 
would give her a lesson."

"A lesson?"

"Yes. Your position as secretary to the 
minister renders your authority great 
on the subject of political news; you 
never open your mouth but the 
stockbrokers immediately stenograph 
your words. Cause her to lose a hundred 
thousand francs, and that would teach 
her prudence."

"I do not understand," stammered Lucien.

"It is very clear, notwithstanding," 
replied the young man, with an 
artlessness wholly free from 
affectation; "tell her some fine 
morning an unheard-of piece of 
intelligence -- some telegraphic 
despatch, of which you alone are in 
possession; for instance, that Henri 
IV. was seen yesterday at Gabrielle's. 
That would boom the market; she will 
buy heavily, and she will certainly 
lose when Beauchamp announces the 
following day, in his gazette, `The 
report circulated by some usually 
well-informed persons that the king was 
seen yesterday at Gabrielle's house, is 
totally without foundation. We can 
positively assert that his majesty did 
not quit the Pont-Neuf.'" Lucien half 
smiled. Monte Cristo, although 
apparently indifferent, had not lost 
one word of this conversation, and his 
penetrating eye had even read a hidden 
secret in the embarrassed manner of the 
secretary. This embarrassment had 
completely escaped Albert, but it 
caused Lucien to shorten his visit; he 
was evidently ill at ease. The count, 
in taking leave of him, said something 
in a low voice, to which he answered, 
"Willingly, count; I accept." The count 
returned to young Morcerf.

"Do you not think, on reflection," said 
he to him, "that you have done wrong in 
thus speaking of your mother-in-law in 
the presence of M. Debray?"

"My dear count," said Morcerf, "I beg 
of you not to apply that title so 
prematurely."

"Now, speaking without any 
exaggeration, is your mother really so 
very much averse to this marriage?"

"So much so that the baroness very 
rarely comes to the house, and my 
mother, has not, I think, visited 
Madame Danglars twice in her whole 
life."

"Then," said the count, "I am 
emboldened to speak openly to you. M. 
Danglars is my banker; M. de Villefort 
has overwhelmed me with politeness in 
return for a service which a casual 
piece of good fortune enabled me to 
render him. I predict from all this an 
avalanche of dinners and routs. Now, in 
order not to presume on this, and also 
to be beforehand with them, I have, if 
agreeable to you, thought of inviting 
M. and Madame Danglars, and M. and 
Madame de Villefort, to my 
country-house at Auteuil. If I were to 
invite you and the Count and Countess 
of Morcerf to this dinner, I should 
give it the appearance of being a 
matrimonial meeting, or at least Madame 
de Morcerf would look upon the affair 
in that light, especially if Baron 
Danglars did me the honor to bring his 
daughter. In that case your mother 
would hold me in aversion, and I do not 
at all wish that; on the contrary, I 
desire to stand high in her esteem."

"Indeed, count," said Morcerf, "I thank 
you sincerely for having used so much 
candor towards me, and I gratefully 
accept the exclusion which you propose. 
You say you desire my mother's good 
opinion; I assure you it is already 
yours to a very unusual extent."

"Do you think so?" said Monte Cristo, 
with interest.

"Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you 
an hour after you left us the other 
day. But to return to what we were 
saying. If my mother could know of this 
attention on your part -- and I will 
venture to tell her -- I am sure that 
she will be most grateful to you; it is 
true that my father will be equally 
angry." The count laughed. "Well," said 
he to Morcerf, "but I think your father 
will not be the only angry one; M. and 
Madame Danglars will think me a very 
ill-mannered person. They know that I 
am intimate with you -- that you are, 
in fact; one of the oldest of my 
Parisian acquaintances -- and they will 
not find you at my house; they will 
certainly ask me why I did not invite 
you. Be sure to provide yourself with 
some previous engagement which shall 
have a semblance of probability, and 
communicate the fact to me by a line in 
writing. You know that with bankers 
nothing but a written document will be 
valid."

"I will do better than that," said 
Albert; "my mother is wishing to go to 
the sea-side -- what day is fixed for 
your dinner?"

"Saturday."

"This is Tuesday -- well, to-morrow 
evening we leave, and the day after we 
shall be at Treport. Really, count, you 
have a delightful way of setting people 
at their ease."

"Indeed, you give me more credit than I 
deserve; I only wish to do what will be 
agreeable to you, that is all."

"When shall you send your invitations?"

"This very day."

"Well, I will immediately call on M. 
Danglars, and tell him that my mother 
and myself must leave Paris to-morrow. 
I have not seen you, consequently I 
know nothing of your dinner."

"How foolish you are! Have you 
forgotten that M. Debray has just seen 
you at my house?"

"Ah, true,"

"Fix it this way. I have seen you, and 
invited you without any ceremony, when 
you instantly answered that it would be 
impossible for you to accept, as you 
were going to Treport."

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

"Before to-morrow? -- that will be a 
difficult matter to arrange, besides, I 
shall just be in the way of all the 
preparations for departure."

"Well, you can do better. You were only 
a charming man before, but, if you 
accede to my proposal, you will be 
adorable."

"What must I do to attain such 
sublimity?"

"You are to-day free as air -- come and 
dine with me; we shall be a small party 
-- only yourself, my mother, and I. You 
have scarcely seen my mother; you shall 
have an opportunity of observing her 
more closely. She is a remarkable 
woman, and I only regret that there 
does not exist another like her, about 
twenty years younger; in that case, I 
assure you, there would very soon be a 
Countess and Viscountess of Morcerf. As 
to my father, you will not see him; he 
is officially engaged, and dines with 
the chief referendary. We will talk 
over our travels; and you, who have 
seen the whole world, will relate your 
adventures -- you shall tell us the 
history of the beautiful Greek who was 
with you the other night at the Opera, 
and whom you call your slave, and yet 
treat like a princess. We will talk 
Italian and Spanish. Come, accept my 
invitation, and my mother will thank 
you."

"A thousand thanks," said the count, 
"your invitation is most gracious, and 
I regret exceedingly that it is not in 
my power to accept it. I am not so much 
at liberty as you suppose; on the 
contrary, I have a most important 
engagement."

"Ah, take care, you were teaching me 
just now how, in case of an invitation 
to dinner, one might creditably make an 
excuse. I require the proof of a 
pre-engagement. I am not a banker, like 
M. Danglars, but I am quite as 
incredulous as he is."

"I am going to give you a proof," 
replied the count, and he rang the bell.

"Humph," said Morcerf, "this is the 
second time you have refused to dine 
with my mother; it is evident that you 
wish to avoid her." Monte Cristo 
started. "Oh, you do not mean that," 
said he; "besides, here comes the 
confirmation of my assertion." 
Baptistin entered, and remained 
standing at the door. "I had no 
previous knowledge of your visit, had 
I?"

"Indeed, you are such an extraordinary 
person, that I would not answer for it."

"At all events, I could not guess that 
you would invite me to dinner."

"Probably not."

"Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I 
tell you this morning when I called you 
into my laboratory?"

"To close the door against visitors as 
soon as the clock struck five," replied 
the valet.

"What then?"

"Ah, my dear count," said Albert.

"No, no, I wish to do away with that 
mysterious reputation that you have 
given me, my dear viscount; it is 
tiresome to be always acting Manfred. I 
wish my life to be free and open. Go 
on, Baptistin."

"Then to admit no one except Major 
Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son."

"You hear -- Major Bartolomeo 
Cavalcanti -- a man who ranks amongst 
the most ancient nobility of Italy, 
whose name Dante has celebrated in the 
tenth canto of `The Inferno,' you 
remember it, do you not? Then there is 
his son, Andrea, a charming young man, 
about your own age, viscount, bearing 
the same title as yourself, and who is 
making his entry into the Parisian 
world, aided by his father's millions. 
The major will bring his son with him 
this evening, the contino, as we say in 
Italy; he confides him to my care. If 
he proves himself worthy of it, I will 
do what I can to advance his interests. 
You will assist me in the work, will 
you not?"

"Most undoubtedly. This Major 
Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours, 
then?"

"By no means. He is a perfect nobleman, 
very polite, modest, and agreeable, 
such as may be found constantly in 
Italy, descendants of very ancient 
families. I have met him several times 
at Florence, Bologna and Lucca, and he 
has now communicated to me the fact of 
his arrival in Paris. The acquaintances 
one makes in travelling have a sort of 
claim on one; they everywhere expect to 
receive the same attention which you 
once paid them by chance, as though the 
civilities of a passing hour were 
likely to awaken any lasting interest 
in favor of the man in whose society 
you may happen to be thrown in the 
course of your journey. This good Major 
Cavalcanti is come to take a second 
view of Paris, which he only saw in 
passing through in the time of the 
Empire, when he was on his way to 
Moscow. I shall give him a good dinner, 
he will confide his son to my care, I 
will promise to watch over him, I shall 
let him follow in whatever path his 
folly may lead him, and then I shall 
have done my part."

"Certainly; I see you are a model 
Mentor," said Albert "Good-by, we shall 
return on Sunday. By the way, I have 
received news of Franz."

"Have you? Is he still amusing himself 
in Italy?"

"I believe so; however, he regrets your 
absence extremely . He says you were 
the sun of Rome, and that without you 
all appears dark and cloudy; I do not 
know if he does not even go so far as 
to say that it rains."

"His opinion of me is altered for the 
better, then?"

"No, he still persists in looking upon 
you as the most incomprehensible and 
mysterious of beings."

"He is a charming young man," said 
Monte Cristo "and I felt a lively 
interest in him the very first evening 
of my introduction, when I met him in 
search of a supper, and prevailed upon 
him to accept a portion of mine. He is, 
I think, the son of General d'Epinay?"

"He is."

"The same who was so shamefully 
assassinated in 1815?"

"By the Bonapartists."

"Yes. Really I like him extremely; is 
there not also a matrimonial engagement 
contemplated for him?"

"Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de 
Villefort."

"Indeed?"

"And you know I am to marry 
Mademoiselle Danglars," said Albert, 
laughing.

"You smile."

"Yes."

"Why do you do so?"

"I smile because there appears to me to 
be about as much inclination for the 
consummation of the engagement in 
question as there is for my own. But 
really, my dear count, we are talking 
as much of women as they do of us; it 
is unpardonable." Albert rose.

"Are you going?"

"Really, that is a good idea! -- two 
hours have I been boring you to death 
with my company, and then you, with the 
greatest politeness, ask me if I am 
going. Indeed, count, you are the most 
polished man in the world. And your 
servants, too, how very well behaved 
they are; there is quite a style about 
them. Monsieur Baptistin especially; I 
could never get such a man as that. My 
servants seem to imitate those you 
sometimes see in a play, who, because 
they have only a word or two to say, 
aquit themselves in the most awkward 
manner possible. Therefore, if you part 
with M. Baptistin, give me the refusal 
of him."

"By all means."

"That is not all; give my compliments 
to your illustrious Luccanese, 
Cavalcante of the Cavalcanti; and if by 
any chance he should be wishing to 
establish his son, find him a wife very 
rich, very noble on her mother's side 
at least, and a baroness in right of 
her father, I will help you in the 
search."

"Ah, ha; you will do as much as that, 
will you?"

"Yes."

"Well, really, nothing is certain in 
this world."

"Oh, count, what a service you might 
render me! I should like you a hundred 
times better if, by your intervention, 
I could manage to remain a bachelor, 
even were it only for ten years."

"Nothing is impossible," gravely 
replied Monte Cristo; and taking leave 
of Albert, he returned into the house, 
and struck the gong three times. 
Bertuccio appeared. "Monsieur 
Bertuccio, you understand that I intend 
entertaining company on Saturday at 
Auteuil." Bertuccio slightly started. 
"I shall require your services to see 
that all be properly arranged. It is a 
beautiful house, or at all events may 
be made so."

"There must be a good deal done before 
it can deserve that title, your 
excellency, for the tapestried hangings 
are very old."

"Let them all be taken away and 
changed, then, with the exception of 
the sleeping-chamber which is hung with 
red damask; you will leave that exactly 
as it is." Bertuccio bowed. "You will 
not touch the garden either; as to the 
yard, you may do what you please with 
it; I should prefer that being altered 
beyond all recognition."

"I will do everything in my power to 
carry out your wishes, your excellency. 
I should be glad, however, to receive 
your excellency's commands concerning 
the dinner."

"Really, my dear M. Bertuccio," said 
the count, "since you have been in 
Paris, you have become quite nervous, 
and apparently out of your element; you 
no longer seem to understand me."

"But surely your excellency will be so 
good as to inform me whom you are 
expecting to receive?"

"I do not yet know myself, neither is 
it necessary that you should do so. 
`Lucullus dines with Lucullus,' that is 
quite sufficient." Bertuccio bowed, and 
left the room. 

 Chapter 55 Major Cavalcanti.

Both the count and Baptistin had told 
the truth when they announced to 
Morcerf the proposed visit of the 
major, which had served Monte Cristo as 
a pretext for declining Albert's 
invitation. Seven o'clock had just 
struck, and M. Bertuccio, according to 
the command which had been given him, 
had two hours before left for Auteuil, 
when a cab stopped at the door, and 
after depositing its occupant at the 
gate, immediately hurried away, as if 
ashamed of its employment. The visitor 
was about fifty-two years of age, 
dressed in one of the green surtouts, 
ornamented with black frogs, which have 
so long maintained their popularity all 
over Europe. He wore trousers of blue 
cloth, boots tolerably clean, but not 
of the brightest polish, and a little 
too thick in the soles, buckskin 
gloves, a hat somewhat resembling in 
shape those usually worn by the 
gendarmes, and a black cravat striped 
with white, which, if the proprietor 
had not worn it of his own free will, 
might have passed for a halter, so much 
did it resemble one. Such was the 
picturesque costume of the person who 
rang at the gate, and demanded if it 
was not at No. 30 in the Avenue des 
Champs-Elysees that the Count of Monte 
Cristo lived, and who, being answered 
by the porter in the affirmative, 
entered, closed the gate after him, and 
began to ascend the steps.

The small and angular head of this man, 
his white hair and thick gray 
mustaches, caused him to be easily 
recognized by Baptistin, who had 
received an exact description of the 
expected visitor, and who was awaiting 
him in the hall. Therefore, scarcely 
had the stranger time to pronounce his 
name before the count was apprised of 
his arrival. He was ushered into a 
simple and elegant drawing-room, and 
the count rose to meet him with a 
smiling air. "Ah, my dear sir, you are 
most welcome; I was expecting you."

"Indeed," said the Italian, "was your 
excellency then aware of my visit?"

"Yes; I had been told that I should see 
you to-day at seven o'clock."

"Then you have received full 
information concerning my arrival?"

"Of course."

"Ah, so much the better, I feared this 
little precaution might have been 
forgotten."

"What precaution?"

"That of informing you beforehand of my 
coming."

"Oh, no, it has not."

"But you are sure you are not mistaken."

"Very sure."

"It really was I whom your excellency 
expected at seven o'clock this evening?"

"I will prove it to you beyond a doubt."

"Oh, no, never mind that," said the 
Italian; "it is not worth the trouble."

"Yes, yes," said Monte Cristo. His 
visitor appeared slightly uneasy. "Let 
me see," said the count; "are you not 
the Marquis Bartolomeo Cavalcanti?"

"Bartolomeo Cavalcanti," joyfully 
replied the Italian; "yes, I am really 
he."

"Ex-major in the Austrian service?"

"Was I a major?" timidly asked the old 
soldier.

"Yes," said Monte Cristo "you were a 
major; that is the title the French 
give to the post which you filled in 
Italy."

"Very good," said the major, "I do not 
demand more, you understand" --

"Your visit here to-day is not of your 
own suggestion, is it?" said Monte 
Cristo.

"No, certainly not."

"You were sent by some other person?"

"Yes."

"By the excellent Abbe Busoni?"

"Exactly so," said the delighted major.

"And you have a letter?"

"Yes, there it is."

"Give it me, then;" and Monte Cristo 
took the letter, which he opened and 
read. The major looked at the count 
with his large staring eyes, and then 
took a survey of the apartment, but his 
gaze almost immediately reverted to the 
proprietor of the room. "Yes, yes, I 
see. `Major Cavalcanti, a worthy 
patrician of Lucca, a descendant of the 
Cavalcanti of Florence,'" continued 
Monte Cristo, reading aloud, 
"`possessing an income of half a 
million.'" Monte Cristo raised his eyes 
from the paper, and bowed. "Half a 
million," said he, "magnificent!"

"Half a million, is it?" said the major.

"Yes, in so many words; and it must be 
so, for the abbe knows correctly the 
amount of all the largest fortunes in 
Europe."

"Be it half a million. then; but on my 
word of honor, I had no idea that it 
was so much."

"Because you are robbed by your 
steward. You must make some reformation 
in that quarter."

"You have opened my eyes," said the 
Italian gravely; "I will show the 
gentlemen the door." Monte Cristo 
resumed the perusal of the letter: --

"`And who only needs one thing more to 
make him happy.'"

"Yes, indeed but one!" said the major 
with a sigh.

"`Which is to recover a lost and adored 
son.'"

"A lost and adored son!"

"`Stolen away in his infancy, either by 
an enemy of his noble family or by the 
gypsies.'"

"At the age of five years!" said the 
major with a deep sigh, and raising his 
eye to heaven.

"Unhappy father," said Monte Cristo. 
The count continued: --

"`I have given him renewed life and 
hope, in the assurance that you have 
the power of restoring the son whom he 
has vainly sought for fifteen years.'" 
The major looked at the count with an 
indescribable expression of anxiety. "I 
have the power of so doing," said Monte 
Cristo. The major recovered his 
self-possession. "So, then," said he, 
"the letter was true to the end?"

"Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur 
Bartolomeo?"

"No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, 
a man holding religious office, as does 
the Abbe Busoni, could not condescend 
to deceive or play off a joke; but your 
excellency has not read all."

"Ah, true," said Monte Cristo "there is 
a postscript."

"Yes, yes," repeated the major, "yes -- 
there -- is -- a -- postscript."

"`In order to save Major Cavalcanti the 
trouble of drawing on his banker, I 
send him a draft for 2,000 francs to 
defray his travelling expenses, and 
credit on you for the further sum of 
48,000 francs, which you still owe 
me.'" The major awaited the conclusion 
of the postscript, apparently with 
great anxiety. "Very good," said the 
count.

"He said `very good,'" muttered the 
major, "then -- sir" -- replied he.

"Then what?" asked Monte Cristo.

"Then the postscript" --

"Well; what of the postscript?"

"Then the postscript is as favorably 
received by you as the rest of the 
letter?"

"Certainly; the Abbe Busoni and myself 
have a small account open between us. I 
do not remember if it is exactly 48,000 
francs, which I am still owing him, but 
I dare say we shall not dispute the 
difference. You attached great 
importance, then, to this postscript, 
my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti?"

"I must explain to you," said the 
major, "that, fully confiding in the 
signature of the Abbe Busoni, I had not 
provided myself with any other funds; 
so that if this resource had failed me, 
I should have found myself very 
unpleasantly situated in Paris."

"Is it possible that a man of your 
standing should be embarrassed 
anywhere?" said Monte Cristo.

"Why, really I know no one," said the 
major.

"But then you yourself are known to 
others?"

"Yes, I am known, so that" --

"Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti."

"So that you will remit to me these 
48,000 francs?"

"Certainly, at your first request." The 
major's eyes dilated with pleasing 
astonishment. "But sit down," said 
Monte Cristo; "really I do not know 
what I have been thinking of -- I have 
positively kept you standing for the 
last quarter of an hour."

"Don't mention it." The major drew an 
arm-chair towards him, and proceeded to 
seat himself.

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

"Alicante, if you please; it is my 
favorite wine."

"I have some that is very good. You 
will take a biscuit with it, will you 
not?"

"Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are 
so obliging."

Monte Cristo rang; Baptistin appeared. 
The count advanced to meet him. "Well?" 
said he in a low voice. "The young man 
is here," said the valet de chambre in 
the same tone.

"Into what room did you take him?"

"Into the blue drawing-room, according 
to your excellency's orders."

"That's right; now bring the Alicante 
and some biscuits."

Baptistin left the room. "Really," said 
the major, "I am quite ashamed of the 
trouble I am giving you."

"Pray don't mention such a thing," said 
the count. Baptistin re-entered with 
glasses, wine, and biscuits. The count 
filled one glass, but in the other he 
only poured a few drops of the 
ruby-colored liquid. The bottle was 
covered with spiders' webs, and all the 
other signs which indicate the age of 
wine more truly than do wrinkles on a 
man's face. The major made a wise 
choice; he took the full glass and a 
biscuit. The count told Baptistin to 
leave the plate within reach of his 
guest, who began by sipping the 
Alicante with an expression of great 
satisfaction, and then delicately 
steeped his biscuit in the wine.

"So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you? 
You were rich, noble, held in great 
esteem -- had all that could render a 
man happy?"

"All," said the major, hastily 
swallowing his biscuit, "positively 
all."

"And yet there was one thing wanting in 
order to complete your happiness?"

"Only one thing," said the Italian.

"And that one thing, your lost child."

"Ah," said the major, taking a second 
biscuit, "that consummation of my 
happiness was indeed wanting." The 
worthy major raised his eyes to heaven 
and sighed.

"Let me hear, then," said the count, 
"who this deeply regretted son was; for 
I always understood you were a 
bachelor."

"That was the general opinion, sir," 
said the major, "and I" --

"Yes," replied the count, "and you 
confirmed the report. A youthful 
indiscretion, I suppose, which you were 
anxious to conceal from the world at 
large?" The major recovered himself, 
and resumed his usual calm manner, at 
the same time casting his eyes down, 
either to give himself time to compose 
his countenance, or to assist his 
imagination, all the while giving an 
under-look at the count, the protracted 
smile on whose lips still announced the 
same polite curiosity. "Yes," said the 
major, "I did wish this fault to be 
hidden from every eye."

"Not on your own account, surely," 
replied Monte Cristo; "for a man is 
above that sort of thing?"

"Oh, no, certainly not on my own 
account," said the major with a smile 
and a shake of the head.

"But for the sake of the mother?" said 
the count.

"Yes, for the mother's sake -- his poor 
mother!" cried the major, taking a 
third biscuit.

"Take some more wine, my dear 
Cavalcanti," said the count, pouring 
out for him a second glass of Alicante; 
"your emotion has quite overcome you."

"His poor mother," murmured the major, 
trying to get the lachrymal gland in 
operation, so as to moisten the corner 
of his eye with a false tear.

"She belonged to one of the first 
families in Italy, I think, did she 
not?"

"She was of a noble family of Fiesole, 
count."

"And her name was" --

"Do you desire to know her name?" --

"Oh," said Monte Cristo "it would be 
quite superfluous for you to tell me, 
for I already know it."

"The count knows everything," said the 
Italian, bowing.

"Oliva Corsinari, was it not?"

"Oliva Corsinari."

"A marchioness?"

"A marchioness."

"And you married her at last, 
notwithstanding the opposition of her 
family?"

"Yes, that was the way it ended."

"And you have doubtless brought all 
your papers with you?" said Monte 
Cristo.

"What papers?"

"The certificate of your marriage with 
Oliva Corsinari, and the register of 
your child's birth."

"The register of my child's birth?"

"The register of the birth of Andrea 
Cavalcanti -- of your son; is not his 
name Andrea?"

"I believe so," said the major.

"What? You believe so?"

"I dare not positively assert it, as he 
has been lost for so long a time."

"Well, then," said Monte Cristo "you 
have all the documents with you?"

"Your excellency, I regret to say that, 
not knowing it was necessary to come 
provided with these papers, I neglected 
to bring them."

"That is unfortunate," returned Monte 
Cristo.

"Were they, then, so necessary?"

"They were indispensable."

The major passed his hand across his 
brow. "Ah, per Bacco, indispensable, 
were they?"

"Certainly they were; supposing there 
were to be doubts raised as to the 
validity of your marriage or the 
legitimacy of your child?"

"True," said the major, "there might be 
doubts raised."

"In that case your son would be very 
unpleasantly situated."

"It would be fatal to his interests."

"It might cause him to fail in some 
desirable matrimonial alliance."

"O peccato!"

"You must know that in France they are 
very particular on these points; it is 
not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to 
the priest and say, `We love each 
other, and want you to marry us.' 
Marriage is a civil affair in France, 
and in order to marry in an orthodox 
manner you must have papers which 
undeniably establish your identity."

"That is the misfortune! You see I have 
not these necessary papers."

"Fortunately, I have them, though," 
said Monte Cristo.

"You?"

"Yes."

"You have them?"

"I have them."

"Ah, indeed?" said the major, who, 
seeing the object of his journey 
frustrated by the absence of the 
papers, feared also that his 
forgetfulness might give rise to some 
difficulty concerning the 48,000 francs 
-- "ah, indeed, that is a fortunate 
circumstance; yes, that really is 
lucky, for it never occurred to me to 
bring them."

"I do not at all wonder at it -- one 
cannot think of everything; but, 
happily, the Abbe Busoni thought for 
you."

"He is an excellent person."

"He is extremely prudent and thoughtful"

"He is an admirable man," said the 
major; "and he sent them to you?"

"Here they are."

The major clasped his hands in token of 
admiration. "You married Oliva 
Corsinari in the church of San Paolo 
del Monte-Cattini; here is the priest's 
certificate."

"Yes indeed, there it is truly," said 
the Italian, looking on with 
astonishment.

"And here is Andrea Cavalcanti's 
baptismal register, given by the curate 
of Saravezza."

"All quite correct."

"Take these documents, then; they do 
not concern me. You will give them to 
your son, who will, of course, take 
great care of them."

"I should think so, indeed! If he were 
to lose them" --

"Well, and if he were to lose them?" 
said Monte Cristo.

"In that case," replied the major, "it 
would be necessary to write to the 
curate for duplicates, and it would be 
some time before they could be 
obtained."

"It would be a difficult matter to 
arrange," said Monte Cristo.

"Almost an impossibility," replied the 
major.

"I am very glad to see that you 
understand the value of these papers."

"I regard them as invaluable."

"Now," said Monte Cristo "as to the 
mother of the young man" --

"As to the mother of the young man" -- 
repeated the Italian, with anxiety.

"As regards the Marchesa Corsinari" --

"Really," said the major, "difficulties 
seem to thicken upon us; will she be 
wanted in any way?"

"No, sir," replied Monte Cristo; 
"besides, has she not" --

"Yes, sir," said the major, "she has" --

"Paid the last debt of nature?"

"Alas, yes," returned the Italian.

"I knew that," said Monte Cristo; "she 
has been dead these ten years."

"And I am still mourning her loss," 
exclaimed the major, drawing from his 
pocket a checked handkerchief, and 
alternately wiping first the left and 
then the right eye.

"What would you have?" said Monte 
Cristo; "we are all mortal. Now, you 
understand, my dear Monsieur 
Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you 
to tell people in France that you have 
been separated from your son for 
fifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who 
steal children, are not at all in vogue 
in this part of the world, and would 
not be believed. You sent him for his 
education to a college in one of the 
provinces, and now you wish him to 
complete his education in the Parisian 
world. That is the reason which has 
induced you to leave Via Reggio, where 
you have lived since the death of your 
wife. That will be sufficient."

"You think so?"

"Certainly."

"Very well, then."

"If they should hear of the separation" 
--

"Ah, yes; what could I say?"

"That an unfaithful tutor, bought over 
by the enemies of your family" --

"By the Corsinari?"

"Precisely. Had stolen away this child, 
in order that your name might become 
extinct."

"That is reasonable, since he is an 
only son."

"Well, now that all is arranged, do not 
let these newly awakened remembrances 
be forgotten. You have, doubtless, 
already guessed that I was preparing a 
surprise for you?"

"An agreeable one?" asked the Italian.

"Ah, I see the eye of a father is no 
more to be deceived than his heart."

"Hum!" said the major.

"Some one has told you the secret; or, 
perhaps, you guessed that he was here."

"That who was here?"

"Your child -- your son -- your Andrea!"

"I did guess it," replied the major 
with the greatest possible coolness. 
"Then he is here?"

"He is," said Monte Cristo; "when the 
valet de chambre came in just now, he 
told me of his arrival."

"Ah, very well, very well," said the 
major, clutching the buttons of his 
coat at each exclamation.

"My dear sir," said Monte Cristo, "I 
understand your emotion; you must have 
time to recover yourself. I will, in 
the meantime, go and prepare the young 
man for this much-desired interview, 
for I presume that he is not less 
impatient for it than yourself."

"I should quite imagine that to be the 
case," said Cavalcanti.

"Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall 
be with you."

"You will bring him, then? You carry 
your goodness so far as even to present 
him to me yourself?"

"No; I do not wish to come between a 
father and son. Your interview will be 
private. But do not be uneasy; even if 
the powerful voice of nature should be 
silent, you cannot well mistake him; he 
will enter by this door. He is a fine 
young man, of fair complexion -- a 
little too fair, perhaps -- pleasing in 
manners; but you will see and judge for 
yourself."

"By the way," said the major, "you know 
I have only the 2,000 francs which the 
Abbe Busoni sent me; this sum I have 
expended upon travelling expenses, and" 
--

"And you want money; that is a matter 
of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti. Well, 
here are 8,000 francs on account."

The major's eyes sparkled brilliantly.

"It is 40,000 francs which I now owe 
you," said Monte Cristo.

"Does your excellency wish for a 
receipt?" said the major, at the same 
time slipping the money into the inner 
pocket of his coat.

"For what?" said the count.

"I thought you might want it to show 
the Abbe Busoni."

"Well, when you receive the remaining 
40,000, you shall give me a receipt in 
full. Between honest men such excessive 
precaution is, I think, quite 
unnecessary."

"Yes, so it is, between perfectly 
upright people."

"One word more," said Monte Cristo.

"Say on."

"You will permit me to make one remark?"

"Certainly; pray do so."

"Then I should advise you to leave off 
wearing that style of dress."

"Indeed," said the major, regarding 
himself with an air of complete 
satisfaction.

"Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but 
that costume, however elegant in 
itself, has long been out of fashion in 
Paris."

"That's unfortunate."

"Oh, if you really are attached to your 
old mode of dress; you can easily 
resume it when you leave Paris."

"But what shall I wear?"

"What you find in your trunks."

"In my trunks? I have but one 
portmanteau."

"I dare say you have nothing else with 
you. What is the use of boring one's 
self with so many things? Besides an 
old soldier always likes to march with 
as little baggage as possible."

"That is just the case -- precisely so."

"But you are a man of foresight and 
prudence, therefore you sent your 
luggage on before you. It has arrived 
at the Hotel des Princes, Rue de 
Richelieu. It is there you are to take 
up your quarters."

"Then, in these trunks" --

"I presume you have given orders to 
your valet de chambre to put in all you 
are likely to need, -- your plain 
clothes and your uniform. On grand 
occasions you must wear your uniform; 
that will look very well. Do not forget 
your crosses. They still laugh at them 
in France, and yet always wear them, 
for all that."

"Very well, very well," said the major, 
who was in ecstasy at the attention 
paid him by the count.

"Now," said Monte Cristo, "that you 
have fortified yourself against all 
painful excitement, prepare yourself, 
my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meet your 
lost Andrea." Saying which Monte Cristo 
bowed, and disappeared behind the 
tapestry, leaving the major fascinated 
beyond expression with the delightful 
reception which he had received at the 
hands of the count. 

 Chapter 56 Andrea Cavalcanti.

The Count of Monte Cristo entered the 
adjoining room, which Baptistin had 
designated as the drawing-room, and 
found there a young man, of graceful 
demeanor and elegant appearance, who 
had arrived in a cab about half an hour 
previously. Baptistin had not found any 
difficulty in recognizing the person 
who presented himself at the door for 
admittance. He was certainly the tall 
young man with light hair, red heard, 
black eyes, and brilliant complexion, 
whom his master had so particularly 
described to him. When the count 
entered the room the young man was 
carelessly stretched on a sofa, tapping 
his boot with the gold-headed cane 
which he held in his hand. On 
perceiving the count he rose quickly. 
"The Count of Monte Cristo, I believe?" 
said he.

"Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor 
of addressing Count Andrea Cavalcanti?"

"Count Andrea Cavalcanti," repeated the 
young man, accompanying his words with 
a bow.

"You are charged with a letter of 
introduction addressed to me, are you 
not?" said the count.

"I did not mention that, because the 
signature seemed to me so strange."

"The letter signed `Sinbad the Sailor,' 
is it not?"

"Exactly so. Now, as I have never known 
any Sinbad, with the exception of the 
one celebrated in the `Thousand and One 
Nights'" --

"Well, it is one of his descendants, 
and a great friend of mine; he is a 
very rich Englishman, eccentric almost 
to insanity, and his real name is Lord 
Wilmore."

"Ah, indeed? Then that explains 
everything that is extraordinary," said 
Andrea. "He is, then, the same 
Englishman whom I met -- at -- ah -- 
yes, indeed. Well, monsieur, I am at 
your service."

"If what you say be true," replied the 
count, smiling, "perhaps you will be 
kind enough to give me some account of 
yourself and your family?"

"Certainly, I will do so," said the 
young man, with a quickness which gave 
proof of his ready invention. "I am (as 
you have said) the Count Andrea 
Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo 
Cavalcanti, a descendant of the 
Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in 
the golden book at Florence. Our 
family, although still rich (for my 
father's income amounts to half a 
million), has experienced many 
misfortunes, and I myself was, at the 
age of five years, taken away by the 
treachery of my tutor, so that for 
fifteen years I have not seen the 
author of my existence. Since I have 
arrived at years of discretion and 
become my own master, I have been 
constantly seeking him, but all in 
vain. At length I received this letter 
from your friend, which states that my 
father is in Paris, and authorizes me 
to address myself to you for 
information respecting him."

"Really, all you have related to me is 
exceedingly interesting," said Monte 
Cristo, observing the young man with a 
gloomy satisfaction; "and you have done 
well to conform in everything to the 
wishes of my friend Sinbad; for your 
father is indeed here, and is seeking 
you."

The count from the moment of first 
entering the drawing-room, had not once 
lost sight of the expression of the 
young man's countenance; he had admired 
the assurance of his look and the 
firmness of his voice; but at these 
words, so natural in themselves, "Your 
father is indeed here, and is seeking 
you," young Andrea started, and 
exclaimed, "My father? Is my father 
here?"

"Most undoubtedly," replied Monte 
Cristo; "your father, Major Bartolomeo 
Cavalcanti." The expression of terror 
which, for the moment, had overspread 
the features of the young man, had now 
disappeared. "Ah, yes, that is the 
name, certainly. Major Bartolomeo 
Cavalcanti. And you really mean to say; 
monsieur, that my dear father is here?"

"Yes, sir; and I can even add that I 
have only just left his company. The 
history which he related to me of his 
lost son touched me to the quick; 
indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on 
that subject might furnish material for 
a most touching and pathetic poem. At 
length, he one day received a letter, 
stating that the abductors of his son 
now offered to restore him, or at least 
to give notice where he might be found, 
on condition of receiving a large sum 
of money, by way of ransom. Your father 
did not hesitate an instant, and the 
sum was sent to the frontier of 
Piedmont, with a passport signed for 
Italy. You were in the south of France, 
I think?"

"Yes," replied Andrea, with an 
embarrassed air, "I was in the south of 
France."

"A carriage was to await you at Nice?"

"Precisely so; and it conveyed me from 
Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to Turin, 
from Turin to Chambery, from Chambery 
to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and from 
Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris."

"Indeed? Then your father ought to have 
met with you on the road, for it is 
exactly the same route which he himself 
took, and that is how we have been able 
to trace your journey to this place."

"But," said Andrea, "if my father had 
met me, I doubt if he would have 
recognized me; I must be somewhat 
altered since he last saw me."

"Oh, the voice of nature," said Monte 
Cristo.

"True," interrupted the young man, "I 
had not looked upon it in that light."

"Now," replied Monte Cristo "there is 
only one source of uneasiness left in 
your father's mind, which is this -- he 
is anxious to know how you have been 
employed during your long absence from 
him, how you have been treated by your 
persecutors, and if they have conducted 
themselves towards you with all the 
deference due to your rank. Finally, he 
is anxious to see if you have been 
fortunate enough to escape the bad 
moral influence to which you have been 
exposed, and which is infinitely more 
to be dreaded than any physical 
suffering; he wishes to discover if the 
fine abilities with which nature had 
endowed you have been weakened by want 
of culture; and, in short, whether you 
consider yourself capable of resuming 
and retaining in the world the high 
position to which your rank entitles 
you."

"Sir!" exclaimed the young man, quite 
astounded, "I hope no false report" --

"As for myself, I first heard you 
spoken of by my friend Wilmore, the 
philanthropist. I believe he found you 
in some unpleasant position, but do not 
know of what nature, for I did not ask, 
not being inquisitive. Your misfortunes 
engaged his sympathies, so you see you 
must have been interesting. He told me 
that he was anxious to restore you to 
the position which you had lost, and 
that he would seek your father until he 
found him. He did seek, and has found 
him, apparently, since he is here now; 
and, finally, my friend apprised me of 
your coming, and gave me a few other 
instructions relative to your future 
fortune. I am quite aware that my 
friend Wilmore is peculiar, but he is 
sincere, and as rich as a gold-mine, 
consequently, he may indulge his 
eccentricities without any fear of 
their ruining him, and I have promised 
to adhere to his instructions. Now, 
sir, pray do not be offended at the 
question I am about to put to you, as 
it comes in the way of my duty as your 
patron. I would wish to know if the 
misfortunes which have happened to you 
-- misfortunes entirely beyond your 
control, and which in no degree 
diminish my regard for you -- I would 
wish to know if they have not, in some 
measure, contributed to render you a 
stranger to the world in which your 
fortune and your name entitle you to 
make a conspicuous figure?"

"Sir," returned the young man, with a 
reassurance of manner, "make your mind 
easy on this score. Those who took me 
from my father, and who always 
intended, sooner or later, to sell me 
again to my original proprietor, as 
they have now done, calculated that, in 
order to make the most of their 
bargain, it would be politic to leave 
me in possession of all my personal and 
hereditary worth, and even to increase 
the value, if possible. I have, 
therefore, received a very good 
education, and have been treated by 
these kidnappers very much as the 
slaves were treated in Asia Minor, 
whose masters made them grammarians, 
doctors, and philosophers, in order 
that they might fetch a higher price in 
the Roman market." Monte Cristo smiled 
with satisfaction; it appeared as if he 
had not expected so much from M. Andrea 
Cavalcanti. "Besides," continued the 
young man, "if there did appear some 
defect in education, or offence against 
the established forms of etiquette, I 
suppose it would be excused, in 
consideration of the misfortunes which 
accompanied my birth, and followed me 
through my youth."

"Well," said Monte Cristo in an 
indifferent tone, "you will do as you 
please, count, for you are the master 
of your own actions, and are the person 
most concerned in the matter, but if I 
were you, I would not divulge a word of 
these adventures. Your history is quite 
a romance, and the world, which 
delights in romances in yellow covers, 
strangely mistrusts those which are 
bound in living parchment, even though 
they be gilded like yourself. This is 
the kind of difficulty which I wished 
to represent to you, my dear count. You 
would hardly have recited your touching 
history before it would go forth to the 
world, and be deemed unlikely and 
unnatural. You would be no longer a 
lost child found, but you would be 
looked upon as an upstart, who had 
sprung up like a mushroom in the night. 
You might excite a little curiosity, 
but it is not every one who likes to be 
made the centre of observation and the 
subject of unpleasant remark."

"I agree with you, monsieur," said the 
young man, turning pale, and, in spite 
of himself, trembling beneath the 
scrutinizing look of his companion, 
"such consequences would be extremely 
unpleasant."

"Nevertheless, you must not exaggerate 
the evil," said Monte Cristo, "for by 
endeavoring to avoid one fault you will 
fall into another. You must resolve 
upon one simple and single line of 
conduct, and for a man of your 
intelligence, this plan is as easy as 
it is necessary; you must form 
honorable friendships, and by that 
means counteract the prejudice which 
may attach to the obscurity of your 
former life." Andrea visibly changed 
countenance. "I would offer myself as 
your surety and friendly adviser," said 
Monte Cristo, "did I not possess a 
moral distrust of my best friends, and 
a sort of inclination to lead others to 
doubt them too; therefore, in departing 
from this rule, I should (as the actors 
say) be playing a part quite out of my 
line, and should, therefore, run the 
risk of being hissed, which would be an 
act of folly."

"However, your excellency," said 
Andrea, "in consideration of Lord 
Wilmore, by whom I was recommended to 
you -- "

"Yes, certainly," interrupted Monte 
Cristo; "but Lord Wilmore did not omit 
to inform me, my dear M. Andrea, that 
the season of your youth was rather a 
stormy one. Ah," said the count, 
watching Andrea's countenance, "I do 
not demand any confession from you; it 
is precisely to avoid that necessity 
that your father was sent for from 
Lucca. You shall soon see him. He is a 
little stiff and pompous in his manner, 
and he is disfigured by his uniform; 
but when it becomes known that he has 
been for eighteen years in the Austrian 
service, all that will be pardoned. We 
are not generally very severe with the 
Austrians. In short, you will find your 
father a very presentable person, I 
assure you."

"Ah, sir, you have given me confidence; 
it is so long since we were separated, 
that I have not the least remembrance 
of him, and, besides, you know that in 
the eyes of the world a large fortune 
covers all defects."

"He is a millionaire -- his income is 
500,000 francs."

"Then," said the young man, with 
anxiety, "I shall be sure to be placed 
in an agreeable position."

"One of the most agreeable possible, my 
dear sir; he will allow you an income 
of 50,000 livres per annum during the 
whole time of your stay in Paris."

"Then in that case I shall always 
choose to remain there."

"You cannot control circumstances, my 
dear sir; `man proposes, and God 
disposes.'" Andrea sighed. "But," said 
he, "so long as I do remain in Paris, 
and nothing forces me to quit it, do 
you mean to tell me that I may rely on 
receiving the sum you just now 
mentioned to me?"

"You may."

"Shall I receive it from my father?" 
asked Andrea, with some uneasiness.

"Yes, you will receive it from your 
father personally, but Lord Wilmore 
will be the security for the money. He 
has, at the request of your father, 
opened an account of 6,000 francs a 
month at M. Danglars', which is one of 
the safest banks in Paris."

"And does my father mean to remain long 
in Paris?" asked Andrea.

"Only a few days," replied Monte 
Cristo. "His service does not allow him 
to absent himself more than two or 
three weeks together."

"Ah, my dear father!" exclaimed Andrea, 
evidently charmed with the idea of his 
speedy departure.

"Therefore," said Monte Cristo feigning 
to mistake his meaning -- "therefore I 
will not, for another instant, retard 
the pleasure of your meeting. Are you 
prepared to embrace your worthy father?"

"I hope you do not doubt it."

"Go, then, into the drawing-room, my 
young friend, where you will find your 
father awaiting you." Andrea made a low 
bow to the count, and entered the 
adjoining room. Monte Cristo watched 
him till he disappeared, and then 
touched a spring in a panel made to 
look like a picture, which, in sliding 
partly from the frame, discovered to 
view a small opening, so cleverly 
contrived that it revealed all that was 
passing in the drawing-room now 
occupied by Cavalcanti and Andrea. The 
young man closed the door behind him, 
and advanced towards the major, who had 
risen when he heard steps approaching 
him. "Ah, my dear father!" said Andrea 
in a loud voice, in order that the 
count might hear him in the next room, 
"is it really you?"

"How do you do, my dear son?" said the 
major gravely.

"After so many years of painful 
separation," said Andrea, in the same 
tone of voice, and glancing towards the 
door, "what a happiness it is to meet 
again!"

"Indeed it is, after so long a 
separation."

"Will you not embrace me, sir?" said 
Andrea.

"If you wish it, my son," said the 
major; and the two men embraced each 
other after the fashion of actors on 
the stage; that is to say, each rested 
his head on the other's shoulder.

"Then we are once more reunited?" said 
Andrea.

"Once more," replied the major.

"Never more to be separated?"

"Why, as to that -- I think, my dear 
son, you must be by this time so 
accustomed to France as to look upon it 
almost as a second country."

"The fact is," said the young man, 
"that I should be exceedingly grieved 
to leave it."

"As for me, you must know I cannot 
possibly live out of Lucca; therefore I 
shall return to Italy as soon as I can."

"But before you leave France, my dear 
father, I hope you will put me in 
possession of the documents which will 
be necessary to prove my descent."

"Certainly; I am come expressly on that 
account; it has cost me much trouble to 
find you, but I had resolved on giving 
them into your hands, and if I had to 
recommence my search, it would occupy 
all the few remaining years of my life."

"Where are these papers, then?"

"Here they are."

Andrea seized the certificate of his 
father's marriage and his own baptismal 
register, and after having opened them 
with all the eagerness which might be 
expected under the circumstances, he 
read them with a facility which proved 
that he was accustomed to similar 
documents, and with an expression which 
plainly denoted an unusual interest in 
the contents. When he had perused the 
documents, an indefinable expression of 
pleasure lighted up his countenance, 
and looking at the major with a most 
peculiar smile, he said, in very 
excellent Tuscan, -- "Then there is no 
longer any such thing, in Italy as 
being condemned to the galleys?" The 
major drew himself up to his full 
height.

"Why? -- what do you mean by that 
question?"

"I mean that if there were, it would be 
impossible to draw up with impunity two 
such deeds as these. In France, my dear 
sir, half such a piece of effrontery as 
that would cause you to be quickly 
despatched to Toulon for five years, 
for change of air."

"Will you be good enough to explain 
your meaning?" said the major, 
endeavoring as much as possible to 
assume an air of the greatest majesty.

"My dear M. Cavalcanti," said Andrea, 
taking the major by the arm in a 
confidential manner, "how much are you 
paid for being my father?" The major 
was about to speak, when Andrea 
continued, in a low voice.

"Nonsense, I am going to set you an 
example of confidence, they give me 
50,000 francs a year to be your son; 
consequently, you can understand that 
it is not at all likely I shall ever 
deny my parent." The major looked 
anxiously around him. "Make yourself 
easy, we are quite alone," said Andrea; 
"besides, we are conversing in Italian."

"Well, then," replied the major, "they 
paid me 50,000 francs down."

"Monsieur Cavalcanti," said Andrea, "do 
you believe in fairy tales?"

"I used not to do so, but I really feel 
now almost obliged to have faith in 
them."

"You have, then, been induced to alter 
your opinion; you have had some proofs 
of their truth?" The major drew from 
his pocket a handful of gold. "Most 
palpable proofs," said he, "as you may 
perceive."

"You think, then, that I may rely on 
the count's promises?"

"Certainly I do."

"You are sure he will keep his word 
with me?"

"To the letter, but at the same time, 
remember, we must continue to play our 
respective parts. I, as a tender 
father" --

"And I as a dutiful son, as they choose 
that I shall be descended from you."

"Whom do you mean by they?"

"Ma foi, I can hardly tell, but I was 
alluding to those who wrote the letter; 
you received one, did you not?"

"Yes."

"From whom?"

"From a certain Abbe Busoni."

"Have you any knowledge of him?"

"No, I have never seen him."

"What did he say in the letter?"

"You will promise not to betray me?"

"Rest assured of that; you well know 
that our interests are the same."

"Then read for yourself;" and the major 
gave a letter into the young man's 
hand. Andrea read in a low voice --

"You are poor; a miserable old age 
awaits you. Would you like to become 
rich, or at least independent? Set out 
immediately for Paris, and demand of 
the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des 
Champs Elysees, No. 30, the son whom 
you had by the Marchesa Corsinari, and 
who was taken from you at five years of 
age. This son is named Andrea 
Cavalcanti. In order that you may not 
doubt the kind intention of the writer 
of this letter, you will find enclosed 
an order for 2,400 francs, payable in 
Florence, at Signor Gozzi's; also a 
letter of introduction to the Count of 
Monte Cristo, on whom I give you a 
draft of 48,000 francs. Remember to go 
to the count on the 26th May at seven 
o'clock in the evening.

(Signed)

"Abbe Busoni."

"It is the same."

"What do you mean?" said the major.

"I was going to say that I received a 
letter almost to the same effect."

"You?"

"Yes."

"From the Abbe Busoni?"

"No."

"From whom, then?"

"From an Englishman, called Lord 
Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbad 
the Sailor."

"And of whom you have no more knowledge 
than I of the Abbe Busoni?"

"You are mistaken; there I am ahead of 
you."

"You have seen him, then?"

"Yes, once."

"Where?"

"Ah, that is just what I cannot tell 
you; if I did, I should make you as 
wise as myself, which it is not my 
intention to do."

"And what did the letter contain?"

"Read it."

"`You are poor, and your future 
prospects are dark and gloomy. Do you 
wish for a name? should you like to be 
rich, and your own master?'"

"Ma foi," said the young man; "was it 
possible there could be two answers to 
such a question?"

"Take the post-chaise which you will 
find waiting at the Porte de Genes, as 
you enter Nice; pass through Turin, 
Chambery, and Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to 
the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des 
Champs Elysees, on the 26th of May, at 
seven o'clock in the evening, and 
demand of him your father. You are the 
son of the Marchese Cavalcanti and the 
Marchesa Oliva Corsinari. The marquis 
will give you some papers which will 
certify this fact, and authorize you to 
appear under that name in the Parisian 
world. As to your rank, an annual 
income of 50,000 livres will enable you 
to support it admirably. I enclose a 
draft for 5,000 livres, payable on M. 
Ferrea, banker at Nice, and also a 
letter of introduction to the Count of 
Monte Cristo, whom I have directed to 
supply all your wants.

"Sinbad the Sailor."

"Humph," said the major; "very good. 
You have seen the count, you say?"

"I have only just left him "

"And has he conformed to all that the 
letter specified?"

"He has."

"Do you understand it?"

"Not in the least."

"There is a dupe somewhere."

"At all events, it is neither you nor 
I."

"Certainly not."

"Well, then" --

"Why, it does not much concern us, do 
you think it does?"

"No; I agree with you there. We must 
play the game to the end, and consent 
to be blindfold."

"Ah, you shall see; I promise you I 
will sustain my part to admiration."

"I never once doubted your doing so." 
Monte Cristo chose this moment for 
re-entering the drawing-room. On 
hearing the sound of his footsteps, the 
two men threw themselves in each 
other's arms, and while they were in 
the midst of this embrace, the count 
entered. "Well, marquis," said Monte 
Cristo, "you appear to be in no way 
disappointed in the son whom your good 
fortune has restored to you."

"Ah, your excellency, I am overwhelmed 
with delight."

"And what are your feelings?" said 
Monte Cristo, turning to the young man.

"As for me, my heart is overflowing 
with happiness."

"Happy father, happy son!" said the 
count.

"There is only one thing which grieves 
me," observed the major, "and that is 
the necessity for my leaving Paris so 
soon."

"Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you 
will not leave before I have had the 
honor of presenting you to some of my 
friends."

"I am at your service, sir," replied 
the major.

"Now, sir," said Monte Cristo, 
addressing Andrea, "make your 
confession."

"To whom?"

"Tell M. Cavalcanti something of the 
state of your finances."

"Ma foi, monsieur, you have touched 
upon a tender chord."

"Do you hear what he says, major?"

"Certainly I do."

"But do you understand?"

"I do."

"Your son says he requires money."

"Well, what would you have me do?" said 
the major.

"You should furnish him with some of 
course," replied Monte Cristo.

"I?"

"Yes, you," said the count, at the same 
time advancing towards Andrea, and 
slipping a packet of bank-notes into 
the young man's hand.

"What is this?"

"It is from your father."

"From my father?"

"Yes; did you not tell him just now 
that you wanted money? Well, then, he 
deputes me to give you this."

"Am I to consider this as part of my 
income on account?"

"No, it is for the first expenses of 
your settling in Paris."

"Ah, how good my dear father is!"

"Silence," said Monte Cristo; "he does 
not wish you to know that it comes from 
him."

"I fully appreciate his delicacy," said 
Andrea, cramming the notes hastily into 
his pocket.

"And now, gentlemen, I wish you 
good-morning," said Monte Cristo.

"And when shall we have the honor of 
seeing you again, your excellency?" 
asked Cavalcanti.

"Ah," said Andrea, "when may we hope 
for that pleasure?"

"On Saturday, if you will -- Yes. -- 
Let me see -- Saturday -- I am to dine 
at my country house, at Auteuil, on 
that day, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28. 
Several persons are invited, and among 
others, M. Danglars, your banker. I 
will introduce you to him, for it will 
be necessary he should know you, as he 
is to pay your money."

"Full dress?" said the major, half 
aloud.

"Oh, yes, certainly," said the count; 
"uniform, cross, knee-breeches."

"And how shall I be dressed?" demanded 
Andrea.

"Oh, very simply; black trousers, 
patent leather boots, white waistcoat, 
either a black or blue coat, and a long 
cravat. Go to Blin or Veronique for 
your clothes. Baptistin will tell you 
where, if you do not know their 
address. The less pretension there is 
in your attire, the better will be the 
effect, as you are a rich man. If you 
mean to buy any horses, get them of 
Devedeux, and if you purchase a 
phaeton, go to Baptiste for it."

"At what hour shall we come?" asked the 
young man.

"About half-past six."

"We will be with you at that time," 
said the major. The two Cavalcanti 
bowed to the count, and left the house. 
Monte Cristo went to the window, and 
saw them crossing the street, arm in 
arm. "There go two miscreants;" said 
he, "it is a pity they are not really 
related!" -- then, after an instant of 
gloomy reflection, "Come, I will go to 
see the Morrels," said he; "I think 
that disgust is even more sickening 
than hatred." 

 Chapter 57 In the Lucerne Patch.

Our readers must now allow us to 
transport them again to the enclosure 
surrounding M. de Villefort's house, 
and, behind the gate, half screened 
from view by the large chestnut-trees, 
which on all sides spread their 
luxuriant branches, we shall find some 
people of our acquaintance. This time 
Maximilian was the first to arrive. He 
was intently watching for a shadow to 
appear among the trees, and awaiting 
with anxiety the sound of a light step 
on the gravel walk. At length, the 
long-desired sound was heard, and 
instead of one figure, as he had 
expected, he perceived that two were 
approaching him. The delay had been 
occasioned by a visit from Madame 
Danglars and Eugenie, which had been 
prolonged beyond the time at which 
Valentine was expected. That she might 
not appear to fail in her promise to 
Maximilian, she proposed to 
Mademoiselle Danglars that they should 
take a walk in the garden, being 
anxious to show that the delay, which 
was doubtless a cause of vexation to 
him, was not occasioned by any neglect 
on her part. The young man, with the 
intuitive perception of a lover, 
quickly understood the circumstances in 
which she was involuntarily placed, and 
he was comforted. Besides, although she 
avoided coming within speaking 
distance, Valentine arranged so that 
Maximilian could see her pass and 
repass, and each time she went by, she 
managed, unperceived by her companion, 
to cast an expressive look at the young 
man, which seemed to say, "Have 
patience! You see it is not my fault." 
And Maximilian was patient, and 
employed himself in mentally 
contrasting the two girls, -- one fair, 
with soft languishing eyes, a figure 
gracefully bending like a weeping 
willow; the other a brunette, with a 
fierce and haughty expression, and as 
straight as a poplar. It is unnecessary 
to state that, in the eyes of the young 
man, Valentine did not suffer by the 
contrast. In about half an hour the 
girls went away, and Maximilian 
understood that Mademoiselle Danglars' 
visit had at last come to an end. In a 
few minutes Valentine re-entered the 
garden alone. For fear that any one 
should be observing her return, she 
walked slowly; and instead of 
immediately directing her steps towards 
the gate, she seated herself on a 
bench, and, carefully casting her eyes 
around, to convince herself that she 
was not watched, she presently arose, 
and proceeded quickly to join 
Maximilian.

"Good-evening, Valentine," said a 
well-known voice.

"Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I 
have kept you waiting, but you saw the 
cause of my delay."

"Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle 
Danglars. I was not aware that you were 
so intimate with her."

"Who told you we were intimate, 
Maximilian?"

"No one, but you appeared to be so. 
From the manner in which you walked and 
talked together, one would have thought 
you were two school-girls telling your 
secrets to each other."

"We were having a confidential 
conversation," returned Valentine; "she 
was owning to me her repugnance to the 
marriage with M. de Morcerf; and I, on 
the other hand, was confessing to her 
how wretched it made me to think of 
marrying M. d'Epinay."

"Dear Valentine!"

"That will account to you for the 
unreserved manner which you observed 
between me and Eugenie, as in speaking 
of the man whom I could not love, my 
thoughts involuntarily reverted to him 
on whom my affections were fixed."

"Ah, how good you are to say so, 
Valentine! You possess a quality which 
can never belong to Mademoiselle 
Danglars. It is that indefinable charm 
which is to a woman what perfume is to 
the flower and flavor to the fruit, for 
the beauty of either is not the only 
quality we seek."

"It is your love which makes you look 
upon everything in that light."

"No, Valentine, I assure you such is 
not the case. I was observing you both 
when you were walking in the garden, 
and, on my honor, without at all 
wishing to depreciate the beauty of 
Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot 
understand how any man can really love 
her."

"The fact is, Maximilian, that I was 
there, and my presence had the effect 
of rendering you unjust in your 
comparison."

"No; but tell me -- it is a question of 
simple curiosity, and which was 
suggested by certain ideas passing in 
my mind relative to Mademoiselle 
Danglars" --

"I dare say it is something disparaging 
which you are going to say. It only 
proves how little indulgence we may 
expect from your sex," interrupted 
Valentine.

"You cannot, at least, deny that you 
are very harsh judges of each other."

"If we are so, it is because we 
generally judge under the influence of 
excitement. But return to your 
question."

"Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to 
this marriage with M. de Morcerf on 
account of loving another?"

"I told you I was not on terms of 
strict intimacy with Eugenie."

"Yes, but girls tell each other secrets 
without being particularly intimate; 
own, now, that you did question her on 
the subject. Ah, I see you are smiling."

"If you are already aware of the 
conversation that passed, the wooden 
partition which interposed between us 
and you has proved but a slight 
security."

"Come, what did she say?"

"She told me that she loved no one," 
said Valentine; "that she disliked the 
idea of being married; that she would 
infinitely prefer leading an 
independent and unfettered life; and 
that she almost wished her father might 
lose his fortune, that she might become 
an artist, like her friend, 
Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly."

"Ah, you see" --

"Well, what does that prove?" asked 
Valentine.

"Nothing," replied Maximilian.

"Then why did you smile?"

"Why, you know very well that you are 
reflecting on yourself, Valentine."

"Do you want me to go away?"

"Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose 
time; you are the subject on which I 
wish to speak."

"True, we must be quick, for we have 
scarcely ten minutes more to pass 
together."

"Ma foi," said Maximilian, in 
consternation.

"Yes, you are right; I am but a poor 
friend to you. What a life I cause you 
to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are 
formed for happiness! I bitterly 
reproach myself, I assure you."

"Well, what does it signify, Valentine, 
so long as I am satisfied, and feel 
that even this long and painful 
suspense is amply repaid by five 
minutes of your society, or two words 
from your lips? And I have also a deep 
conviction that heaven would not have 
created two hearts, harmonizing as ours 
do, and almost miraculously brought us 
together, to separate us at last."

"Those are kind and cheering words. You 
must hope for us both, Maximilian; that 
will make me at least partly happy."

"But why must you leave me so soon?"

"I do not know particulars. I can only 
tell you that Madame de Villefort sent 
to request my presence, as she had a 
communication to make on which a part 
of my fortune depended. Let them take 
my fortune, I am already too rich; and, 
perhaps, when they have taken it, they 
will leave me in peace and quietness. 
You would love me as much if I were 
poor, would you not, Maximilian?"

"Oh, I shall always love you. What 
should I care for either riches or 
poverty, if my Valentine was near me, 
and I felt certain that no one could 
deprive me of her? But do you not fear 
that this communication may relate to 
your marriage?"

"I do not think that is the case."

"However it may be, Valentine, you must 
not be alarmed. I assure you that, as 
long as I live, I shall never love any 
one else!"

"You think to reassure me when you say 
that, Maximilian."

"Pardon me, you are right. I am a 
brute. But I was going to tell you that 
I met M. de Morcerf the other day."

"Well?"

"Monsieur Franz is his friend, you 
know."

"What then?"

"Monsieur de Morcerf has received a 
letter from Franz, announcing his 
immediate return." Valentine turned 
pale, and leaned her hand against the 
gate. "Ah heavens, if it were that! But 
no, the communication would not come 
through Madame de Villefort."

"Why not?"

"Because -- I scarcely know why -- but 
it has appeared as if Madame de 
Villefort secretly objected to the 
marriage, although she did not choose 
openly to oppose it."

"Is it so? Then I feel as if I could 
adore Madame de Villefort."

"Do not be in such a hurry to do that," 
said Valentine, with a sad smile.

"If she objects to your marrying M. 
d'Epinay, she would be all the more 
likely to listen to any other 
proposition."

"No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to 
which Madame de Villefort objects, it 
is marriage itself."

"Marriage? If she dislikes that so 
much, why did she ever marry herself?"

"You do not understand me, Maximilian. 
About a year ago, I talked of retiring 
to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in 
spite of all the remarks which she 
considered it her duty to make, 
secretly approved of the proposition, 
my father consented to it at her 
instigation, and it was only on account 
of my poor grandfather that I finally 
abandoned the project. You can form no 
idea of the expression of that old 
man's eye when he looks at me, the only 
person in the world whom he loves, and, 
I had almost said, by whom he is 
beloved in return. When he learned my 
resolution, I shall never forget the 
reproachful look which he cast on me, 
and the tears of utter despair which 
chased each other down his lifeless 
cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, 
at that moment, such remorse for my 
intention, that, throwing myself at his 
feet, I exclaimed, -- `Forgive me, pray 
forgive me, my dear grandfather; they 
may do what they will with me, I will 
never leave you.' When I had ceased 
speaking, he thankfully raised his eyes 
to heaven, but without uttering a word. 
Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to 
suffer, but I feel as if my 
grandfather's look at that moment would 
more than compensate for all."

"Dear Valentine, you are a perfect 
angel, and I am sure I do not know what 
I -- sabring right and left among the 
Bedouins -- can have done to merit your 
being revealed to me, unless, indeed, 
heaven took into consideration the fact 
that the victims of my sword were 
infidels. But tell me what interest 
Madame de Villefort can have in your 
remaining unmarried?"

"Did I not tell you just now that I was 
rich, Maximilian -- too rich? I possess 
nearly 50,000 livres in right of my 
mother; my grandfather and my 
grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise 
de Saint-Meran, will leave me as much, 
and M. Noirtier evidently intends 
making me his heir. My brother Edward, 
who inherits nothing from his mother, 
will, therefore, be poor in comparison 
with me. Now, if I had taken the veil, 
all this fortune would have descended 
to my father, and, in reversion, to his 
son."

"Ah, how strange it seems that such a 
young and beautiful woman should be so 
avaricious."

"It is not for herself that she is so, 
but for her son, and what you regard as 
a vice becomes almost a virtue when 
looked at in the light of maternal 
love."

"But could you not compromise matters, 
and give up a portion of your fortune 
to her son?"

"How could I make such a proposition, 
especially to a woman who always 
professes to be so entirely 
disinterested?"

"Valentine, I have always regarded our 
love in the light of something sacred; 
consequently, I have covered it with 
the veil of respect, and hid it in the 
innermost recesses of my soul. No human 
being, not even my sister, is aware of 
its existence. Valentine, will you 
permit me to make a confidant of a 
friend and reveal to him the love I 
bear you?"

Valentine started. "A friend, 
Maximilian; and who is this friend? I 
tremble to give my permission."

"Listen, Valentine. Have you never 
experienced for any one that sudden and 
irresistible sympathy which made you 
feel as if the object of it had been 
your old and familiar friend, though, 
in reality, it was the first time you 
had ever met? Nay, further, have you 
never endeavored to recall the time, 
place, and circumstances of your former 
intercourse, and failing in this 
attempt, have almost believed that your 
spirits must have held converse with 
each other in some state of being 
anterior to the present, and that you 
are only now occupied in a reminiscence 
of the past?"

"Yes."

"Well, that is precisely the feeling 
which I experienced when I first saw 
that extraordinary man."

"Extraordinary, did you say?"

"Yes."

"You have known him for some time, 
then?"

"Scarcely longer than eight or ten 
days."

"And do you call a man your friend whom 
you have only known for eight or ten 
days? Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you 
set a higher value on the title of 
friend."

"Your logic is most powerful, 
Valentine, but say what you will, I can 
never renounce the sentiment which has 
instinctively taken possession of my 
mind. I feel as if it were ordained 
that this man should be associated with 
all the good which the future may have 
in store for me, and sometimes it 
really seems as if his eye was able to 
see what was to come, and his hand 
endowed with the power of directing 
events according to his own will."

"He must be a prophet, then," said 
Valentine, smiling.

"Indeed," said Maximilian, "I have 
often been almost tempted to attribute 
to him the gift of prophecy; at all 
events, he has a wonderful power of 
foretelling any future good."

"Ah," said Valentine in a mournful 
tone, "do let me see this man, 
Maximilian; he may tell me whether I 
shall ever be loved sufficiently to 
make amends for all I have suffered."

"My poor girl, you know him already."

"I know him?"

"Yes; it was he who saved the life of 
your step-mother and her son."

"The Count of Monte Cristo?"

"The same."

"Ah," cried Valentine, "he is too much 
the friend of Madame de Villefort ever 
to be mine."

"The friend of Madame de Villefort! It 
cannot be; surely, Valentine, you are 
mistaken?"

"No, indeed, I am not; for I assure 
you, his power over our household is 
almost unlimited. Courted by my 
step-mother, who regards him as the 
epitome of human wisdom; admired by my 
father, who says he has never before 
heard such sublime ideas so eloquently 
expressed; idolized by Edward, who, 
notwithstanding his fear of the count's 
large black eyes, runs to meet him the 
moment he arrives, and opens his hand, 
in which he is sure to find some 
delightful present, -- M. de Monte 
Cristo appears to exert a mysterious 
and almost uncontrollable influence 
over all the members of our family."

"If such be the case, my dear 
Valentine, you must yourself have felt, 
or at all events will soon feel, the 
effects of his presence. He meets 
Albert de Morcerf in Italy -- it is to 
rescue him from the hands of the 
banditti; he introduces himself to 
Madame Danglars -- it is that he may 
give her a royal present; your 
step-mother and her son pass before his 
door -- it is that his Nubian may save 
them from destruction. This man 
evidently possesses the power of 
influencing events, both as regards men 
and things. I never saw more simple 
tastes united to greater magnificence. 
His smile is so sweet when he addresses 
me, that I forget it ever can be bitter 
to others. Ah, Valentine, tell me, if 
he ever looked on you with one of those 
sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you 
will be happy."

"Me?" said the young girl, "he never 
even glances at me; on the contrary, if 
I accidentally cross his path, he 
appears rather to avoid me. Ah, he is 
not generous, neither does he possess 
that supernatural penetration which you 
attribute to him, for if he did, he 
would have perceived that I was 
unhappy; and if he had been generous, 
seeing me sad and solitary, he would 
have used his influence to my 
advantage, and since, as you say, he 
resembles the sun, he would have warmed 
my heart with one of his life-giving 
rays. You say he loves you, Maximilian; 
how do you know that he does? All would 
pay deference to an officer like you, 
with a fierce mustache and a long 
sabre, but they think they may crush a 
poor weeping girl with impunity."

"Ah, Valentine, I assure you you are 
mistaken."

"If it were otherwise -- if he treated 
me diplomatically -- that is to say, 
like a man who wishes, by some means or 
other, to obtain a footing in the 
house, so that he may ultimately gain 
the power of dictating to its occupants 
-- he would, if it had been but once, 
have honored me with the smile which 
you extol so loudly; but no, he saw 
that I was unhappy, he understood that 
I could be of no use to him, and 
therefore paid no attention to me 
whatever. Who knows but that, in order 
to please Madame de Villefort and my 
father, he may not persecute me by 
every means in his power? It is not 
just that he should despise me so, 
without any reason. Ah, forgive me," 
said Valentine, perceiving the effect 
which her words were producing on 
Maximilian: "I have done wrong, for I 
have given utterance to thoughts 
concerning that man which I did not 
even know existed in my heart. I do not 
deny the influence of which you speak, 
or that I have not myself experienced 
it, but with me it has been productive 
of evil rather than good."

"Well, Valentine," said Morrel with a 
sigh, "we will not discuss the matter 
further. I will not make a confidant of 
him."

"Alas," said Valentine, "I see that I 
have given you pain. I can only say how 
sincerely I ask pardon for having 
griefed you. But, indeed, I am not 
prejudiced beyond the power of 
conviction. Tell me what this Count of 
Monte Cristo has done for you."

"I own that your question embarrasses 
me, Valentine, for I cannot say that 
the count has rendered me any 
ostensible service. Still, as I have 
already told you I have an instinctive 
affection for him, the source of which 
I cannot explain to you. Has the sun 
done anything for me? No; he warms me 
with his rays, and it is by his light 
that I see you -- nothing more. Has 
such and such a perfume done anything 
for me? No; its odor charms one of my 
senses -- that is all I can say when I 
am asked why I praise it. My friendship 
for him is as strange and unaccountable 
as his for me. A secret voice seems to 
whisper to me that there must be 
something more than chance in this 
unexpected reciprocity of friendship. 
In his most simple actions, as well as 
in his most secret thoughts, I find a 
relation to my own. You will perhaps 
smile at me when I tell you that, ever 
since I have known this man, I have 
involuntarily entertained the idea that 
all the good fortune which his befallen 
me originated from him. However, I have 
managed to live thirty years without 
this protection, you will say; but I 
will endeavor a little to illustrate my 
meaning. He invited me to dine with him 
on Saturday, which was a very natural 
thing for him to do. Well, what have I 
learned since? That your mother and M. 
de Villefort are both coming to this 
dinner. I shall meet them there, and 
who knows what future advantages may 
result from the interview? This may 
appear to you to be no unusual 
combination of circumstances; 
nevertheless, I perceive some hidden 
plot in the arrangement -- something, 
in fact, more than is apparent on a 
casual view of the subject. I believe 
that this singular man, who appears to 
fathom the motives of every one, has 
purposely arranged for me to meet M. 
and Madame de Villefort, and sometimes, 
I confess, I have gone so far as to try 
to read in his eyes whether he was in 
possession of the secret of our love."

"My good friend," said Valentine, "I 
should take you for a visionary, and 
should tremble for your reason, if I 
were always to hear you talk in a 
strain similar to this. Is it possible 
that you can see anything more than the 
merest chance in this meeting? Pray 
reflect a little. My father, who never 
goes out, has several times been on the 
point of refusing this invitation; 
Madame de Villefort, on the contrary, 
is burning with the desire of seeing 
this extraordinary nabob in his own 
house, therefore, she has with great 
difficulty prevailed on my father to 
accompany her. No, no; it is as I have 
said, Maximilian, -- there is no one in 
the world of whom I can ask help but 
yourself and my grandfather, who is 
little better than a corpse."

"I see that you are right, logically 
speaking," said Maximilian; "but the 
gentle voice which usually has such 
power over me fails to convince me 
to-day."

"I feel the same as regards yourself." 
said Valentine; "and I own that, if you 
have no stronger proof to give me" --

"I have another," replied Maximilian; 
"but I fear you will deem it even more 
absurd than the first."

"So much the worse," said Valentine, 
smiling.

"It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my 
mind. My ten years of service have also 
confirmed my ideas on the subject of 
sudden inspirations, for I have several 
times owed my life to a mysterious 
impulse which directed me to move at 
once either to the right or to the 
left, in order to escape the ball which 
killed the comrade fighting by my side, 
while it left me unharmed."

"Dear Maximilian, why not attribute 
your escape to my constant prayers for 
your safety? When you are away, I no 
longer pray for myself, but for you."

"Yes, since you have known me," said 
Morrel, smiling; "but that cannot apply 
to the time previous to our 
acquaintance, Valentine."

"You are very provoking, and will not 
give me credit for anything; but let me 
hear this second proof, which you 
yourself own to be absurd."

"Well, look through this opening, and 
you will see the beautiful new horse 
which I rode here."

"Ah, what a beautiful creature!" cried 
Valentine; "why did you not bring him 
close to the gate, so that I could talk 
to him and pat him?"

"He is, as you see, a very valuable 
animal," said Maximilian. "You know 
that my means are limited, and that I 
am what would be designated a man of 
moderate pretensions. Well, I went to a 
horse dealer's, where I saw this 
magnificent horse, which I have named 
Medeah. I asked the price; they told me 
it was 4,500 francs. I was, therefore, 
obliged to give it up, as you may 
imagine, but I own I went away with 
rather a heavy heart, for the horse had 
looked at me affectionately, had rubbed 
his head against me and, when I mounted 
him, had pranced in the most delightful 
way imaginable, so that I was 
altogether fascinated with him. The 
same evening some friends of mine 
visited me, -- M. de Chateau-Renaud, M. 
Debray, and five or six other choice 
spirits, whom you do not know, even by 
name. They proposed a game of 
bouillotte. I never play, for I am not 
rich enough to afford to lose, or 
sufficiently poor to desire to gain. 
But I was at my own house, you 
understand, so there was nothing to be 
done but to send for the cards, which I 
did.

"Just as they were sitting down to 
table, M. de Monte Cristo arrived. He 
took his seat amongst them; they 
played, and I won. I am almost ashamed 
to say that my gains amounted to 5,000 
francs. We separated at midnight. I 
could not defer my pleasure, so I took 
a cabriolet and drove to the horse 
dealer's. Feverish and excited, I rang 
at the door. The person who opened it 
must have taken me for a madman, for I 
rushed at once to the stable. Medeah 
was standing at the rack, eating his 
hay. I immediately put on the saddle 
and bridle, to which operation he lent 
himself with the best grace possible; 
then, putting the 4,500 francs into the 
hands of the astonished dealer, I 
proceeded to fulfil my intention of 
passing the night in riding in the 
Champs Elysees. As I rode by the 
count's house I perceived a light in 
one of the windows, and fancied I saw 
the shadow of his figure moving behind 
the curtain. Now, Valentine, I firmly 
believe that he knew of my wish to 
possess this horse, and that he lost 
expressly to give me the means of 
procuring him."

"My dear Maximilian, you are really too 
fanciful; you will not love even me 
long. A man who accustoms himself to 
live in such a world of poetry and 
imagination must find far too little 
excitement in a common, every-day sort 
of attachment such as ours. But they 
are calling me. Do you hear?"

"Ah, Valentine," said Maximilian, "give 
me but one finger through this opening 
in the grating, one finger, the 
littlest finger of all, that I may have 
the happiness of kissing it."

"Maximilian, we said we would be to 
each other as two voices, two shadows."

"As you will, Valentine."

"Shall you be happy if I do what you 
wish?"

"Oh, yes!" Valentine mounted on a 
bench, and passed not only her finger 
but her whole hand through the opening. 
Maximilian uttered a cry of delight, 
and, springing forwards, seized the 
hand extended towards him, and 
imprinted on it a fervent and 
impassioned kiss. The little hand was 
then immediately withdrawn, and the 
young man saw Valentine hurrying 
towards the house, as though she were 
almost terrified at her own sensations. 

 Chapter 58 M. Noirtier de Villefort.

We will now relate what was passing in 
the house of the king's attorney after 
the departure of Madame Danglars and 
her daughter, and during the time of 
the conversation between Maximilian and 
Valentine, which we have just detailed. 
M. de Villefort entered his father's 
room, followed by Madame de Villefort. 
Both of the visitors, after saluting 
the old man and speaking to Barrois, a 
faithful servant, who had been 
twenty-five years in his service, took 
their places on either side of the 
paralytic.

M. Noirtier was sitting in an 
arm-chair, which moved upon casters, in 
which he was wheeled into the room in 
the morning, and in the same way drawn 
out again at night. He was placed 
before a large glass, which reflected 
the whole apartment, and so, without 
any attempt to move, which would have 
been impossible, he could see all who 
entered the room and everything which 
was going on around him. M. Noirtier, 
although almost as immovable as a 
corpse, looked at the newcomers with a 
quick and intelligent expression, 
perceiving at once, by their 
ceremonious courtesy, that they were 
come on business of an unexpected and 
official character. Sight and hearing 
were the only senses remaining, and 
they, like two solitary sparks, 
remained to animate the miserable body 
which seemed fit for nothing but the 
grave; it was only, however, by means 
of one of these senses that he could 
reveal the thoughts and feelings that 
still occupied his mind, and the look 
by which he gave expression to his 
inner life was like the distant gleam 
of a candle which a traveller sees by 
night across some desert place, and 
knows that a living being dwells beyond 
the silence and obscurity. Noirtier's 
hair was long and white, and flowed 
over his shoulders; while in his eyes, 
shaded by thick black lashes, was 
concentrated, as it often happens with 
an organ which is used to the exclusion 
of the others, all the activity, 
address, force, and intelligence which 
were formerly diffused over his whole 
body; and so although the movement of 
the arm, the sound of the voice, and 
the agility of the body, were wanting, 
the speaking eye sufficed for all. He 
commanded with it; it was the medium 
through which his thanks were conveyed. 
In short, his whole appearance produced 
on the mind the impression of a corpse 
with living eyes, and nothing could be 
more startling than to observe the 
expression of anger or joy suddenly 
lighting up these organs, while the 
rest of the rigid and marble-like 
features were utterly deprived of the 
power of participation. Three persons 
only could understand this language of 
the poor paralytic; these were 
Villefort, Valentine, and the old 
servant of whom we have already spoken. 
But as Villefort saw his father but 
seldom, and then only when absolutely 
obliged, and as he never took any pains 
to please or gratify him when he was 
there, all the old man's happiness was 
centred in his granddaughter. 
Valentine, by means of her love, her 
patience, and her devotion, had learned 
to read in Noirtier's look all the 
varied feelings which were passing in 
his mind. To this dumb language, which 
was so unintelligible to others, she 
answered by throwing her whole soul 
into the expression of her countenance, 
and in this manner were the 
conversations sustained between the 
blooming girl and the helpless invalid, 
whose body could scarcely be called a 
living one, but who, nevertheless, 
possessed a fund of knowledge and 
penetration, united with a will as 
powerful as ever although clogged by a 
body rendered utterly incapable of 
obeying its impulses. Valentine had 
solved the problem, and was able easily 
to understand his thoughts, and to 
convey her own in return, and, through 
her untiring and devoted assiduity, it 
was seldom that, in the ordinary 
transactions of every-day life, she 
failed to anticipate the wishes of the 
living, thinking mind, or the wants of 
the almost inanimate body. As to the 
servant, he had, as we have said, been 
with his master for five and twenty 
years, therefore he knew all his 
habits, and it was seldom that Noirtier 
found it necessary to ask for anything, 
so prompt was he in administering to 
all the necessities of the invalid. 
Villefort did not need the help of 
either Valentine or the domestic in 
order to carry on with his father the 
strange conversation which he was about 
to begin. As we have said, he perfectly 
understood the old man's vocabulary, 
and if he did not use it more often, it 
was only indifference and ennui which 
prevented him from so doing. He 
therefore allowed Valentine to go into 
the garden, sent away Barrois, and 
after having seated himself at his 
father's right hand, while Madame de 
Villefort placed herself on the left, 
he addressed him thus: --

"I trust you will not be displeased, 
sir, that Valentine has not come with 
us, or that I dismissed Barrois, for 
our conference will be one which could 
not with propriety be carried on in the 
presence of either. Madame de Villefort 
and I have a communication to make to 
you."

Noirtier's face remained perfectly 
passive during this long preamble, 
while, on the contrary, Villefort's eye 
was endeavoring to penetrate into the 
inmost recesses of the old man's heart.

"This communication," continued the 
procureur, in that cold and decisive 
tone which seemed at once to preclude 
all discussion, "will, we are sure, 
meet with your approbation." The eye of 
the invalid still retained that vacancy 
of expression which prevented his son 
from obtaining any knowledge of the 
feelings which were passing in his 
mind; he listened, nothing more. "Sir," 
resumed Villefort, "we are thinking of 
marrying Valentine." Had the old man's 
face been moulded in wax it could not 
have shown less emotion at this news 
than was now to be traced there. "The 
marriage will take place in less than 
three months," said Villefort. 
Noirtier's eye still retained its 
inanimate expression.

Madame de Villefort now took her part 
in the conversation and added, -- "We 
thought this news would possess an 
interest for you, sir, who have always 
entertained a great affection for 
Valentine; it therefore only now 
remains for us to tell you the name of 
the young man for whom she is destined. 
It is one of the most desirable 
connections which could possibly be 
formed; he possesses fortune, a high 
rank in society, and every personal 
qualification likely to render 
Valentine supremely happy, -- his name, 
moreover, cannot be wholly unknown to 
you. It is M. Franz de Quesnel, Baron 
d'Epinay."

While his wife was speaking, Villefort 
had narrowly watched the old man's 
countenance. When Madame de Villefort 
pronounced the name of Franz, the pupil 
of M. Noirtier's eye began to dilate, 
and his eyelids trembled with the same 
movement that may be perceived on the 
lips of an individual about to speak, 
and he darted a lightning glance at 
Madame de Villefort and his son. The 
procureur, who knew the political 
hatred which had formerly existed 
between M. Noirtier and the elder 
d'Epinay, well understood the agitation 
and anger which the announcement had 
produced; but, feigning not to perceive 
either, he immediately resumed the 
narrative begun by his wife. "Sir," 
said he, "you are aware that Valentine 
is about to enter her nineteenth year, 
which renders it important that she 
should lose no time in forming a 
suitable alliance. Nevertheless, you 
have not been forgotten in our plans, 
and we have fully ascertained 
beforehand that Valentine's future 
husband will consent, not to live in 
this house, for that might not be 
pleasant for the young people, but that 
you should live with them; so that you 
and Valentine, who are so attached to 
each other, would not be separated, and 
you would be able to pursue exactly the 
same course of life which you have 
hitherto done, and thus, instead of 
losing, you will be a gainer by the 
change, as it will secure to you two 
children instead of one, to watch over 
and comfort you."

Noirtier's look was furious; it was 
very evident that something desperate 
was passing in the old man's mind, for 
a cry of anger and grief rose in his 
throat, and not being able to find vent 
in utterance, appeared almost to choke 
him, for his face and lips turned quite 
purple with the struggle. Villefort 
quietly opened a window, saying, "It is 
very warm, and the heat affects M. 
Noirtier." He then returned to his 
place, but did not sit down. "This 
marriage," added Madame de Villefort, 
"is quite agreeable to the wishes of M. 
d'Epinay and his family; besides, he 
had no relations nearer than an uncle 
and aunt, his mother having died at his 
birth, and his father having been 
assassinated in 1815, that is to say, 
when he was but two years old; it 
naturally followed that the child was 
permitted to choose his own pursuits, 
and he has, therefore, seldom 
acknowledged any other authority but 
that of his own will."

"That assassination was a mysterious 
affair," said Villefort, "and the 
perpetrators have hitherto escaped 
detection, although suspicion has 
fallen on the head of more than one 
person." Noirtier made such an effort 
that his lips expanded into a smile.

"Now," continued Villefort, "those to 
whom the guilt really belongs, by whom 
the crime was committed, on whose heads 
the justice of man may probably descend 
here, and the certain judgment of God 
hereafter, would rejoice in the 
opportunity thus afforded of bestowing 
such a peace-offering as Valentine on 
the son of him whose life they so 
ruthlessly destroyed." Noirtier had 
succeeded in mastering his emotion more 
than could have been deemed possible 
with such an enfeebled and shattered 
frame. "Yes, I understand," was the 
reply contained in his look; and this 
look expressed a feeling of strong 
indignation, mixed with profound 
contempt. Villefort fully understood 
his father's meaning, and answered by a 
slight shrug of his shoulders. He then 
motioned to his wife to take leave. 
"Now sir," said Madame de Villefort, "I 
must bid you farewell. Would you like 
me to send Edward to you for a short 
time?"

It had been agreed that the old man 
should express his approbation by 
closing his eyes, his refusal by 
winking them several times, and if he 
had some desire or feeling to express, 
he raised them to heaven. If he wanted 
Valentine, he closed his right eye 
only, and if Barrois, the left. At 
Madame de Villefort's proposition he 
instantly winked his eyes. Provoked by 
a complete refusal, she bit her lip and 
said, "Then shall I send Valentine to 
you?" The old man closed his eyes 
eagerly, thereby intimating that such 
was his wish. M. and Madame de 
Villefort bowed and left the room, 
giving orders that Valentine should be 
summoned to her grandfather's presence, 
and feeling sure that she would have 
much to do to restore calmness to the 
perturbed spirit of the invalid. 
Valentine, with a color still 
heightened by emotion, entered the room 
just after her parents had quitted it. 
One look was sufficient to tell her 
that her grandfather was suffering, and 
that there was much on his mind which 
he was wishing to communicate to her. 
"Dear grandpapa," cried she, "what has 
happened? They have vexed you, and you 
are angry?" The paralytic closed his 
eyes in token of assent. "Who has 
displeased you? Is it my father?"

"No."

"Madame de Villefort?"

"No."

"Me?" The former sign was repeated. 
"Are you displeased with me?" cried 
Valentine in astonishment. M. Noirtier 
again closed his eyes. "And what have I 
done, dear grandpapa, that you should 
be angry with me?" cried Valentine.

There was no answer, and she continued. 
"I have not seen you all day. Has any 
one been speaking to you against me?"

"Yes," said the old man's look, with 
eagerness.

"Let me think a moment. I do assure 
you, grandpapa -- Ah -- M. and Madame 
de Villefort have just left this room, 
have they not?"

"Yes."

"And it was they who told you something 
which made you angry? What was it then? 
May I go and ask them, that I may have 
the opportunity of making my peace with 
you?"

"No, no," said Noirtier's look.

"Ah, you frighten me. What can they 
have said?" and she again tried to 
think what it could be.

"Ah, I know," said she, lowering her 
voice and going close to the old man. 
"They have been speaking of my 
marriage, -- have they not?"

"Yes," replied the angry look.

"I understand; you are displeased at 
the silence I have preserved on the 
subject. The reason of it was, that 
they had insisted on my keeping the 
matter a secret, and begged me not to 
tell you anything of it. They did not 
even acquaint me with their intentions, 
and I only discovered them by chance, 
that is why I have been so reserved 
with you, dear grandpapa. Pray forgive 
me." But there was no look calculated 
to reassure her; all it seemed to say 
was, "It is not only your reserve which 
afflicts me."

"What is it, then?" asked the young 
girl. "Perhaps you think I shall 
abandon you, dear grandpapa, and that I 
shall forget you when I am married?"

"No."

"They told you, then, that M. d'Epinay 
consented to our all living together?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you still vexed and 
grieved?" The old man's eyes beamed 
with an expression of gentle affection. 
"Yes, I understand," said Valentine; 
"it is because you love me." The old 
man assented. "And you are afraid I 
shall be unhappy?"

"Yes."

"You do not like M. Franz?" The eyes 
repeated several times, "No, no, no."

"Then you are vexed with the 
engagement?"

"Yes."

"Well, listen," said Valentine, 
throwing herself on her knees, and 
putting her arm round her grandfather's 
neck, "I am vexed, too, for I do not 
love M. Franz d'Epinay." An expression 
of intense joy illumined the old man's 
eyes. "When I wished to retire into a 
convent, you remember how angry you 
were with me?" A tear trembled in the 
eye of the invalid. "Well," continued 
Valentine, "the reason of my proposing 
it was that I might escape this hateful 
marriage, which drives me to despair." 
Noirtier's breathing came thick and 
short. "Then the idea of this marriage 
really grieves you too? Ah, if you 
could but help me -- if we could both 
together defeat their plan! But you are 
unable to oppose them, -- you, whose 
mind is so quick, and whose will is so 
firm are nevertheless, as weak and 
unequal to the contest as I am myself. 
Alas, you, who would have been such a 
powerful protector to me in the days of 
your health and strength, can now only 
sympathize in my joys and sorrows, 
without being able to take any active 
part in them. However, this is much, 
and calls for gratitude and heaven has 
not taken away all my blessings when it 
leaves me your sympathy and kindness."

At these words there appeared in 
Noirtier's eye an expression of such 
deep meaning that the young girl 
thought she could read these words 
there: "You are mistaken; I can still 
do much for you."

"Do you think you can help me, dear 
grandpapa?" said Valentine.

"Yes." Noirtier raised his eyes, it was 
the sign agreed on between him and 
Valentine when he wanted anything.

"What is it you want, dear grandpapa?" 
said Valentine, and she endeavored to 
recall to mind all the things which he 
would be likely to need; and as the 
ideas presented themselves to her mind, 
she repeated them aloud, then, -- 
finding that all her efforts elicited 
nothing but a constant "No," -- she 
said, "Come, since this plan does not 
answer, I will have recourse to 
another." She then recited all the 
letters of the alphabet from A down to 
N. When she arrived at that letter the 
paralytic made her understand that she 
had spoken the initial letter of the 
thing he wanted. "Ah," said Valentine, 
"the thing you desire begins with the 
letter N; it is with N that we have to 
do, then. Well, let me see, what can 
you want that begins with N? Na -- Ne 
-- Ni -- No" --

"Yes, yes, yes," said the old man's eye.

"Ah, it is No, then?"

"Yes." Valentine fetched a dictionary, 
which she placed on a desk before 
Noirtier; she opened it, and, seeing 
that the odd man's eye was thoroughly 
fixed on its pages, she ran her finger 
quickly up and down the columns. During 
the six years which had passed since 
Noirtier first fell into this sad 
state, Valentine's powers of invention 
had been too often put to the test not 
to render her expert in devising 
expedients for gaining a knowledge of 
his wishes, and the constant practice 
had so perfected her in the art that 
she guessed the old man's meaning as 
quickly as if he himself had been able 
to seek for what he wanted. At the word 
"Notary," Noirtier made a sign to her 
to stop. "Notary," said she, "do you 
want a notary, dear grandpapa?" The old 
man again signified that it was a 
notary he desired.

"You would wish a notary to be sent for 
then?" said Valentine.

"Yes."

"Shall my father be informed of your 
wish?"

"Yes."

"Do you wish the notary to be sent for 
immediately?"

"Yes."

"Then they shall go for him directly, 
dear grandpapa. Is that all you want?"

"Yes." Valentine rang the bell, and 
ordered the servant to tell Monsieur or 
Madame de Villefort that they were 
requested to come to M. Noirtier's 
room. "Are you satisfied now?" inquired 
Valentine.

"Yes."

"I am sure you are; it is not very 
difficult to discover that," -- and the 
young girl smiled on her grandfather, 
as if he had been a child. M. de 
Villefort entered, followed by Barrois. 
"What do you want me for, sir?" 
demanded he of the paralytic.

"Sir," said Valentine, "my grandfather 
wishes for a notary." At this strange 
and unexpected demand M. de Villefort 
and his father exchanged looks. "Yes," 
motioned the latter, with a firmness 
which seemed to declare that with the 
help of Valentine and his old servant, 
who both knew what his wishes were, he 
was quite prepared to maintain the 
contest. "Do you wish for a notary?" 
asked Villefort.

"Yes."

"What to do?"

Noirtier made no answer. "What do you 
want with a notary?" again repeated 
Villefort. The invalid's eye remained 
fixed, by which expression he intended 
to intimate that his resolution was 
unalterable. "Is it to do us some ill 
turn? Do you think it is worth while?" 
said Villefort.

"Still," said Barrois, with the freedom 
and fidelity of an old servant, "if M. 
Noirtier asks for a notary, I suppose 
he really wishes for a notary; 
therefore I shall go at once and fetch 
one." Barrois acknowledged no master 
but Noirtier, and never allowed his 
desires in any way to be contradicted.

"Yes, I do want a notary," motioned the 
old man, shutting his eyes with a look 
of defiance, which seemed to say, "and 
I should like to see the person who 
dares to refuse my request."

"You shall have a notary, as you 
absolutely wish for one, sir," said 
Villefort; "but I shall explain to him 
your state of health, and make excuses 
for you, for the scene cannot fail of 
being a most ridiculous one."

"Never mind that," said Barrois; "I 
shall go and fetch a notary, 
nevertheless," -- and the old servant 
departed triumphantly on his mission. 

 Chapter 59 The Will.

As soon as Barrois had left the room, 
Noirtier looked at Valentine with a 
malicious expression that said many 
things. The young girl perfectly 
understood the look, and so did 
Villefort, for his countenance became 
clouded, and he knitted his eyebrows 
angrily. He took a seat, and quietly 
awaited the arrival of the notary. 
Noirtier saw him seat himself with an 
appearance of perfect indifference, at 
the same time giving a side look at 
Valentine, which made her understand 
that she also was to remain in the 
room. Three-quarters of an hour after, 
Barrois returned, bringing the notary 
with him. "Sir," said Villefort, after 
the first salutations were over, "you 
were sent for by M. Noirtier, whom you 
see here. All his limbs have become 
completely paralysed, he has lost his 
voice also, and we ourselves find much 
trouble in endeavoring to catch some 
fragments of his meaning." Noirtier 
cast an appealing look on Valentine, 
which look was at once so earnest and 
imperative, that she answered 
immediately. "Sir," said she, "I 
perfectly understand my grandfather's 
meaning at all times."

"That is quite true," said Barrois; 
"and that is what I told the gentleman 
as we walked along."

"Permit me," said the notary, turning 
first to Villefort and then to 
Valentine -- "permit me to state that 
the case in question is just one of 
those in which a public officer like 
myself cannot proceed to act without 
thereby incurring a dangerous 
responsibility. The first thing 
necessary to render an act valid is, 
that the notary should be thoroughly 
convinced that he has faithfully 
interpreted the will and wishes of the 
person dictating the act. Now I cannot 
be sure of the approbation or 
disapprobation of a client who cannot 
speak, and as the object of his desire 
or his repugnance cannot be clearly 
proved to me, on account of his want of 
speech, my services here would be quite 
useless, and cannot be legally 
exercised." The notary then prepared to 
retire. An imperceptible smile of 
triumph was expressed on the lips of 
the procureur. Noirtier looked at 
Valentine with an expression so full of 
grief, that she arrested the departure 
of the notary. "Sir," said she, "the 
language which I speak with my 
grandfather may be easily learnt, and I 
can teach you in a few minutes, to 
understand it almost as well as I can 
myself. Will you tell me what you 
require, in order to set your 
conscience quite at ease on the 
subject?"

"In order to render an act valid, I 
must be certain of the approbation or 
disapprobation of my client. Illness of 
body would not affect the validity of 
the deed, but sanity of mind is 
absolutely requisite."

"Well, sir, by the help of two signs, 
with which I will acquaint you 
presently, you may ascertain with 
perfect certainty that my grandfather 
is still in the full possession of all 
his mental faculties. M. Noirtier, 
being deprived of voice and motion, is 
accustomed to convey his meaning by 
closing his eyes when he wishes to 
signify `yes,' and to wink when he 
means `no.' You now know quite enough 
to enable you to converse with M. 
Noirtier; -- try." Noirtier gave 
Valentine such a look of tenderness and 
gratitude that it was comprehended even 
by the notary himself. "You have heard 
and understood what your granddaughter 
has been saying, sir, have you?" asked 
the notary. Noirtier closed his eyes. 
"And you approve of what she said -- 
that is to say, you declare that the 
signs which she mentioned are really 
those by means of which you are 
accustomed to convey your thoughts?"

"Yes."

"It was you who sent for me?"

"Yes."

"To make your will?"

"Yes."

"And you do not wish me to go away 
without fulfilling your original 
intentions?" The old man winked 
violently. "Well, sir," said the young 
girl, "do you understand now, and is 
your conscience perfectly at rest on 
the subject?" But before the notary 
could answer, Villefort had drawn him 
aside. "Sir," said he, "do you suppose 
for a moment that a man can sustain a 
physical shock, such as M. Noirtier has 
received, without any detriment to his 
mental faculties?"

"It is not exactly that, sir," said the 
notary, "which makes me uneasy, but the 
difficulty will be in wording his 
thoughts and intentions, so as to be 
able to get his answers."

"You must see that to be an utter 
impossibility," said Villefort. 
Valentine and the old man heard this 
conversation, and Noirtier fixed his 
eye so earnestly on Valentine that she 
felt bound to answer to the look.

"Sir," said she, "that need not make 
you uneasy, however difficult it may at 
first sight appear to be. I can 
discover and explain to you my 
grandfather's thoughts, so as to put an 
end to all your doubts and fears on the 
subject. I have now been six years with 
M. Noirtier, and let him tell you if 
ever once, during that time, he has 
entertained a thought which he was 
unable to make me understand."

"No," signed the old man.

"Let us try what we can do, then," said 
the notary. "You accept this young lady 
as your interpreter, M. Noirtier?"

"Yes."

"Well, sir, what do you require of me, 
and what document is it that you wish 
to be drawn up?" Valentine named all 
the letters of the alphabet until she 
came to W. At this letter the eloquent 
eye of Noirtier gave her notice that 
she was to stop. "It is very evident 
that it is the letter W which M. 
Noirtier wants," said the notary. 
"Wait," said Valentine; and, turning to 
her grandfather, she repeated, "Wa -- 
We -- Wi" -- The old man stopped her at 
the last syllable. Valentine then took 
the dictionary, and the notary watched 
her while she turned over the pages. 
She passed her finger slowly down the 
columns, and when she came to the word 
"Will," M. Noirtier's eye bade her 
stop. "Will," said the notary; "it is 
very evident that M. Noirtier is 
desirous of making his will."

"Yes, yes, yes," motioned the invalid.

"Really, sir, you must allow that this 
is most extraordinary," said the 
astonished notary, turning to M. de 
Villefort. "Yes," said the procureur, 
"and I think the will promises to be 
yet more extraordinary, for I cannot 
see how it is to be drawn up without 
the intervention of Valentine, and she 
may, perhaps, be considered as too much 
interested in its contents to allow of 
her being a suitable interpreter of the 
obscure and ill-defined wishes of her 
grandfather."

"No, no, no," replied the eye of the 
paralytic.

"What?" said Villefort, "do you mean to 
say that Valentine is not interested in 
your will?"

"No."

"Sir," said the notary, whose interest 
had been greatly excited, and who had 
resolved on publishing far and wide the 
account of this extraordinary and 
picturesque scene, "what appeared so 
impossible to me an hour ago, has now 
become quite easy and practicable, and 
this may be a perfectly valid will, 
provided it be read in the presence of 
seven witnesses, approved by the 
testator, and sealed by the notary in 
the presence of the witnesses. As to 
the time, it will not require very much 
more than the generality of wills. 
There are certain forms necessary to be 
gone through, and which are always the 
same. As to the details, the greater 
part will be furnished afterwards by 
the state in which we find the affairs 
of the testator, and by yourself, who, 
having had the management of them, can 
doubtless give full information on the 
subject. But besides all this, in order 
that the instrument may not be 
contested, I am anxious to give it the 
greatest possible authenticity, 
therefore, one of my colleagues will 
help me, and, contrary to custom, will 
assist in the dictation of the 
testament. Are you satisfied, sir?" 
continued the notary, addressing the 
old man.

"Yes," looked the invalid, his eye 
beaming with delight at the ready 
interpretation of his meaning.

"What is he going to do?" thought 
Villefort, whose position demanded much 
reserve, but who was longing to know 
what his father's intentions were. He 
left the room to give orders for 
another notary to be sent, but Barrois, 
who had heard all that passed, had 
guessed his master's wishes, and had 
already gone to fetch one. The 
procureur then told his wife to come 
up. In the course of a quarter of an 
hour every one had assembled in the 
chamber of the paralytic; the second 
notary had also arrived. A few words 
sufficed for a mutual understanding 
between the two officers of the law. 
They read to Noirtier the formal copy 
of a will, in order to give him an idea 
of the terms in which such documents 
are generally couched; then, in order 
to test the capacity of the testator, 
the first notary said, turning towards 
him, -- "When an individual makes his 
will, it is generally in favor or in 
prejudice of some person."

"Yes."

"Have you an exact idea of the amount 
of your fortune?"

"Yes."

"I will name to you several sums which 
will increase by gradation; you will 
stop me when I reach the one 
representing the amount of your own 
possessions?"

"Yes." There was a kind of solemnity in 
this interrogation. Never had the 
struggle between mind and matter been 
more apparent than now, and if it was 
not a sublime, it was, at least, a 
curious spectacle. They had formed a 
circle round the invalid; the second 
notary was sitting at a table, prepared 
for writing, and his colleague was 
standing before the testator in the act 
of interrogating him on the subject to 
which we have alluded. "Your fortune 
exceeds 300,000 francs, does it not?" 
asked he. Noirtier made a sign that it 
did. "Do you possess 400,000 francs?" 
inquired the notary. Noirtier's eye 
remained immovable. "Five hundred 
thousand?" The same expression 
continued. "Six hundred thousand -- 
700,000 -- 800,000 -- 900,000?" 
Noirtier stopped him at the last-named 
sum. "You are then in possession of 
900,000 francs?" asked the notary. 
"Yes."

"In landed property?"

"No."

"In stock?"

"Yes."

"The stock is in your own hands?" The 
look which M. Noirtier cast on Barrois 
showed that there was something wanting 
which he knew where to find. The old 
servant left the room, and presently 
returned, bringing with him a small 
casket. "Do you permit us to open this 
casket?" asked the notary. Noirtier 
gave his assent. They opened it, and 
found 900,000 francs in bank scrip. The 
first notary handed over each note, as 
he examined it, to his colleague.

The total amount was found to be as M. 
Noirtier had stated. "It is all as he 
has said; it is very evident that the 
mind still retains its full force and 
vigor." Then, turning towards the 
paralytic, he said, "You possess, then, 
900,000 francs of capital, which, 
according to the manner in which you 
have invested it, ought to bring in an 
income of about 40,000 livres?"

"Yes."

"To whom do you desire to leave this 
fortune?"

"Oh," said Madame de Villefort, "there 
is not much doubt on that subject. M. 
Noirtier tenderly loves his 
granddaughter, Mademoiselle de 
Villefort; it is she who has nursed and 
tended him for six years, and has, by 
her devoted attention, fully secured 
the affection, I had almost said the 
gratitude, of her grandfather, and it 
is but just that she should reap the 
fruit of her devotion." The eye of 
Noirtier clearly showed by its 
expression that he was not deceived by 
the false assent given by Madame de 
Villefort's words and manner to the 
motives which she supposed him to 
entertain. "Is it, then, to 
Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort 
that you leave these 900,000 francs?" 
demanded the notary, thinking he had 
only to insert this clause, but waiting 
first for the assent of Noirtier, which 
it was necessary should be given before 
all the witnesses of this singular 
scene. Valentine, when her name was 
made the subject of discussion, had 
stepped back, to escape unpleasant 
observation; her eyes were cast down, 
and she was crying. The old man looked 
at her for an instant with an 
expression of the deepest tenderness, 
then, turning towards the notary, he 
significantly winked his eye in token 
of dissent.

"What," said the notary, "do you not 
intend making Mademoiselle Valentine de 
Villefort your residuary legatee?"

"No."

"You are not making any mistake, are 
you?" said the notary; "you really mean 
to declare that such is not your 
intention?"

"No," repeated Noirtier; "No." 
Valentine raised her head, struck dumb 
with astonishment. It was not so much 
the conviction that she was 
disinherited that caused her grief, but 
her total inability to account for the 
feelings which had provoked her 
grandfather to such an act. But 
Noirtier looked at her with so much 
affectionate tenderness that she 
exclaimed, "Oh, grandpapa, I see now 
that it is only your fortune of which 
you deprive me; you still leave me the 
love which I have always enjoyed."

"Ah, yes, most assuredly," said the 
eyes of the paralytic, for he closed 
them with an expression which Valentine 
could not mistake. "Thank you, thank 
you," murmured she. The old man's 
declaration that Valentine was not the 
destined inheritor of his fortune had 
excited the hopes of Madame de 
Villefort; she gradually approached the 
invalid, and said: "Then, doubtless, 
dear M. Noirtier, you intend leaving 
your fortune to your grandson, Edward 
de Villefort?" The winking of the eyes 
which answered this speech was most 
decided and terrible, and expressed a 
feeling almost amounting to hatred.

"No?" said the notary; "then, perhaps, 
it is to your son, M. de Villefort?"

"No." The two notaries looked at each 
other in mute astonishment and inquiry 
as to what were the real intentions of 
the testator. Villefort and his wife 
both grew red, one from shame, the 
other from anger.

"What have we all done, then, dear 
grandpapa?" said Valentine; "you no 
longer seem to love any of us?" The old 
man's eyes passed rapidly from 
Villefort and his wife, and rested on 
Valentine with a look of unutterable 
fondness. "Well," said she; "if you 
love me, grandpapa, try and bring that 
love to bear upon your actions at this 
present moment. You know me well enough 
to be quite sure that I have never 
thought of your fortune; besides, they 
say I am already rich in right of my 
mother -- too rich, even. Explain 
yourself, then." Noirtier fixed his 
intelligent eyes on Valentine's hand. 
"My hand?" said she.

"Yes."

"Her hand!" exclaimed every one.

"Oh, gentlemen, you see it is all 
useless, and that my father's mind is 
really impaired," said Villefort.

"Ah," cried Valentine suddenly, "I 
understand. It is my marriage you mean, 
is it not, dear grandpapa?"

"Yes, yes, yes," signed the paralytic, 
casting on Valentine a look of joyful 
gratitude for having guessed his 
meaning.

"You are angry with us all on account 
of this marriage, are you not?"

"Yes?"

"Really, this is too absurd," said 
Villefort.

"Excuse me, sir," replied the notary; 
"on the contrary, the meaning of M. 
Noirtier is quite evident to me, and I 
can quite easily connect the train of 
ideas passing in his mind."

"You do not wish me to marry M. Franz 
d'Epinay?" observed Valentine.

"I do not wish it," said the eye of her 
grandfather. "And you disinherit your 
granddaughter," continued the notary, 
"because she has contracted an 
engagement contrary to your wishes?"

"Yes."

"So that, but for this marriage, she 
would have been your heir?"

"Yes." There was a profound silence. 
The two notaries were holding a 
consultation as to the best means of 
proceeding with the affair. Valentine 
was looking at her grandfather with a 
smile of intense gratitude, and 
Villefort was biting his lips with 
vexation, while Madame de Villefort 
could not succeed in repressing an 
inward feeling of joy, which, in spite 
of herself, appeared in her whole 
countenance. "But," said Villefort, who 
was the first to break the silence, "I 
consider that I am the best judge of 
the propriety of the marriage in 
question. I am the only person 
possessing the right to dispose of my 
daughter's hand. It is my wish that she 
should marry M. Franz d'Epinay -- and 
she shall marry him." Valentine sank 
weeping into a chair.

"Sir," said the notary, "how do you 
intend disposing of your fortune in 
case Mademoiselle de Villefort still 
determines on marrying M. Franz?" The 
old man gave no answer. "You will, of 
course, dispose of it in some way or 
other?"

"Yes."

"In favor of some member of your 
family?"

"No."

"Do you intend devoting it to 
charitable purposes, then?" pursued the 
notary.

"Yes."

"But," said the notary, "you are aware 
that the law does not allow a son to be 
entirely deprived of his patrimony?"

"Yes."

"You only intend, then, to dispose of 
that part of your fortune which the law 
allows you to subtract from the 
inheritance of your son?" Noirtier made 
no answer. "Do you still wish to 
dispose of all?"

"Yes."

"But they will contest the will after 
your death?"

"No."

"My father knows me," replied 
Villefort; "he is quite sure that his 
wishes will be held sacred by me; 
besides, he understands that in my 
position I cannot plead against the 
poor." The eye of Noirtier beamed with 
triumph. "What do you decide on, sir?" 
asked the notary of Villefort.

"Nothing, sir; it is a resolution which 
my father has taken and I know he never 
alters his mind. I am quite resigned. 
These 900,000 francs will go out of the 
family in order to enrich some 
hospital; but it is ridiculous thus to 
yield to the caprices of an old man, 
and I shall, therefore, act according 
to my conscience." Having said this, 
Villefort quitted the room with his 
wife, leaving his father at liberty to 
do as he pleased. The same day the will 
was made, the witnesses were brought, 
it was approved by the old man, sealed 
in the presence of all and given in 
charge to M. Deschamps, the family 
notary. 

 Chapter 60 The Telegraph.

M. and Madame de Villefort found on 
their return that the Count of Monte 
Cristo, who had come to visit them in 
their absence, had been ushered into 
the drawing-room, and was still 
awaiting them there. Madame de 
Villefort, who had not yet sufficiently 
recovered from her late emotion to 
allow of her entertaining visitors so 
immediately, retired to her bedroom, 
while the procureur, who could better 
depend upon himself, proceeded at once 
to the salon. Although M. de Villefort 
flattered himself that, to all outward 
view, he had completely masked the 
feelings which were passing in his 
mind, he did not know that the cloud 
was still lowering on his brow, so much 
so that the count, whose smile was 
radiant, immediately noticed his sombre 
and thoughtful air. "Ma foi," said 
Monte Cristo, after the first 
compliments were over, "what is the 
matter with you, M. de Villefort? Have 
I arrived at the moment when you were 
drawing up an indictment for a capital 
crime?" Villefort tried to smile. "No, 
count," he replied, "I am the only 
victim in this case. It is I who lose 
my cause, and it is ill-luck, 
obstinacy, and folly which have caused 
it to be decided against me."

"To what do you refer?" said Monte 
Cristo with well-feigned interest. 
"Have you really met with some great 
misfortune?"

"Oh, no, monsieur," said Villefort with 
a bitter smile; "it is only a loss of 
money which I have sustained -- nothing 
worth mentioning, I assure you."

"True," said Monte Cristo, "the loss of 
a sum of money becomes almost 
immaterial with a fortune such as you 
possess, and to one of your philosophic 
spirit."

"It is not so much the loss of the 
money that vexes me," said Villefort, 
"though, after all, 900,000 francs are 
worth regretting; but I am the more 
annoyed with this fate, chance, or 
whatever you please to call the power 
which has destroyed my hopes and my 
fortune, and may blast the prospects of 
my child also, as it is all occasioned 
by an old man relapsed into second 
childhood."

"What do you say?" said the count; 
"900,000 francs? It is indeed a sum 
which might be regretted even by a 
philosopher. And who is the cause of 
all this annoyance?"

"My father, as I told you."

"M. Noirtier? But I thought you told me 
he had become entirely paralyzed, and 
that all his faculties were completely 
destroyed?"

"Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can 
neither move nor speak, nevertheless he 
thinks, acts, and wills in the manner I 
have described. I left him about five 
minutes ago, and he is now occupied in 
dictating his will to two notaries."

"But to do this he must have spoken?"

"He has done better than that -- he has 
made himself understood."

"How was such a thing possible?"

"By the help of his eyes, which are 
still full of life, and, as you 
perceive, possess the power of 
inflicting mortal injury."

"My dear," said Madame de Villefort, 
who had just entered the room, "perhaps 
you exaggerate the evil."

"Good-morning, madame," said the count, 
bowing. Madame de Villefort 
acknowledged the salutation with one of 
her most gracious smiles. "What is this 
that M. de Villefort has been telling 
me?" demanded Monte Cristo "and what 
incomprehensible misfortune" --

"Incomprehensible is not the word," 
interrupted the procureur, shrugging 
his shoulders. "It is an old man's 
caprice."

"And is there no means of making him 
revoke his decision?"

"Yes," said Madame de Villefort; "and 
it is still entirely in the power of my 
husband to cause the will, which is now 
in prejudice of Valentine, to be 
altered in her favor." The count, who 
perceived that M. and Madame de 
Villefort were beginning to speak in 
parables, appeared to pay no attention 
to the conversation, and feigned to be 
busily engaged in watching Edward, who 
was mischievously pouring some ink into 
the bird's water-glass. "My dear," said 
Villefort, in answer to his wife, "you 
know I have never been accustomed to 
play the patriarch in my family, nor 
have I ever considered that the fate of 
a universe was to be decided by my nod. 
Nevertheless, it is necessary that my 
will should be respected in my family, 
and that the folly of an old man and 
the caprice of a child should not be 
allowed to overturn a project which I 
have entertained for so many years. The 
Baron d'Epinay was my friend, as you 
know, and an alliance with his son is 
the most suitable thing that could 
possibly be arranged."

"Do you think," said Madame de 
Villefort, "that Valentine is in league 
with him? She has always been opposed 
to this marriage, and I should not be 
at all surprised if what we have just 
seen and heard is nothing but the 
execution of a plan concerted between 
them."

"Madame," said Villefort, "believe me, 
a fortune of 900,000 francs is not so 
easily renounced."

"She could, nevertheless, make up her 
mind to renounce the world, sir, since 
it is only about a year ago that she 
herself proposed entering a convent."

"Never mind," replied Villefort; "I say 
that this marriage shall be 
consummated."

"Notwithstanding your father's wishes 
to the contrary?" said Madame de 
Villefort, selecting a new point of 
attack. "That is a serious thing." 
Monte Cristo, who pretended not to be 
listening, heard however, every word 
that was said. "Madame," replied 
Villefort "I can truly say that I have 
always entertained a high respect for 
my father, because, to the natural 
feeling of relationship was added the 
consciousness of his moral superiority. 
The name of father is sacred in two 
senses; he should be reverenced as the 
author of our being and as a master 
whom we ought to obey. But, under the 
present circumstances, I am justified 
in doubting the wisdom of an old man 
who, because he hated the father, vents 
his anger on the son. It would be 
ridiculous in me to regulate my conduct 
by such caprices. I shall still 
continue to preserve the same respect 
toward M. Noirtier; I will suffer, 
without complaint, the pecuniary 
deprivation to which he has subjected 
me; but I shall remain firm in my 
determination, and the world shall see 
which party his reason on his side. 
Consequently I shall marry my daughter 
to the Baron Franz d'Epinay, because I 
consider it would be a proper and 
eligible match for her to make, and, in 
short, because I choose to bestow my 
daughter's hand on whomever I please."

"What?" said the count, the approbation 
of whose eye Villefort had frequently 
solicited during this speech. "What? Do 
you say that M. Noirtier disinherits 
Mademoiselle de Villefort because she 
is going to marry M. le Baron Franz 
d'Epinay?"

"Yes, sir, that is the reason," said 
Villefort, shrugging his shoulders.

"The apparent reason, at least," said 
Madame de Villefort.

"The real reason, madame, I can assure 
you; I know my father."

"But I want to know in what way M. 
d'Epinay can have displeased your 
father more than any other person?"

"I believe I know M. Franz d'Epinay," 
said the count; "is he not the son of 
General de Quesnel, who was created 
Baron d'Epinay by Charles X.?"

"The same," said Villefort.

"Well, but he is a charming young man, 
according to my ideas."

"He is, which makes me believe that it 
is only an excuse of M. Noirtier to 
prevent his granddaughter marrying; old 
men are always so selfish in their 
affection," said Madame de Villefort.

"But," said Monte Cristo "do you not 
know any cause for this hatred?"

"Ah, ma foi, who is to know?"

"Perhaps it is some political 
difference?"

"My father and the Baron d'Epinay lived 
in the stormy times of which I only saw 
the ending," said Villefort.

"Was not your father a Bonapartist?" 
asked Monte Cristo; "I think I remember 
that you told me something of that 
kind."

"My father has been a Jacobin more than 
anything else," said Villefort, carried 
by his emotion beyond the bounds of 
prudence; "and the senator's robe, 
which Napoleon cast on his shoulders, 
only served to disguise the old man 
without in any degree changing him. 
When my father conspired, it was not 
for the emperor, it was against the 
Bourbons; for M. Noirtier possessed 
this peculiarity, he never projected 
any Utopian schemes which could never 
be realized, but strove for 
possibilities, and he applied to the 
realization of these possibilities the 
terrible theories of The Mountain, -- 
theories that never shrank from any 
means that were deemed necessary to 
bring about the desired result."

"Well," said Monte Cristo, "it is just 
as I thought; it was politics which 
brought Noirtier and M. d'Epinay into 
personal contact. Although General 
d'Epinay served under Napoleon, did he 
not still retain royalist sentiments? 
And was he not the person who was 
assassinated one evening on leaving a 
Bonapartist meeting to which he had 
been invited on the supposition that he 
favored the cause of the emperor?" 
Villefort looked at the count almost 
with terror. "Am I mistaken, then?" 
said Monte Cristo.

"No, sir, the facts were precisely what 
you have stated," said Madame de 
Villefort; "and it was to prevent the 
renewal of old feuds that M. de 
Villefort formed the idea of uniting in 
the bonds of affection the two children 
of these inveterate enemies."

"It was a sublime and charitable 
thought," said Monte Cristo, "and the 
whole world should applaud it. It would 
be noble to see Mademoiselle Noirtier 
de Villefort assuming the title of 
Madame Franz d'Epinay." Villefort 
shuddered and looked at Monte Cristo as 
if he wished to read in his countenance 
the real feelings which had dictated 
the words he had just uttered. But the 
count completely baffled the procureur, 
and prevented him from discovering 
anything beneath the never-varying 
smile he was so constantly in the habit 
of assuming. "Although," said 
Villefort, "it will be a serious thing 
for Valentine to lose her grandfather's 
fortune, I do not think that M. 
d'Epinay will be frightened at this 
pecuniary loss. He will, perhaps, hold 
me in greater esteem than the money 
itself, seeing that I sacrifice 
everything in order to keep my word 
with him. Besides, he knows that 
Valentine is rich in right of her 
mother, and that she will, in all 
probability, inherit the fortune of M. 
and Madame de Saint-Meran, her mother's 
parents, who both love her tenderly."

"And who are fully as well worth loving 
and tending as M. Noirtier," said 
Madame de Villefort; "besides, they are 
to come to Paris in about a month, and 
Valentine, after the affront she has 
received, need not consider it 
necessary to continue to bury herself 
alive by being shut up with M. 
Noirtier." The count listened with 
satisfaction to this tale of wounded 
self-love and defeated ambition. "But 
it seems to me," said Monte Cristo, 
"and I must begin by asking your pardon 
for what I am about to say, that if M. 
Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de 
Villefort because she is going to marry 
a man whose father he detested, he 
cannot have the same cause of complaint 
against this dear Edward."

"True," said Madame de Villefort, with 
an intonation of voice which it is 
impossible to describe; "is it not 
unjust -- shamefully unjust? Poor 
Edward is as much M. Noirtier's 
grandchild as Valentine, and yet, if 
she had not been going to marry M. 
Franz, M. Noirtier would have left her 
all his money; and supposing Valentine 
to be disinherited by her grandfather, 
she will still be three times richer 
than he." The count listened and said 
no more. "Count," said Villefort, "we 
will not entertain you any longer with 
our family misfortunes. It is true that 
my patrimony will go to endow 
charitable institutions, and my father 
will have deprived me of my lawful 
inheritance without any reason for 
doing so, but I shall have the 
satisfaction of knowing that I have 
acted like a man of sense and feeling. 
M. d'Epinay, to whom I had promised the 
interest of this sum, shall receive it, 
even if I endure the most cruel 
privations."

"However," said Madame de Villefort, 
returning to the one idea which 
incessantly occupied her mind, "perhaps 
it would be better to explain this 
unlucky affair to M. d'Epinay, in order 
to give him the opportunity of himself 
renouncing his claim to the hand of 
Mademoiselle de Villefort."

"Ah, that would be a great pity," said 
Villefort.

"A great pity," said Monte Cristo.

"Undoubtedly," said Villefort, 
moderating the tones of his voice, "a 
marriage once concerted and then broken 
off, throws a sort of discredit on a 
young lady; then again, the old 
reports, which I was so anxious to put 
an end to, will instantly gain ground. 
No, it will all go well; M. d'Epinay, 
if he is an honorable man, will 
consider himself more than ever pledged 
to Mademoiselle de Villefort, unless he 
were actuated by a decided feeling of 
avarice, but that is impossible."

"I agree with M. de Villefort," said 
Monte Cristo, fixing his eyes on Madame 
de Villefort; "and if I were 
sufficiently intimate with him to allow 
of giving my advice, I would persuade 
him, since I have been told M. d'Epinay 
is coming back, to settle this affair 
at once beyond all possibility of 
revocation. I will answer for the 
success of a project which will reflect 
so much honor on M. de Villefort." The 
procureur arose, delighted with the 
proposition, but his wife slightly 
changed color. "Well, that is all that 
I wanted, and I will be guided by a 
counsellor such as you are," said he, 
extending his hand to Monte Cristo. 
"Therefore let every one here look upon 
what has passed to-day as if it had not 
happened, and as though we had never 
thought of such a thing as a change in 
our original plans."

"Sir," said the count, "the world, 
unjust as it is, will be pleased with 
your resolution; your friends will be 
proud of you, and M. d'Epinay, even if 
he took Mademoiselle de Villefort 
without any dowry, which he will not 
do, would be delighted with the idea of 
entering a family which could make such 
sacrifices in order to keep a promise 
and fulfil a duty." At the conclusion 
of these words, the count rose to 
depart. "Are you going to leave us, 
count?" said Madame de Villefort.

"I am sorry to say I must do so, 
madame, I only came to remind you of 
your promise for Saturday."

"Did you fear that we should forget it?"

"You are very good, madame, but M. de 
Villefort has so many important and 
urgent occupations."

"My husband has given me his word, 
sir," said Madame de Villefort; "you 
have just seen him resolve to keep it 
when he has everything to lose, and 
surely there is more reason for his 
doing so where he has everything to 
gain."

"And," said Villefort, "is it at your 
house in the Champs-Elysees that you 
receive your visitors?"

"No," said Monte Cristo, "which is 
precisely the reason which renders your 
kindness more meritorious, -- it is in 
the country."

"In the country?"

"Yes."

"Where is it, then? Near Paris, is it 
not?"

"Very near, only half a league from the 
Barriers, -- it is at Auteuil."

"At Auteuil?" said Villefort; "true, 
Madame de Villefort told me you lived 
at Auteuil, since it was to your house 
that she was taken. And in what part of 
Auteuil do you reside?"

"Rue de la Fontaine."

"Rue de la Fontaine!" exclaimed 
Villefort in an agitated tone; "at what 
number?"

"No. 28."

"Then," cried Villefort, "was it you 
who bought M. de Saint-Meran's house!"

"Did it belong to M. de Saint-Meran?" 
demanded Monte Cristo.

"Yes," replied Madame de Villefort; 
"and, would you believe it, count" --

"Believe what?"

"You think this house pretty, do you 
not?"

"I think it charming."

"Well, my husband would never live in 
it."

"Indeed?" returned Monte Cristo, "that 
is a prejudice on your part, M. de 
Villefort, for which I am quite at a 
loss to account."

"I do not like Auteuil, sir," said the 
procureur, making an evident effort to 
appear calm.

"But I hope you will not carry your 
antipathy so far as to deprive me of 
the pleasure of your company, sir," 
said Monte Cristo.

"No, count, -- I hope -- I assure you I 
shall do my best," stammered Villefort.

"Oh," said Monte Cristo, "I allow of no 
excuse. On Saturday, at six o'clock. I 
shall be expecting you, and if you fail 
to come, I shall think -- for how do I 
know to the contrary? -- that this 
house, which his remained uninhabited 
for twenty years, must have some gloomy 
tradition or dreadful legend connected 
with it."

"I will come, count, -- I will be sure 
to come," said Villefort eagerly.

"Thank you," said Monte Cristo; "now 
you must permit me to take my leave of 
you."

"You said before that you were obliged 
to leave us, monsieur," said Madame de 
Villefort, "and you were about to tell 
us why when your attention was called 
to some other subject."

"Indeed madame," said Monte Cristo: "I 
scarcely know if I dare tell you where 
I am going."

"Nonsense; say on."

"Well, then, it is to see a thing on 
which I have sometimes mused for hours 
together."

"What is it?"

"A telegraph. So now I have told my 
secret."

"A telegraph?" repeated Madame de 
Villefort.

"Yes, a telegraph. I had often seen one 
placed at the end of a road on a 
hillock, and in the light of the sun 
its black arms, bending in every 
direction, always reminded me of the 
claws of an immense beetle, and I 
assure you it was never without emotion 
that I gazed on it, for I could not 
help thinking how wonderful it was that 
these various signs should be made to 
cleave the air with such precision as 
to convey to the distance of three 
hundred leagues the ideas and wishes of 
a man sitting at a table at one end of 
the line to another man similarly 
placed at the opposite extremity, and 
all this effected by a simple act of 
volition on the part of the sender of 
the message. I began to think of genii, 
sylphs, gnomes, in short, of all the 
ministers of the occult sciences, until 
I laughed aloud at the freaks of my own 
imagination. Now, it never occurred to 
me to wish for a nearer inspection of 
these large insects, with their long 
black claws, for I always feared to 
find under their stone wings some 
little human genius fagged to death 
with cabals, factions, and government 
intrigues. But one fine day I learned 
that the mover of this telegraph was 
only a poor wretch, hired for twelve 
hundred francs a year, and employed all 
day, not in studying the heavens like 
an astronomer, or in gazing on the 
water like an angler, or even in 
enjoying the privilege of observing the 
country around him, but all his 
monotonous life was passed in watching 
his white-bellied, black-clawed fellow 
insect, four or five leagues distant 
from him. At length I felt a desire to 
study this living chrysalis more 
closely, and to endeavor to understand 
the secret part played by these 
insect-actors when they occupy 
themselves simply with pulling 
different pieces of string."

"And are you going there?"

"I am."

"What telegraph do you intend visiting? 
that of the home department, or of the 
observatory?"

"Oh, no; I should find there people who 
would force me to understand things of 
which I would prefer to remain 
ignorant, and who would try to explain 
to me, in spite of myself, a mystery 
which even they do not understand. Ma 
foi, I should wish to keep my illusions 
concerning insects unimpaired; it is 
quite enough to have those dissipated 
which I had formed of my 
fellow-creatures. I shall, therefore, 
not visit either of these telegraphs, 
but one in the open country where I 
shall find a good-natured simpleton, 
who knows no more than the machine he 
is employed to work."

"You are a singular man," said 
Villefort.

"What line would you advise me to 
study?"

"The one that is most in use just at 
this time."

"The Spanish one, you mean, I suppose?"

"Yes; should you like a letter to the 
minister that they might explain to 
you" --

"No," said Monte Cristo; "since, as I 
told you before, I do not wish to 
comprehend it. The moment I understand 
it there will no longer exist a 
telegraph for me; it will he nothing 
more than a sign from M. Duchatel, or 
from M. Montalivet, transmitted to the 
prefect of Bayonne, mystified by two 
Greek words, tele, graphein. It is the 
insect with black claws, and the awful 
word which I wish to retain in my 
imagination in all its purity and all 
its importance."

"Go then; for in the course of two 
hours it will be dark, and you will not 
be able to see anything."

"Ma foi, you frighten me. Which is the 
nearest way? Bayonne?"

"Yes; the road to Bayonne."

"And afterwards the road to Chatillon?"

"Yes."

"By the tower of Montlhery, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. Good-by. On Saturday I will 
tell you my impressions concerning the 
telegraph." At the door the count was 
met by the two notaries, who had just 
completed the act which was to 
disinherit Valentine, and who were 
leaving under the conviction of having 
done a thing which could not fail of 
redounding considerably to their 
credit. 

 Chapter 61 How a Gardener may get rid 
of the Dormice that eat His Peaches.

Not on the same night, as he had 
intended, but the next morning, the 
Count of Monte Cristo went out by the 
Barrier d'Enfer, taking the road to 
Orleans. Leaving the village of Linas, 
without stopping at the telegraph, 
which flourished its great bony arms as 
he passed, the count reached the tower 
of Montlhery, situated, as every one 
knows, upon the highest point of the 
plain of that name. At the foot of the 
hill the count dismounted and began to 
ascend by a little winding path, about 
eighteen inches wide; when he reached 
the summit he found himself stopped by 
a hedge, upon which green fruit had 
succeeded to red and white flowers.

Monte Cristo looked for the entrance to 
the enclosure, and was not long in 
finding a little wooden gate, working 
on willow hinges, and fastened with a 
nail and string. The count soon 
mastered the mechanism, the gate 
opened, and he then found himself in a 
little garden, about twenty feet long 
by twelve wide, bounded on one side by 
part of the hedge, which contained the 
ingenious contrivance we have called a 
gate, and on the other by the old 
tower, covered with ivy and studded 
with wall-flowers. No one would have 
thought in looking at this old, 
weather-beaten, floral-decked tower 
(which might be likened to an elderly 
dame dressed up to receive her 
grandchildren at a birthday feast) that 
it would have been capable of telling 
strange things, if, -- in addition to 
the menacing ears which the proverb 
says all walls are provided with, -- it 
had also a voice. The garden was 
crossed by a path of red gravel, edged 
by a border of thick box, of many 
years' growth, and of a tone and color 
that would have delighted the heart of 
Delacroix, our modern Rubens. This path 
was formed in the shape of the figure 
of 8, thus, in its windings, making a 
walk of sixty feet in a garden of only 
twenty.

Never had Flora, the fresh and smiling 
goddess of gardeners, been honored with 
a purer or more scrupulous worship than 
that which was paid to her in this 
little enclosure. In fact, of the 
twenty rose-trees which formed the 
parterre, not one bore the mark of the 
slug, nor were there evidences anywhere 
of the clustering aphis which is so 
destructive to plants growing in a damp 
soil. And yet it was not because the 
damp had been excluded from the garden; 
the earth, black as soot, the thick 
foliage of the trees betrayed its 
presence; besides, had natural humidity 
been wanting, it could have been 
immediately supplied by artificial 
means, thanks to a tank of water, sunk 
in one of the corners of the garden, 
and upon which were stationed a frog 
and a toad, who, from antipathy, no 
doubt, always remained on the two 
opposite sides of the basin. There was 
not a blade of grass to be seen in the 
paths, or a weed in the flower-beds; no 
fine lady ever trained and watered her 
geraniums, her cacti, and her 
rhododendrons, with more pains than 
this hitherto unseen gardener bestowed 
upon his little enclosure. Monte Cristo 
stopped after having closed the gate 
and fastened the string to the nail, 
and cast a look around.

"The man at the telegraph," said he, 
"must either engage a gardener or 
devote himself passionately to 
agriculture." Suddenly he struck 
against something crouching behind a 
wheelbarrow filled with leaves; the 
something rose, uttering an exclamation 
of astonishment, and Monte Cristo found 
himself facing a man about fifty years 
old, who was plucking strawberries, 
which he was placing upon grape leaves. 
He had twelve leaves and about as many 
strawberries, which, on rising 
suddenly, he let fall from his hand. 
"You are gathering your crop, sir?" 
said Monte Cristo, smiling.

"Excuse me, sir," replied the man, 
raising his hand to his cap; "I am not 
up there, I know, but I have only just 
come down."

"Do not let me interfere with you in 
anything, my friend," said the count; 
"gather your strawberries, if, indeed, 
there are any left."

"I have ten left," said the man, "for 
here are eleven, and I had twenty-one, 
five more than last year. But I am not 
surprised; the spring has been warm 
this year, and strawberries require 
heat, sir. This is the reason that, 
instead of the sixteen I had last year, 
I have this year, you see, eleven, 
already plucked -- twelve, thirteen, 
fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, 
eighteen. Ah, I miss three, they were 
here last night, sir -- I am sure they 
were here -- I counted them. It must be 
the Mere Simon's son who has stolen 
them; I saw him strolling about here 
this morning. Ah, the young rascal -- 
stealing in a garden -- he does not 
know where that may lead him to."

"Certainly, it is wrong," said Monte 
Cristo, "but you should take into 
consideration the youth and greediness 
of the delinquent."

"Of course," said the gardener, "but 
that does not make it the less 
unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg 
pardon; perhaps you are an officer that 
I am detaining here." And he glanced 
timidly at the count's blue coat.

"Calm yourself, my friend," said the 
count, with the smile which he made at 
will either terrible or benevolent, and 
which now expressed only the kindliest 
feeling; "I am not an inspector, but a 
traveller, brought here by a curiosity 
he half repents of, since he causes you 
to lose your time."

"Ah, my time is not valuable," replied 
the man with a melancholy smile. "Still 
it belongs to government, and I ought 
not to waste it; but, having received 
the signal that I might rest for an 
hour" (here he glanced at the sun-dial, 
for there was everything in the 
enclosure of Montlhery, even a 
sun-dial), "and having ten minutes 
before me, and my strawberries being 
ripe, when a day longer -- by-the-by, 
sir, do you think dormice eat them?"

"Indeed, I should think not," replied 
Monte Cristo; "dormice are bad 
neighbors for us who do not eat them 
preserved, as the Romans did."

"What? Did the Romans eat them?" said 
the gardener -- "ate dormice?"

"I have read so in Petronius," said the 
count.

"Really? They can't be nice, though 
they do say `as fat as a dormouse.' It 
is not a wonder they are fat, sleeping 
all day, and only waking to eat all 
night. Listen. Last year I had four 
apricots -- they stole one, I had one 
nectarine, only one -- well, sir, they 
ate half of it on the wall; a splendid 
nectarine -- I never ate a better."

"You ate it?"

"That is to say, the half that was left 
-- you understand; it was exquisite, 
sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose 
the worst morsels; like Mere Simon's 
son, who has not chosen the worst 
strawberries. But this year," continued 
the horticulturist, "I'll take care it 
shall not happen, even if I should be 
forced to sit by the whole night to 
watch when the strawberries are ripe." 
Monte Cristo had seen enough. Every man 
has a devouring passion in his heart, 
as every fruit has its worm; that of 
the telegraph man was horticulture. He 
began gathering the grape-leaves which 
screened the sun from the grapes, and 
won the heart of the gardener. "Did you 
come here, sir, to see the telegraph?" 
he said.

"Yes, if it isn't contrary to the 
rules."

"Oh, no," said the gardener; "not in 
the least, since there is no danger 
that anyone can possibly understand 
what we are saying."

"I have been told," said the count, 
"that you do not always yourselves 
understand the signals you repeat."

"That is true, sir, and that is what I 
like best," said the man, smiling.

"Why do you like that best?"

"Because then I have no responsibility. 
I am a machine then, and nothing else, 
and so long as I work, nothing more is 
required of me."

"Is it possible," said Monte Cristo to 
himself, "that I can have met with a 
man that has no ambition? That would 
spoil my plans."

"Sir," said the gardener, glancing at 
the sun-dial, "the ten minutes are 
almost up; I must return to my post. 
Will you go up with me?"

"I follow you." Monte Cristo entered 
the tower, which was divided into three 
stories. The tower contained 
implements, such as spades, rakes, 
watering-pots, hung against the wall; 
this was all the furniture. The second 
was the man's conventional abode, or 
rather sleeping-place; it contained a 
few poor articles of household 
furniture -- a bed, a table, two 
chairs, a stone pitcher -- and some dry 
herbs, hung up to the ceiling, which 
the count recognized as sweet pease, 
and of which the good man was 
preserving the seeds; he had labelled 
them with as much care as if he had 
been master botanist in the Jardin des 
Plantes.

"Does it require much study to learn 
the art of telegraphing?" asked Monte 
Cristo.

"The study does not take long; it was 
acting as a supernumerary that was so 
tedious."

"And what is the pay?"

"A thousand francs, sir."

"It is nothing."

"No; but then we are lodged, as you 
perceive."

Monte Cristo looked at the room. They 
passed to the third story; it was the 
telegraph room. Monte Cristo looked in 
turn at the two iron handles by which 
the machine was worked. "It is very 
interesting," he said, "but it must be 
very tedious for a lifetime."

"Yes. At first my neck was cramped with 
looking at it, but at the end of a year 
I became used to it; and then we have 
our hours of recreation, and our 
holidays."

"Holidays?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When we have a fog."

"Ah, to be sure."

"Those are indeed holidays to me; I go 
into the garden, I plant, I prune, I 
trim, I kill the insects all day long."

"How long have you been here?"

"Ten years, and five as a supernumerary 
make fifteen."

"You are -- "

"Fifty-five years old."

"How long must you have served to claim 
the pension?"

"Oh, sir, twenty-five years."

"And how much is the pension?"

"A hundred crowns."

"Poor humanity!" murmured Monte Cristo.

"What did you say, sir?" asked the man.

"I was saying it was very interesting."

"What was?"

"All you were showing me. And you 
really understand none of these 
signals?"

"None at all."

"And have you never tried to understand 
them?"

"Never. Why should I?"

"But still there are some signals only 
addressed to you."

"Certainly."

"And do you understand them?"

"They are always the same."

"And they mean -- "

"Nothing new; You have an hour; or 
To-morrow."

"This is simple enough," said the 
count; "but look, is not your 
correspondent putting itself in motion?"

"Ah, yes; thank you, sir."

"And what is it saying -- anything you 
understand?"

"Yes; it asks if I am ready."

"And you reply?"

"By the same sign, which, at the same 
time, tells my right-hand correspondent 
that I am ready, while it gives notice 
to my left-hand correspondent to 
prepare in his turn."

"It is very ingenious," said the count.

"You will see," said the man proudly; 
"in five minutes he will speak."

"I have, then, five minutes," said 
Monte Cristo to himself; "it is more 
time than I require. My dear sir, will 
you allow me to ask you a question?"

"What is it, sir?"

"You are fond of gardening?"

"Passionately."

"And you would be pleased to have, 
instead of this terrace of twenty feet, 
an enclosure of two acres?"

"Sir, I should make a terrestrial 
paradise of it."

"You live badly on your thousand 
francs?"

"Badly enough; but yet I do live."

"Yes; but you have a wretchedly small 
garden."

"True, the garden is not large."

"And, then, such as it is, it is filled 
with dormice, who eat everything."

"Ah, they are my scourges."

"Tell me, should you have the 
misfortune to turn your head while your 
right-hand correspondent was 
telegraphing" --

"I should not see him."

"Then what would happen?"

"I could not repeat the signals."

"And then?"

"Not having repeated them, through 
negligence, I should be fined."

"How much?"

"A hundred francs."

"The tenth of your income -- that would 
be fine work."

"Ah," said the man.

"Has it ever happened to you?" said 
Monte Cristo.

"Once, sir, when I was grafting a 
rose-tree."

"Well, suppose you were to alter a 
signal, and substitute another?"

"Ah, that is another case; I should be 
turned off, and lose my pension."

"Three hundred francs?"

"A hundred crowns, yes, sir; so you see 
that I am not likely to do any of these 
things."

"Not even for fifteen years' wages? 
Come, it is worth thinking about?"

"For fifteen thousand francs?"

"Yes."

"Sir, you alarm me."

"Nonsense."

"Sir, you are tempting me?"

"Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do 
you understand?"

"Sir, let me see my right-hand 
correspondent."

"On the contrary, do not look at him, 
but at this."

"What is it?"

"What? Do you not know these bits of 
paper?"

"Bank-notes!"

"Exactly; there are fifteen of them."

"And whose are they?"

"Yours, if you like."

"Mine?" exclaimed the man, 
half-suffocated.

"Yes; yours -- your own property."

"Sir, my right-hand correspondent is 
signalling."

"Let him signal."

"Sir, you have distracted me; I shall 
be fined."

"That will cost you a hundred francs; 
you see it is your interest to take my 
bank-notes."

"Sir, my right-hand correspondent 
redoubles his signals; he is impatient."

"Never mind -- take these;" and the 
count placed the packet in the man's 
hands. "Now this is not all," he said; 
"you cannot live upon your fifteen 
thousand francs."

"I shall still have my place."

"No, you will lose it, for you are 
going to alter your correspondent's 
message."

"Oh, sir, what are you proposing?"

"A jest."

"Sir, unless you force me" --

"I think I can effectually force you;" 
and Monte Cristo drew another packet 
from his pocket. "Here are ten thousand 
more francs," he said, "with the 
fifteen thousand already in your 
pocket, they will make twenty-five 
thousand. With five thousand you can 
buy a pretty little house with two 
acres of land; the remaining twenty 
thousand will bring you in a thousand 
francs a year."

"A garden with two acres of land!"

"And a thousand francs a year."

"Oh, heavens!"

"Come, take them," and Monte Cristo 
forced the bank-notes into his hand.

"What am I to do?"

"Nothing very difficult."

"But what is it?"

"To repeat these signs." Monte Cristo 
took a paper from his pocket, upon 
which were drawn three signs, with 
numbers to indicate the order in which 
they were to be worked.

"There, you see it will not take long."

"Yes; but" --

"Do this, and you will have nectarines 
and all the rest." The shot told; red 
with fever, while the large drops fell 
from his brow, the man executed, one 
after the other, the three signs given 
by the count, in spite of the frightful 
contortions of the right-hand 
correspondent, who, not understanding 
the change, began to think the gardener 
had gone mad. As to the left-hand one, 
he conscientiously repeated the same 
signals, which were finally transmitted 
to the Minister of the Interior. "Now 
you are rich," said Monte Cristo.

"Yes," replied the man, "but at what a 
price!"

"Listen, friend," said Monte Cristo. "I 
do not wish to cause you any remorse; 
believe me, then, when I swear to you 
that you have wronged no man, but on 
the contrary have benefited mankind." 
The man looked at the bank-notes, felt 
them, counted them, turned pale, then 
red, then rushed into his room to drink 
a glass of water, but he had no time to 
reach the water-jug, and fainted in the 
midst of his dried herbs. Five minutes 
after the new telegram reached the 
minister, Debray had the horses put to 
his carriage, and drove to Danglars' 
house.

"Has your husband any Spanish bonds?" 
he asked of the baroness.

"I think so, indeed! He has six 
millions' worth."

"He must sell them at whatever price."

"Why?"

"Because Don Carlos has fled from 
Bourges, and has returned to Spain."

"How do you know?" Debray shrugged his 
shoulders. "The idea of asking how I 
hear the news," he said. The baroness 
did not wait for a repetition; she ran 
to her husband, who immediately 
hastened to his agent, and ordered him 
to sell at any price. When it was seen 
that Danglars sold, the Spanish funds 
fell directly. Danglars lost five 
hundred thousand francs; but he rid 
himself of all his Spanish shares. The 
same evening the following was read in 
Le Messager:

"[By telegraph.] The king, Don Carlos, 
has escaped the vigilance of his 
guardians at Bourges, and has returned 
to Spain by the Catalonian frontier. 
Barcelona has risen in his favor."

All that evening nothing was spoken of 
but the foresight of Danglars, who had 
sold his shares, and of the luck of the 
stock-jobber, who only lost five 
hundred thousand francs by such a blow. 
Those who had kept their shares, or 
bought those of Danglars, looked upon 
themselves as ruined, and passed a very 
bad night. Next morning Le Moniteur 
contained the following:

"It was without any foundation that Le 
Messager yesterday announced the flight 
of Don Carlos and the revolt of 
Barcelona. The king (Don Carlos) has 
not left Bourges, and the peninsula is 
in the enjoyment of profound peace. A 
telegraphic signal, improperly 
interpreted, owing to the fog, was the 
cause of this error."

The funds rose one per cent higher than 
before they had fallen. This, reckoning 
his loss, and what he had missed 
gaining, made the difference of a 
million to Danglars. "Good," said Monte 
Cristo to Morrel, who was at his house 
when the news arrived of the strange 
reverse of fortune of which Danglars's 
had been the victim, "I have just made 
a discovery for twenty-five thousand 
francs, for which I would have paid a 
hundred thousand."

"What have you discovered?" asked 
Morrel.

"I have just discovered how a gardener 
may get rid of the dormice that eat his 
peaches." 

 Chapter 62 Ghosts.

At first sight the exterior of the 
house at Auteuil gave no indications of 
splendor, nothing one would expect from 
the destined residence of the 
magnificent Count of Monte Cristo; but 
this simplicity was according to the 
will of its master, who positively 
ordered nothing to be altered outside. 
The splendor was within. Indeed, almost 
before the door opened, the scene 
changed. M. Bertuccio had outdone 
himself in the taste displayed in 
furnishing, and in the rapidity with 
which it was executed. It is told that 
the Duc d'Antin removed in a single 
night a whole avenue of trees that 
annoyed Louis XIV.; in three days M. 
Bertuccio planted an entirely bare 
court with poplars, large spreading 
sycamores to shade the different parts 
of the house, and in the foreground, 
instead of the usual paving-stones, 
half hidden by the grass, there 
extended a lawn but that morning laid 
down, and upon which the water was yet 
glistening. For the rest, the orders 
had been issued by the count; he 
himself had given a plan to Bertuccio, 
marking the spot where each tree was to 
be planted, and the shape and extent of 
the lawn which was to take the place of 
the paving-stones. Thus the house had 
become unrecognizable, and Bertuccio 
himself declared that he scarcely knew 
it, encircled as it was by a framework 
of trees. The overseer would not have 
objected, while he was about it, to 
have made some improvements in the 
garden, but the count had positively 
forbidden it to be touched. Bertuccio 
made amends, however, by loading the 
ante-chambers, staircases, and 
mantle-pieces with flowers.

What, above all, manifested the 
shrewdness of the steward, and the 
profound science of the master, the one 
in carrying out the ideas of the other, 
was that this house which appeared only 
the night before so sad and gloomy, 
impregnated with that sickly smell one 
can almost fancy to be the smell of 
time, had in a single day acquired the 
aspect of life, was scented with its 
master's favorite perfumes, and had the 
very light regulated according to his 
wish. When the count arrived, he had 
under his touch his books and arms, his 
eyes rested upon his favorite pictures; 
his dogs, whose caresses he loved, 
welcomed him in the ante-chamber; the 
birds, whose songs delighted him, 
cheered him with their music; and the 
house, awakened from it's long sleep, 
like the sleeping beauty in the wood, 
lived, sang, and bloomed like the 
houses we have long cherished, and in 
which, when we are forced to leave 
them, we leave a part of our souls. The 
servants passed gayly along the fine 
court-yard; some, belonging to the 
kitchens, gliding down the stairs, 
restored but the previous day, as if 
they had always inhabited the house; 
others filling the coach-houses, where 
the equipages, encased and numbered, 
appeared to have been installed for the 
last fifty years; and in the stables 
the horses replied with neighs to the 
grooms, who spoke to them with much 
more respect than many servants pay 
their masters.

The library was divided into two parts 
on either side of the wall, and 
contained upwards of two thousand 
volumes; one division was entirely 
devoted to novels, and even the volume 
which had been published but the day 
before was to be seen in its place in 
all the dignity of its red and gold 
binding. On the other side of the 
house, to match with the library, was 
the conservatory, ornamented with rare 
flowers, that bloomed in china jars; 
and in the midst of the greenhouse, 
marvellous alike to sight and smell, 
was a billiard-table which looked as if 
it had been abandoned during the past 
hour by players who had left the balls 
on the cloth. One chamber alone had 
been respected by the magnificent 
Bertuccio. Before this room, to which 
you could ascend by the grand, and go 
out by the back staircase, the servants 
passed with curiosity, and Bertuccio 
with terror. At five o'clock precisely, 
the count arrived before the house at 
Auteuil, followed by Ali. Bertuccio was 
awaiting this arrival with impatience, 
mingled with uneasiness; he hoped for 
some compliments, while, at the same 
time, he feared to have frowns. Monte 
Cristo descended into the courtyard, 
walked all over the house, without 
giving any sign of approbation or 
pleasure, until he entered his bedroom, 
situated on the opposite side to the 
closed room; then he approached a 
little piece of furniture, made of 
rosewood, which he had noticed at a 
previous visit. "That can only be to 
hold gloves," he said.

"Will your excellency deign to open 
it?" said the delighted Bertuccio, "and 
you will find gloves in it." Elsewhere 
the count found everything he required 
-- smelling-bottles, cigars, 
knick-knacks.

"Good," he said; and M. Bertuccio left 
enraptured, so great, so powerful, and 
real was the influence exercised by 
this man over all who surrounded him. 
At precisely six o'clock the clatter of 
horses' hoofs was heard at the entrance 
door; it was our captain of Spahis, who 
had arrived on Medeah. "I am sure I am 
the first," cried Morrel; "I did it on 
purpose to have you a minute to myself, 
before every one came. Julie and 
Emmanuel have a thousand things to tell 
you. Ah, really this is magnificent! 
But tell me, count, will your people 
take care of my horse?"

"Do not alarm yourself, my dear 
Maximilian -- they understand."

"I mean, because he wants petting. If 
you had seen at what a pace he came -- 
like the wind!"

"I should think so, -- a horse that 
cost 5,000 francs!" said Monte Cristo, 
in the tone which a father would use 
towards a son.

"Do you regret them?" asked Morrel, 
with his open laugh.

"I? Certainly not," replied the count. 
"No; I should only regret if the horse 
had not proved good."

"It is so good, that I have distanced 
M. de Chateau-Renaud, one of the best 
riders in France, and M. Debray, who 
both mount the minister's Arabians; and 
close on their heels are the horses of 
Madame Danglars, who always go at six 
leagues an hour."

"Then they follow you?" asked Monte 
Cristo.

"See, they are here." And at the same 
minute a carriage with smoking horses, 
accompanied by two mounted gentlemen, 
arrived at the gate, which opened 
before them. The carriage drove round, 
and stopped at the steps, followed by 
the horsemen. The instant Debray had 
touched the ground, he was at the 
carriage-door. He offered his hand to 
the baroness, who, descending, took it 
with a peculiarity of manner 
imperceptible to every one but Monte 
Cristo. But nothing escaped the count's 
notice, and he observed a little note, 
passed with the facility that indicates 
frequent practice, from the hand of 
Madame Danglars to that of the 
minister's secretary. After his wife 
the banker descended, as pale as though 
he had issued from his tomb instead of 
his carriage. Madame Danglars threw a 
rapid and inquiring glance which could 
only be interpreted by Monte Cristo, 
around the court-yard, over the 
peristyle, and across the front of the 
house, then, repressing a slight 
emotion, which must have been seen on 
her countenance if she had not kept her 
color, she ascended the steps, saying 
to Morrel, "Sir, if you were a friend 
of mine, I should ask you if you would 
sell your horse."

Morrel smiled with an expression very 
like a grimace, and then turned round 
to Monte Cristo, as if to ask him to 
extricate him from his embarrassment. 
The count understood him. "Ah, madame," 
he said, "why did you not make that 
request of me?"

"With you, sir," replied the baroness, 
"one can wish for nothing, one is so 
sure to obtain it. If it were so with 
M. Morrel" --

"Unfortunately," replied the count, "I 
am witness that M. Morrel cannot give 
up his horse, his honor being engaged 
in keeping it."

"How so?"

"He laid a wager he would tame Medeah 
in the space of six months. You 
understand now that if he were to get 
rid of the animal before the time 
named, he would not only lose his bet, 
but people would say he was afraid; and 
a brave captain of Spahis cannot risk 
this, even to gratify a pretty woman, 
which is, in my opinion, one of the 
most sacred obligations in the world."

"You see my position, madame," said 
Morrel, bestowing a grateful smile on 
Monte Cristo.

"It seems to me," said Danglars, in his 
coarse tone, ill-concealed by a forced 
smile, "that you have already got 
horses enough." Madame Danglars seldom 
allowed remarks of this kind to pass 
unnoticed, but, to the surprise of the 
young people, she pretended not to hear 
it, and said nothing. Monte Cristo 
smiled at her unusual humility, and 
showed her two immense porcelain jars, 
over which wound marine plants, of a 
size and delicacy that nature alone 
could produce. The baroness was 
astonished. "Why," said she, "you could 
plant one of the chestnut-trees in the 
Tuileries inside! How can such enormous 
jars have been manufactured?"

"Ah, madame," replied Monte Cristo, 
"you must not ask of us, the 
manufacturers of fine porcelain, such a 
question. It is the work of another 
age, constructed by the genii of earth 
and water."

"How so? -- at what period can that 
have been?"

"I do not know; I have only heard that 
an emperor of China had an oven built 
expressly, and that in this oven twelve 
jars like this were successively baked. 
Two broke, from the heat of the fire; 
the other ten were sunk three hundred 
fathoms deep into the sea. The sea, 
knowing what was required of her, threw 
over them her weeds, encircled them 
with coral, and encrusted them with 
shells; the whole was cemented by two 
hundred years beneath these almost 
impervious depths, for a revolution 
carried away the emperor who wished to 
make the trial, and only left the 
documents proving the manufacture of 
the jars and their descent into the 
sea. At the end of two hundred years 
the documents were found, and they 
thought of bringing up the jars. Divers 
descended in machines, made expressly 
on the discovery, into the bay where 
they were thrown; but of ten three only 
remained, the rest having been broken 
by the waves. I am fond of these jars, 
upon which, perhaps, misshapen, 
frightful monsters have fixed their 
cold, dull eyes, and in which myriads 
of small fish have slept, seeking a 
refuge from the pursuit of their 
enemies." Meanwhile, Danglars, who had 
cared little for curiosities, was 
mechanically tearing off the blossoms 
of a splendid orange-tree, one after 
another. When he had finished with the 
orange-tree, he began at the cactus; 
but this, not being so easily plucked 
as the orange-tree, pricked him 
dreadfully. He shuddered, and rubbed 
his eyes as though awaking from a dream.

"Sir," said Monte Cristo to him, "I do 
not recommend my pictures to you, who 
possess such splendid paintings; but, 
nevertheless, here are two by Hobbema, 
a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard 
Douw, a Raphael, a Vandyke, a Zurbaran, 
and two or three by Murillo, worth 
looking at."

"Stay," said Debray; "I recognize this 
Hobbema."

"Ah, indeed!"

"Yes; it was proposed for the Museum."

"Which, I believe, does not contain 
one?" said Monte Cristo.

"No; and yet they refused to buy it."

"Why?" said Chateau-Renaud.

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

"Ah, pardon me," said Chateau-Renaud; 
"I have heard of these things every day 
during the last eight years, and I 
cannot understand them yet."

"You will, by and by," said Debray.

"I think not," replied Chateau-Renaud.

"Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count 
Andrea Cavalcanti," announced 
Baptistin. A black satin stock, fresh 
from the maker's hands, gray 
moustaches, a bold eye, a major's 
uniform, ornamented with three medals 
and five crosses -- in fact, the 
thorough bearing of an old soldier -- 
such was the appearance of Major 
Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender 
father with whom we are already 
acquainted. Close to him, dressed in 
entirely new clothes, advanced 
smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the 
dutiful son, whom we also know. The 
three young people were talking 
together. On the entrance of the new 
comers, their eyes glanced from father 
to son, and then, naturally enough, 
rested on the latter, whom they began 
criticising. "Cavalcanti!" said Debray. 
"A fine name," said Morrel.

"Yes," said Chateau-Renaud, "these 
Italians are well named and badly 
dressed."

"You are fastidious, Chateau-Renaud," 
replied Debray; "those clothes are well 
cut and quite new."

"That is just what I find fault with. 
That gentleman appears to be well 
dressed for the first time in his life."

"Who are those gentlemen?" asked 
Danglars of Monte Cristo.

"You heard -- Cavalcanti."

"That tells me their name, and nothing 
else."

"Ah, true. You do not know the Italian 
nobility; the Cavalcanti are all 
descended from princes."

"Have they any fortune?"

"An enormous one."

"What do they do?"

"Try to spend it all. They have some 
business with you, I think, from what 
they told me the day before yesterday. 
I, indeed, invited them here to-day on 
your account. I will introduce you to 
them."

"But they appear to speak French with a 
very pure accent," said Danglars.

"The son has been educated in a college 
in the south; I believe near 
Marseilles. You will find him quite 
enthusiastic."

"Upon what subject?" asked Madame 
Danglars.

"The French ladies, madame. He has made 
up his mind to take a wife from Paris."

"A fine idea that of his," said 
Danglars, shrugging his shoulders. 
Madame Danglars looked at her husband 
with an expression which, at any other 
time, would have indicated a storm, but 
for the second time she controlled 
herself. "The baron appears thoughtful 
to-day," said Monte Cristo to her; "are 
they going to put him in the ministry?"

"Not yet, I think. More likely he has 
been speculating on the Bourse, and has 
lost money."

"M. and Madame de Villefort," cried 
Baptistin. They entered. M. de 
Villefort, notwithstanding his 
self-control, was visibly affected, and 
when Monte Cristo touched his hand, he 
felt it tremble. "Certainly, women 
alone know how to dissimulate," said 
Monte Cristo to himself, glancing at 
Madame Danglars, who was smiling on the 
procureur, and embracing his wife. 
After a short time, the count saw 
Bertuccio, who, until then, had been 
occupied on the other side of the 
house, glide into an adjoining room. He 
went to him. "What do you want, M. 
Bertuccio?" said he.

"Your excellency his not stated the 
number of guests."

"Ah, true."

"How many covers?"

"Count for yourself."

"Is every one here, your excellency?"

"Yes."

Bertuccio glanced through the door, 
which was ajar. The count watched him. 
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed.

"What is the matter?" said the count.

"That woman -- that woman!"

"Which?"

"The one with a white dress and so many 
diamonds -- the fair one."

"Madame Danglars?"

"I do not know her name; but it is she, 
sir, it is she!"

"Whom do you mean?"

"The woman of the garden! -- she that 
was enciente -- she who was walking 
while she waited for" -- Bertuccio 
stood at the open door, with his eyes 
starting and his hair on end.

"Waiting for whom?" Bertuccio, without 
answering, pointed to Villefort with 
something of the gesture Macbeth uses 
to point out Banquo. "Oh, oh," he at 
length muttered, "do you see?"

"What? Who?"

"Him!"

"Him! -- M. de Villefort, the king's 
attorney? Certainly I see him."

"Then I did not kill him?"

"Really, I think you are going mad, 
good Bertuccio," said the count.

"Then he is not dead?"

"No; you see plainly he is not dead. 
Instead of striking between the sixth 
and seventh left ribs, as your 
countrymen do, you must have struck 
higher or lower, and life is very 
tenacious in these lawyers, or rather 
there is no truth in anything you have 
told me -- it was a fright of the 
imagination, a dream of your fancy. You 
went to sleep full of thoughts of 
vengeance; they weighed heavily upon 
your stomach; you had the nightmare -- 
that's all. Come, calm yourself, and 
reckon them up -- M. and Madame de 
Villefort, two; M. and Madame Danglars, 
four; M. de Chateau-Renaud, M. Debray, 
M. Morrel, seven; Major Bartolomeo 
Cavalcanti, eight."

"Eight!" repeated Bertuccio.

"Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to 
be off -- you forget one of my guests. 
Lean a little to the left. Stay! look 
at M. Andrea Cavalcanti, the young man 
in a black coat, looking at Murillo's 
Madonna; now he is turning." This time 
Bertuccio would have uttered an 
exclamation, had not a look from Monte 
Cristo silenced him. "Benedetto?" he 
muttered; "fatality!"

"Half-past six o'clock has just struck, 
M. Bertuccio," said the count severely; 
"I ordered dinner at that hour, and I 
do not like to wait;" and he returned 
to his guests, while Bertuccio, leaning 
against the wall, succeeded in reaching 
the dining-room. Five minutes 
afterwards the doors of the. 
drawing-room were thrown open, and 
Bertuccio appearing said, with a 
violent effort, "The dinner waits."

The Count of Monte Cristo offered his 
arm to Madame de Villefort. "M. de 
Villefort," he said, "will you conduct 
the Baroness Danglars?"

Villefort complied, and they passed on 
to the dining-room. 

 Chapter 63 The Dinner.

It was evident that one sentiment 
affected all the guests on entering the 
dining-room. Each one asked what 
strange influence had brought them to 
this house, and yet astonished, even 
uneasy though they were, they still 
felt that they would not like to be 
absent. The recent events, the solitary 
and eccentric position of the count, 
his enormous, nay, almost incredible 
fortune, should have made men cautious, 
and have altogether prevented ladies 
visiting a house where there was no one 
of their own sex to receive them; and 
yet curiosity had been enough to lead 
them to overleap the bounds of prudence 
and decorum. And all present, even 
including Cavalcanti and his son, 
notwithstanding the stiffness of the 
one and the carelessness of the other, 
were thoughtful, on finding themselves 
assembled at the house of this 
incomprehensible man. Madame Danglars 
had started when Villefort, on the 
count's invitation, offered his arm; 
and Villefort felt that his glance was 
uneasy beneath his gold spectacles, 
when he felt the arm of the baroness 
press upon his own. None of this had 
escaped the count, and even by this 
mere contact of individuals the scene 
had already acquired considerable 
interest for an observer. M. de 
Villefort had on the right hand Madame 
Danglars, on his left Morrel. The count 
was seated between Madame de Villefort 
and Danglars; the other seats were 
filled by Debray, who was placed 
between the two Cavalcanti, and by 
Chateau-Renaud, seated between Madame 
de Villefort and Morrel.

The repast was magnificent; Monte 
Cristo had endeavored completely to 
overturn the Parisian ideas, and to 
feed the curiosity as much as the 
appetite of his guests. It was an 
Oriental feast that he offered to them, 
but of such a kind as the Arabian 
fairies might be supposed to prepare. 
Every delicious fruit that the four 
quarters of the globe could provide was 
heaped in vases from China and jars 
from Japan. Rare birds, retaining their 
most brilliant plumage, enormous fish, 
spread upon massive silver dishes, 
together with every wine produced in 
the Archipelago, Asia Minor, or the 
Cape, sparkling in bottles, whose 
grotesque shape seemed to give an 
additional flavor to the draught, -- 
all these, like one of the displays 
with which Apicius of old gratified his 
guests, passed in review before the 
eyes of the astonished Parisians, who 
understood that it was possible to 
expend a thousand louis upon a dinner 
for ten persons, but only on the 
condition of eating pearls, like 
Cleopatra, or drinking refined gold, 
like Lorenzo de' Medici.

Monte Cristo noticed the general 
astonishment, and began laughing and 
joking about it. "Gentlemen," he said, 
"you will admit that, when arrived at a 
certain degree of fortune, the 
superfluities of life are all that can 
be desired; and the ladies will allow 
that, after having risen to a certain 
eminence of position, the ideal alone 
can be more exalted. Now, to follow out 
this reasoning, what is the marvellous? 
-- that which we do not understand. 
What is it that we really desire? -- 
that which we cannot obtain. Now, to 
see things which I cannot understand, 
to procure impossibilities, these are 
the study of my life. I gratify my 
wishes by two means -- my will and my 
money. I take as much interest in the 
pursuit of some whim as you do, M. 
Danglars, in promoting a new railway 
line; you, M. de Villefort, in 
condemning a culprit to death; you, M. 
Debray, in pacifying a kingdom; you, M. 
de Chateau-Renaud, in pleasing a woman; 
and you, Morrel, in breaking a horse 
that no one can ride. For example, you 
see these two fish; one brought fifty 
leagues beyond St. Petersburg, the 
other five leagues from Naples. Is it 
not amusing to see them both on the 
same table?"

"What are the two fish?" asked Danglars.

"M. Chateau-Renaud, who has lived in 
Russia, will tell you the name of one, 
and Major Cavalcanti, who is an 
Italian, will tell you the name of the 
other."

"This one is, I think, a sterlet," said 
Chateau-Renaud.

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

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

"Starlets," said Chateau-Renaud, "are 
only found in the Volga."

"And," said Cavalcanti, "I know that 
Lake Fusaro alone supplies lampreys of 
that size."

"Exactly; one comes from the Volga, and 
the other from Lake Fusaro."

"Impossible!" cried all the guests 
simultaneously.

"Well, this is just what amuses me," 
said Monte Cristo. "I am like Nero -- 
cupitor impossibilium; and that is what 
is amusing you at this moment. This 
fish, which seems so exquisite to you, 
is very likely no better than perch or 
salmon; but it seemed impossible to 
procure it, and here it is."

"But how could you have these fish 
brought to France?"

"Oh, nothing more easy. Each fish was 
brought over in a cask -- one filled 
with river herbs and weeds, the other 
with rushes and lake plants; they were 
placed in a wagon built on purpose, and 
thus the sterlet lived twelve days, the 
lamprey eight, and both were alive when 
my cook seized them, killing one with 
milk and the other with wine. You do 
not believe me, M. Danglars!"

"I cannot help doubting," answered 
Danglars with his stupid smile.

"Baptistin," said the count, "have the 
other fish brought in -- the sterlet 
and the lamprey which came in the other 
casks, and which are yet alive." 
Danglars opened his bewildered eyes; 
the company clapped their hands. Four 
servants carried in two casks covered 
with aquatic plants, and in each of 
which was breathing a fish similar to 
those on the table.

"But why have two of each sort?" asked 
Danglars.

"Merely because one might have died," 
carelessly answered Monte Cristo.

"You are certainly an extraordinary 
man," said Danglars; "and philosophers 
may well say it is a fine thing to be 
rich."

"And to have ideas," added Madame 
Danglars.

"Oh, do not give me credit for this, 
madame; it was done by the Romans, who 
much esteemed them, and Pliny relates 
that they sent slaves from Ostia to 
Rome, who carried on their heads fish 
which he calls the mulus, and which, 
from the description, must probably be 
the goldfish. It was also considered a 
luxury to have them alive, it being an 
amusing sight to see them die, for, 
when dying, they change color three or 
four times, and like the rainbow when 
it disappears, pass through all the 
prismatic shades, after which they were 
sent to the kitchen. Their agony formed 
part of their merit -- if they were not 
seen alive, they were despised when 
dead."

"Yes," said Debray, "but then Ostia is 
only a few leagues from Rome."

"True," said Monte Cristo; "but what 
would be the use of living eighteen 
hundred years after Lucullus. if we can 
do no better than he could?" The two 
Cavalcanti opened their enormous eyes, 
but had the good sense not to say 
anything. "All this is very 
extraordinary," said Chateau-Renaud; 
"still, what I admire the most, I 
confess, is the marvellous promptitude 
with which your orders are executed. Is 
it not true that you only bought this 
house five or six days ago?"

"Certainly not longer."

"Well, I am sure it is quite 
transformed since last week. If I 
remember rightly, it had another 
entrance, and the court-yard was paved 
and empty; while to-day we have a 
splendid lawn, bordered by trees which 
appear to be a hundred years old."

"Why not? I am fond of grass and 
shade," said Monte Cristo.

"Yes," said Madame de Villefort, "the 
door was towards the road before, and 
on the day of my miraculous escape you 
brought me into the house from the 
road, I remember."

"Yes, madame," said Monte Cristo; "but 
I preferred having an entrance which 
would allow me to see the Bois de 
Boulogne over my gate."

"In four days," said Morrel; "it is 
extraordinary!"

"Indeed," said Chateau-Renaud, "it 
seems quite miraculous to make a new 
house out of an old one; for it was 
very old, and dull too. I recollect 
coming for my mother to look at it when 
M. de Saint-Meran advertised it for 
sale two or three years ago."

"M. de Saint-Meran?" said Madame de 
Villefort; "then this house belonged to 
M. de Saint-Meran before you bought it?"

"It appears so," replied Monte Cristo.

"Is it possible that you do not know of 
whom you purchased it?"

"Quite so; my steward transacts all 
this business for me."

"It is certainly ten years since the 
house had been occupied," said 
Chateau-Renaud, "and it was quite 
melancholy to look at it, with the 
blinds closed, the doors locked, and 
the weeds in the court. Really, if the 
house had not belonged to the 
father-in-law of the procureur, one 
might have thought it some accursed 
place where a horrible crime had been 
committed." Villefort, who had hitherto 
not tasted the three or four glasses of 
rare wine which were placed before him, 
here took one, and drank it off. Monte 
Cristo allowed a short time to elapse, 
and then said, "It is singular, baron, 
but the same idea came across me the 
first time I came here; it looked so 
gloomy I should never have bought it if 
my steward had not taken the matter 
into his own hands. Perhaps the fellow 
had been bribed by the notary."

"It is probable," stammered out 
Villefort, trying to smile; "but I can 
assure you that I had nothing to do 
with any such proceeding. This house is 
part of Valentine's marriage-portion, 
and M. de Saint-Meran wished to sell 
it; for if it had remained another year 
or two uninhabited it would have fallen 
to ruin." It was Morrel's turn to 
become pale.

"There was, above all, one room," 
continued Monte Cristo, "very plain in 
appearance, hung with red damask, 
which, I know not why, appeared to me 
quite dramatic."

"Why so?" said Danglars; "why dramatic?"

"Can we account for instinct?" said 
Monte Cristo. "Are there not some 
places where we seem to breathe 
sadness? -- why, we cannot tell. It is 
a chain of recollections -- an idea 
which carries you back to other times, 
to other places -- which, very likely, 
have no connection with the present 
time and place. And there is something 
in this room which reminds me forcibly 
of the chamber of the Marquise de 
Ganges* or Desdemona. Stay, since we 
have finished dinner, I will show it to 
you, and then we will take coffee in 
the garden. After dinner, the play." 
Monte Cristo looked inquiringly at his 
guests. Madame de Villefort rose, Monte 
Cristo did the same, and the rest 
followed their example. Villefort and 
Madame Danglars remained for a moment, 
as if rooted to their seats; they 
questioned each other with vague and 
stupid glances. "Did you hear?" said 
Madame Danglars.

* Elisabeth de Rossan, Marquise de 
Ganges, was one of the famous women of 
the court of Louis XIV. where she was 
known as "La Belle Provencale." She was 
the widow of the Marquise de Castellane 
when she married de Ganges, and having 
the misfortune to excite the enmity of 
her new brothers-in-law, was forced by 
them to take poison; and they finished 
her off with pistol and dagger. -- Ed.

"We must go," replied Villefort, 
offering his arm. The others, attracted 
by curiosity, were already scattered in 
different parts of the house; for they 
thought the visit would not be limited 
to the one room, and that, at the same 
time, they would obtain a view of the 
rest of the building, of which Monte 
Cristo had created a palace. Each one 
went out by the open doors. Monte 
Cristo waited for the two who remained; 
then, when they had passed, he brought 
up the rear, and on his face was a 
smile, which, if they could have 
understood it, would have alarmed them 
much more than a visit to the room they 
were about to enter. They began by 
walking through the apartments, many of 
which were fitted up in the Eastern 
style, with cushions and divans instead 
of beds, and pipes instead of 
furniture. The drawing-rooms were 
decorated with the rarest pictures by 
the old masters, the boudoirs hung with 
draperies from China, of fanciful 
colors, fantastic design, and wonderful 
texture. At length they arrived at the 
famous room. There was nothing 
particular about it, excepting that, 
although daylight had disappeared, it 
was not lighted, and everything in it 
was old-fashioned, while the rest of 
the rooms had been redecorated. These 
two causes were enough to give it a 
gloomy aspect. "Oh." cried Madame de 
Villefort, "it is really frightful." 
Madame Danglars tried to utter a few 
words, but was not heard. Many 
observations were made, the import of 
which was a unanimous opinion that 
there was something sinister about the 
room. "Is it not so?" asked Monte 
Cristo. "Look at that large clumsy bed, 
hung with such gloomy, blood-colored 
drapery! And those two crayon 
portraits, that have faded from the 
dampness; do they not seem to say, with 
their pale lips and staring eyes, `We 
have seen'?" Villefort became livid; 
Madame Danglars fell into a long seat 
placed near the chimney. "Oh," said 
Madame de Villefort, smiling, "are you 
courageous enough to sit down upon the 
very seat perhaps upon which the crime 
was committed?" Madame Danglars rose 
suddenly.

"And then," said Monte Cristo, "this is 
not all."

"What is there more?" said Debray, who 
had not failed to notice the agitation 
of Madame Danglars.

"Ah, what else is there?" said 
Danglars; "for, at present, I cannot 
say that I have seen anything 
extraordinary. What do you say, M. 
Cavalcanti?"

"Ah," said he, "we have at Pisa, 
Ugolino's tower; at Ferrara, Tasso's 
prison; at Rimini, the room of 
Francesca and Paolo."

"Yes, but you have not this little 
staircase," said Monte Cristo, opening 
a door concealed by the drapery. "Look 
at it, and tell me what you think of 
it."

"What a wicked-looking, crooked 
staircase," said Chateau-Renaud with a 
smile.

"I do not know whether the wine of 
Chios produces melancholy, but 
certainly everything appears to me 
black in this house," said Debray.

Ever since Valentine's dowry had been 
mentioned, Morrel had been silent and 
sad. "Can you imagine," said Monte 
Cristo, "some Othello or Abbe de 
Ganges, one stormy, dark night, 
descending these stairs step by step, 
carrying a load, which he wishes to 
hide from the sight of man, if not from 
God?" Madame Danglars half fainted on 
the arm of Villefort, who was obliged 
to support himself against the wall. 
"Ah, madame," cried Debray, "what is 
the matter with you? how pale you look!"

"It is very evident what is the matter 
with her," said Madame de Villefort; 
"M. de Monte Cristo is relating 
horrible stories to us, doubtless 
intending to frighten us to death."

"Yes," said Villefort, "really, count, 
you frighten the ladies."

"What is the matter?" asked Debray, in 
a whisper, of Madame Danglars.

"Nothing," she replied with a violent 
effort. "I want air, that is all."

"Will you come into the garden?" said 
Debray, advancing towards the back 
staircase.

"No, no," she answered, "I would rather 
remain here."

"Are you really frightened, madame?" 
said Monte Cristo.

"Oh, no, sir," said Madame Danglars; 
"but you suppose scenes in a manner 
which gives them the appearance of 
reality "

"Ah, yes," said Monte Cristo smiling; 
"it is all a matter of imagination. Why 
should we not imagine this the 
apartment of an honest mother? And this 
bed with red hangings, a bed visited by 
the goddess Lucina? And that mysterious 
staircase, the passage through which, 
not to disturb their sleep, the doctor 
and nurse pass, or even the father 
carrying the sleeping child?" Here 
Madame Danglars, instead of being 
calmed by the soft picture, uttered a 
groan and fainted. "Madame Danglars is 
ill," said Villefort; "it would be 
better to take her to her carriage."

"Oh, mon Dieu," said Monte Cristo, "and 
I have forgotten my smelling-bottle!"

"I have mine," said Madame de 
Villefort; and she passed over to Monte 
Cristo a bottle full of the same kind 
of red liquid whose good properties the 
count had tested on Edward.

"Ah," said Monte Cristo, taking it from 
her hand.

"Yes," she said, "at your advice I have 
made the trial."

"And have you succeeded?"

"I think so."

Madame Danglars was carried into the 
adjoining room; Monte Cristo dropped a 
very small portion of the red liquid 
upon her lips; she returned to 
consciousness. "Ah," she cried, "what a 
frightful dream!"

Villefort pressed her hand to let her 
know it was not a dream. They looked 
for M. Danglars, but, as he was not 
especially interested in poetical 
ideas, he had gone into the garden, and 
was talking with Major Cavalcanti on 
the projected railway from Leghorn to 
Florence. Monte Cristo seemed in 
despair. He took the arm of Madame 
Danglars, and conducted her into the 
garden, where they found Danglars 
taking coffee between the Cavalcanti. 
"Really, madame," he said, "did I alarm 
you much?"

"Oh, no, sir," she answered; "but you 
know, things impress us differently, 
according to the mood of our minds." 
Villefort forced a laugh. "And then, 
you know," he said, "an idea, a 
supposition, is sufficient."

"Well," said Monte Cristo, "you may 
believe me if you like, but it is my 
opinion that a crime has been committed 
in this house."

"Take care," said Madame de Villefort, 
"the king's attorney is here."

"Ah," replied Monte Cristo, "since that 
is the case, I will take advantage of 
his presence to make my declaration."

"Your declaration?" said Villefort.

"Yes, before witnesses."

"Oh, this is very interesting," said 
Debray; "if there really has been a 
crime, we will investigate it."

"There has been a crime," said Monte 
Cristo. "Come this way, gentlemen; 
come, M. Villefort, for a declaration 
to be available, should be made before 
the competent authorities." He then 
took Villefort's arm, and, at the same 
time, holding that of Madame Danglars 
under his own, he dragged the procureur 
to the plantain-tree, where the shade 
was thickest. All the other guests 
followed. "Stay," said Monte Cristo, 
"here, in this very spot" (and he 
stamped upon the ground), "I had the 
earth dug up and fresh mould put in, to 
refresh these old trees; well, my man, 
digging, found a box, or rather, the 
iron-work of a box, in the midst of 
which was the skeleton of a newly born 
infant." Monte Cristo felt the arm of 
Madame Danglars stiffen, while that of 
Villefort trembled. "A newly born 
infant," repeated Debray; "this affair 
becomes serious!"

"Well," said Chateau-Renaud, "I was not 
wrong just now then, when I said that 
houses had souls and faces like men, 
and that their exteriors carried the 
impress of their characters. This house 
was gloomy because it was remorseful: 
it was remorseful because it concealed 
a crime."

"Who said it was a crime?" asked 
Villefort, with a last effort.

"How? is it not a crime to bury a 
living child in a garden?" cried Monte 
Cristo. "And pray what do you call such 
an action?"

"But who said it was buried alive?"

"Why bury it there if it were dead? 
This garden has never been a cemetery."

"What is done to infanticides in this 
country?" asked Major Cavalcanti 
innocently.

"Oh, their heads are soon cut off," 
said Danglars.

"Ah, indeed?" said Cavalcanti.

"I think so; am I not right, M. de 
Villefort?" asked Monte Cristo.

"Yes, count," replied Villefort, in a 
voice now scarcely human.

Monte Cristo, seeing that the two 
persons for whom he had prepared this 
scene could scarcely endure it, and not 
wishing to carry it too far, said, 
"Come, gentlemen, -- some coffee, we 
seem to have forgotten it," and he 
conducted the guests back to the table 
on the lawn.

"Indeed, count," said Madame Danglars, 
"I am ashamed to own it, but all your 
frightful stories have so upset me, 
that I must beg you to let me sit 
down;" and she fell into a chair. Monte 
Cristo bowed, and went to Madame de 
Villefort. "I think Madame Danglars 
again requires your bottle," he said. 
But before Madame de Villefort could 
reach her friend the procureur had 
found time to whisper to Madame 
Danglars, "I must speak to you."

"When?"

"To-morrow."

"Where?"

"In my office, or in the court, if you 
like, -- that is the surest place."

"I will be there." -- At this moment 
Madame de Villefort approached. 
"Thanks, my dear friend," said Madame 
Danglars, trying to smile; "it is over 
now, and I am much better." 

 Chapter 64 The Beggar.

The evening passed on; Madame de 
Villefort expressed a desire to return 
to Paris, which Madame Danglars had not 
dared to do, notwithstanding the 
uneasiness she experienced. On his 
wife's request, M. de Villefort was the 
first to give the signal of departure. 
He offered a seat in his landau to 
Madame Danglars, that she might be 
under the care of his wife. As for M. 
Danglars, absorbed in an interesting 
conversation with M. Cavalcanti, he 
paid no attention to anything that was 
passing. While Monte Cristo had begged 
the smelling-bottle of Madame de 
Villefort, he had noticed the approach 
of Villefort to Madame Danglars, and he 
soon guessed all that had passed 
between them, though the words had been 
uttered in so low a voice as hardly to 
be heard by Madame Danglars. Without 
opposing their arrangements, he allowed 
Morrel, Chateau-Renaud, and Debray to 
leave on horseback, and the ladies in 
M. de Villefort's carriage. Danglars, 
more and more delighted with Major 
Cavalcanti, had offered him a seat in 
his carriage. Andrea Cavalcanti found 
his tilbury waiting at the door; the 
groom, in every respect a caricature of 
the English fashion, was standing on 
tiptoe to hold a large iron-gray horse.

Andrea had spoken very little during 
dinner; he was an intelligent lad, and 
he feared to utter some absurdity 
before so many grand people, amongst 
whom, with dilating eyes, he saw the 
king's attorney. Then he had been 
seized upon by Danglars, who, with a 
rapid glance at the stiff-necked old 
major and his modest son, and taking 
into consideration the hospitality of 
the count, made up his mind that he was 
in the society of some nabob come to 
Paris to finish the worldly education 
of his heir. He contemplated with 
unspeakable delight the large diamond 
which shone on the major's little 
finger; for the major, like a prudent 
man, in case of any accident happening 
to his bank-notes, had immediately 
converted them into an available asset. 
Then, after dinner, on the pretext of 
business, he questioned the father and 
son upon their mode of living; and the 
father and son, previously informed 
that it was through Danglars the one 
was to receive his 48,000 francs and 
the other 50,000 livres annually, were 
so full of affability that they would 
have shaken hands even with the 
banker's servants, so much did their 
gratitude need an object to expend 
itself upon. One thing above all the 
rest heightened the respect, nay almost 
the veneration, of Danglars for 
Cavalcanti. The latter, faithful to the 
principle of Horace, nil admirari, had 
contented himself with showing his 
knowledge by declaring in what lake the 
best lampreys were caught. Then he had 
eaten some without saying a word more; 
Danglars, therefore, concluded that 
such luxuries were common at the table 
of the illustrious descendant of the 
Cavalcanti, who most likely in Lucca 
fed upon trout brought from 
Switzerland, and lobsters sent from 
England, by the same means used by the 
count to bring the lampreys from Lake 
Fusaro, and the sterlet from the Volga. 
Thus it was with much politeness of 
manner that he heard Cavalcanti 
pronounce these words, "To-morrow, sir, 
I shall have the honor of waiting upon 
you on business."

"And I, sir," said Danglars, "shall be 
most happy to receive you." Upon which 
he offered to take Cavalcanti in his 
carriage to the Hotel des Princes, if 
it would not be depriving him of the 
company of his son. To this Cavalcanti 
replied by saying that for some time 
past his son had lived independently of 
him, that he had his own horses and 
carriages, and that not having come 
together, it would not be difficult for 
them to leave separately. The major 
seated himself, therefore, by the side 
of Danglars, who was more and more 
charmed with the ideas of order and 
economy which ruled this man, and yet 
who, being able to allow his son 60,000 
francs a year, might be supposed to 
possess a fortune of 500,000 or 600,000 
livres.

As for Andrea, he began, by way of 
showing off, to scold his groom, who, 
instead of bringing the tilbury to the 
steps of the house, had taken it to the 
outer door, thus giving him the trouble 
of walking thirty steps to reach it. 
The groom heard him with humility, took 
the bit of the impatient animal with 
his left hand, and with the right held 
out the reins to Andrea, who, taking 
them from him, rested his polished boot 
lightly on the step. At that moment a 
hand touched his shoulder. The young 
man turned round, thinking that 
Danglars or Monte Cristo had forgotten 
something they wished to tell him, and 
had returned just as they were 
starting. But instead of either of 
these, he saw nothing but a strange 
face, sunburnt, and encircled by a 
beard, with eyes brilliant as 
carbuncles, and a smile upon the mouth 
which displayed a perfect set of white 
teeth, pointed and sharp as the wolf's 
or jackal's. A red handkerchief 
encircled his gray head; torn and 
filthy garments covered his large bony 
limbs, which seemed as though, like 
those of a skeleton, they would rattle 
as he walked; and the hand with which 
he leaned upon the young man's 
shoulder, and which was the first thing 
Andrea saw, seemed of gigantic size. 
Did the young man recognize that face 
by the light of the lantern in his 
tilbury, or was he merely struck with 
the horrible appearance of his 
interrogator? We cannot say; but only 
relate the fact that he shuddered and 
stepped back suddenly. "What do you 
want of me?" he asked.

"Pardon me, my friend, if I disturb 
you," said the man with the red 
handkerchief, "but I want to speak to 
you."

"You have no right to beg at night," 
said the groom, endeavoring to rid his 
master of the troublesome intruder.

"I am not begging, my fine fellow," 
said the unknown to the servant, with 
so ironical an expression of the eye, 
and so frightful a smile, that he 
withdrew; "I only wish to say two or 
three words to your master, who gave me 
a commission to execute about a 
fortnight ago."

"Come," said Andrea, with sufficient 
nerve for his servant not to perceive 
his agitation, "what do you want? Speak 
quickly, friend."

The man said, in a low voice: "I wish 
-- I wish you to spare me the walk back 
to Paris. I am very tired, and as I 
have not eaten so good a dinner as you, 
I can scarcely stand." The young man 
shuddered at this strange familiarity. 
"Tell me," he said -- "tell me what you 
want?"

"Well, then, I want you to take me up 
in your fine carriage, and carry me 
back." Andrea turned pale, but said 
nothing.

"Yes," said the man, thrusting his 
hands into his pockets, and looking 
impudently at the youth; "I have taken 
the whim into my head; do you 
understand, Master Benedetto?"

At this name, no doubt, the young man 
reflected a little, for he went towards 
his groom, saying, "This man is right; 
I did indeed charge him with a 
commission, the result of which he must 
tell me; walk to the barrier, there 
take a cab, that you may not be too 
late." The surprised groom retired. 
"Let me at least reach a shady spot," 
said Andrea.

"Oh, as for that, I'll take you to a 
splendid place," said the man with the 
handkerchief; and taking the horse's 
bit he led the tilbury where it was 
certainly impossible for any one to 
witness the honor that Andrea conferred 
upon him.

"Don't think I want the glory of riding 
in your fine carriage," said he; "oh, 
no, it's only because I am tired, and 
also because I have a little business 
to talk over with you."

"Come, step in," said the young man. It 
was a pity this scene had not occurred 
in daylight, for it was curious to see 
this rascal throwing himself heavily 
down on the cushion beside the young 
and elegant driver of the tilbury. 
Andrea drove past the last house in the 
village without saying a word to his 
companion, who smiled complacently, as 
though well-pleased to find himself 
travelling in so comfortable a vehicle. 
Once out of Auteuil, Andrea looked 
around, in order to assure himself that 
he could neither be seen nor heard, and 
then, stopping the horse and crossing 
his arms before the man, he asked, -- 
"Now, tell me why you come to disturb 
my tranquillity?"

"Let me ask you why you deceived me?"

"How have I deceived you?"

"`How,' do you ask? When we parted at 
the Pont du Var, you told me you were 
going to travel through Piedmont and 
Tuscany; but instead of that, you come 
to Paris."

"How does that annoy you?"

"It does not; on the contrary, I think 
it will answer my purpose."

"So," said Andrea, "you are speculating 
upon me?"

"What fine words he uses!"

"I warn you, Master Caderousse, that 
you are mistaken."

"Well, well, don't be angry, my boy; 
you know well enough what it is to be 
unfortunate; and misfortunes make us 
jealous. I thought you were earning a 
living in Tuscany or Piedmont by acting 
as facchino or cicerone, and I pitied 
you sincerely, as I would a child of my 
own. You know I always did call you my 
child."

"Come, come, what then?"

"Patience -- patience!"

"I am patient, but go on."

"All at once I see you pass through the 
barrier with a groom, a tilbury, and 
fine new clothes. You must have 
discovered a mine, or else become a 
stockbroker."

"So that, as you confess, you are 
jealous?"

"No, I am pleased -- so pleased that I 
wished to congratulate you; but as I am 
not quite properly dressed, I chose my 
opportunity, that I might not 
compromise you."

"Yes, and a fine opportunity you have 
chosen!" exclaimed Andrea; "you speak 
to me before my servant."

"How can I help that, my boy? I speak 
to you when I can catch you. You have a 
quick horse, a light tilbury, you are 
naturally as slippery as an eel; if I 
had missed you to-night, I might not 
have had another chance."

"You see, I do not conceal myself."

"You are lucky; I wish I could say as 
much, for I do conceal myself; and then 
I was afraid you would not recognize 
me, but you did," added Caderousse with 
his unpleasant smile. "It was very 
polite of you."

"Come," said Andrea, "what do want?"

"You do not speak affectionately to me, 
Benedetto, my old friend, that is not 
right -- take care, or I may become 
troublesome." This menace smothered the 
young man's passion. He urged the horse 
again into a trot. "You should not 
speak so to an old friend like me, 
Caderousse, as you said just now; you 
are a native of Marseilles, I am" --

"Do you know then now what you are?"

"No, but I was brought up in Corsica; 
you are old and obstinate, I am young 
and wilful. Between people like us 
threats are out of place, everything 
should be amicably arranged. Is it my 
fault if fortune, which has frowned on 
you, has been kind to me?"

"Fortune has been kind to you, then? 
Your tilbury, your groom, your clothes, 
are not then hired? Good, so much the 
better," said Caderousse, his eyes 
sparkling with avarice.

"Oh, you knew that well enough before 
speaking to me," said Andrea, becoming 
more and more excited. "If I had been 
wearing a handkerchief like yours on my 
head, rags on my back, and worn-out 
shoes on my feet, you would not have 
known me."

"You wrong me, my boy; now I have found 
you, nothing prevents my being as 
well-dressed as any one, knowing, as I 
do, the goodness of your heart. If you 
have two coats you will give me one of 
them. I used to divide my soup and 
beans with you when you were hungry."

"True," said Andrea.

"What an appetite you used to have! Is 
it as good now?"

"Oh, yes," replied Andrea, laughing.

"How did you come to be dining with 
that prince whose house you have just 
left?"

"He is not a prince; simply a count."

"A count, and a rich one too, eh?"

"Yes; but you had better not have 
anything to say to him, for he is not a 
very good-tempered gentleman."

"Oh, be easy! I have no design upon 
your count, and you shall have him all 
to yourself. But," said Caderousse, 
again smiling with the disagreeable 
expression he had before assumed, "you 
must pay for it -- you understand?"

"Well, what do you want?"

"I think that with a hundred francs a 
month" --

"Well?"

"I could live" --

"Upon a hundred francs!"

"Come -- you understand me; but that 
with" --

"With?"

"With a hundred and fifty francs I 
should be quite happy."

"Here are two hundred," said Andrea; 
and he placed ten gold louis in the 
hand of Caderousse.

"Good!" said Caderousse.

"Apply to the steward on the first day 
of every mouth, and you will receive 
the same sum."

"There now, again you degrade me."

"How so?"

"By making me apply to the servants, 
when I want to transact business with 
you alone."

"Well, be it so, then. Take it from me 
then, and so long at least as I receive 
my income, you shall be paid yours."

"Come, come; I always said you were a 
line fellow, and it is a blessing when 
good fortune happens to such as you. 
But tell me all about it?"

"Why do you wish to know?" asked 
Cavalcanti.

"What? do you again defy me?"

"No; the fact is, I have found my 
father."

"What? a real father?"

"Yes, so long as he pays me" --

"You'll honor and believe him -- that's 
right. What is his name?"

"Major Cavalcanti."

"Is he pleased with you?"

"So far I have appeared to answer his 
purpose."

"And who found this father for you?"

"The Count of Monte Cristo."

"The man whose house you have just 
left?"

"Yes."

"I wish you would try and find me a 
situation with him as grandfather, 
since he holds the money-chest!"

"Well, I will mention you to him. 
Meanwhile, what are you going to do?"

"I?"

"Yes, you."

"It is very kind of you to trouble 
yourself about me."

"Since you interest yourself in my 
affairs, I think it is now my turn to 
ask you some questions."

"Ah, true. Well; I shall rent a room in 
some respectable house, wear a decent 
coat, shave every day, and go and read 
the papers in a cafe. Then, in the 
evening, I shall go to the theatre; I 
shall look like some retired baker. 
That is what I want."

"Come, if you will only put this scheme 
into execution, and be steady, nothing 
could be better."

"Do you think so, M. Bossuet? And you 
-- what will you become? A peer of 
France?"

"Ah," said Andrea, "who knows?"

"Major Cavalcanti is already one, 
perhaps; but then, hereditary rank is 
abolished."

"No politics, Caderousse. And now that 
you have all you want, and that we 
understand each other, jump down from 
the tilbury and disappear."

"Not at all, my good friend."

"How? Not at all?"

"Why, just think for a moment; with 
this red handkerchief on my head, with 
scarcely any shoes, no papers, and ten 
gold napoleons in my pocket, without 
reckoning what was there before -- 
making in all about two hundred francs, 
-- why, I should certainly be arrested 
at the barriers. Then, to justify 
myself, I should say that you gave me 
the money; this would cause inquiries, 
it would be found that I left Toulon 
without giving due notice, and I should 
then be escorted back to the shores of 
the Mediterranean. Then I should become 
simply No. 106, and good-by to my dream 
of resembling the retired baker! No, 
no, my boy; I prefer remaining 
honorably in the capital." Andrea 
scowled. Certainly, as he had himself 
owned, the reputed son of Major 
Cavalcanti was a wilful fellow. He drew 
up for a minute, threw a rapid glance 
around him, and then his hand fell 
instantly into his pocket, where it 
began playing with a pistol. But, 
meanwhile, Caderousse, who had never 
taken his eyes off his companion, 
passed his hand behind his back, and 
opened a long Spanish knife, which he 
always carried with him, to be ready in 
case of need. The two friends, as we 
see, were worthy of and understood one 
another. Andrea's hand left his pocket 
inoffensively, and was carried up to 
the red mustache, which it played with 
for some time. "Good Caderousse," he 
said, "how happy you will be."

"I will do my best," said the 
inn-keeper of the Pont du Gard, 
shutting up his knife.

"Well, then, we will go into Paris. But 
how will you pass through the barrier 
without exciting suspicion? It seems to 
me that you are in more danger riding 
than on foot."

"Wait," said Caderousse, "we shall 
see." He then took the great-coat with 
the large collar, which the groom had 
left behind in the tilbury, and put it 
on his back; then he took off 
Cavalcanti's hat, which he placed upon 
his own head, and finally he assumed 
the careless attitude of a servant 
whose master drives himself.

"But, tell me," said Andrea, "am I to 
remain bareheaded?"

"Pooh," said Caderousse; "it is so 
windy that your hat can easily appear 
to have blown off."

"Come, come; enough of this," said 
Cavalcanti.

"What are you waiting for?" said 
Caderousse. "I hope I am not the cause."

"Hush," said Andrea. They passed the 
barrier without accident. At the first 
cross street Andrea stopped his horse, 
and Caderousse leaped out.

"Well!" said Andrea, -- "my servant's 
coat and my hat?"

"Ah," said Caderousse, "you would not 
like me to risk taking cold?"

"But what am I to do?"

"You? Oh, you are young while I am 
beginning to get old. Au revoir, 
Benedetto;" and running into a court, 
he disappeared. "Alas," said Andrea, 
sighing, "one cannot be completely 
happy in this world!" 

 Chapter 65 A Conjugal Scene.

At the Place Louis XV. the three young 
people separated -- that is to say, 
Morrel went to the Boulevards, 
Chateau-Renaud to the Pont de la 
Revolution, and Debray to the Quai. 
Most probably Morrel and Chateau-Renaud 
returned to their "domestic hearths," 
as they say in the gallery of the 
Chamber in well-turned speeches, and in 
the theatre of the Rue Richelieu in 
well-written pieces; but it was not the 
case with Debray. When he reached the 
wicket of the Louvre, he turned to the 
left, galloped across the Carrousel, 
passed through the Rue Saint-Roch, and, 
issuing from the Rue de la Michodiere, 
he arrived at M. Danglars' door just at 
the same time that Villefort's landau, 
after having deposited him and his wife 
at the Faubourg St. Honore, stopped to 
leave the baroness at her own house. 
Debray, with the air of a man familiar 
with the house, entered first into the 
court, threw his bridle into the hands 
of a footman, and returned to the door 
to receive Madame Danglars, to whom he 
offered his arm, to conduct her to her 
apartments. The gate once closed, and 
Debray and the baroness alone in the 
court, he asked, -- "What was the 
matter with you, Hermine? and why were 
you so affected at that story, or 
rather fable, which the count related?"

"Because I have been in such shocking 
spirits all the evening, my friend," 
said the baroness.

"No, Hermine," replied Debray; "you 
cannot make me believe that; on the 
contrary, you were in excellent spirits 
when you arrived at the count's. M. 
Danglars was disagreeable, certainly, 
but I know how much you care for his 
ill-humor. Some one has vexed you; I 
will allow no one to annoy you."

"You are deceived, Lucien, I assure 
you," replied Madame Danglars; "and 
what I have told you is really the 
case, added to the ill-humor you 
remarked, but which I did not think it 
worth while to allude to." It was 
evident that Madame Danglars was 
suffering from that nervous 
irritability which women frequently 
cannot account for even to themselves; 
or that, as Debray had guessed, she had 
experienced some secret agitation that 
she would not acknowledge to any one. 
Being a man who knew that the former of 
these symptoms was one of the inherent 
penalties of womanhood, he did not then 
press his inquiries, but waited for a 
more appropriate opportunity when he 
should again interrogate her, or 
receive an avowal proprio motu. At the 
door of her apartment the baroness met 
Mademoiselle Cornelie, her confidential 
maid. "What is my daughter doing?" 
asked Madame Danglars.

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

"Yet I think I hear her piano."

"It is Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly, 
who is playing while Mademoiselle 
Danglars is in bed."

"Well," said Madame Danglars, "come and 
undress me." They entered the bedroom. 
Debray stretched himself upon a large 
couch, and Madame Danglars passed into 
her dressing-room with Mademoiselle 
Cornelie. "My dear M. Lucien," said 
Madame Danglars through the door, "you 
are always complaining that Eugenie 
will not address a word to you."

"Madame," said Lucien, playing with a 
little dog, who, recognizing him as a 
friend of the house, expected to be 
caressed, "I am not the only one who 
makes similar complaints, I think I 
heard Morcerf say that he could not 
extract a word from his betrothed."

"True," said Madame Danglars; "yet I 
think this will all pass off, and that 
you will one day see her enter your 
study."

"My study?"

"At least that of the minister."

"Why so!"

"To ask for an engagement at the Opera. 
Really, I never saw such an infatuation 
for music; it is quite ridiculous for a 
young lady of fashion." Debray smiled. 
"Well," said he, "let her come, with 
your consent and that of the baron, and 
we will try and give her an engagement, 
though we are very poor to pay such 
talent as hers."

"Go, Cornelie," said Madame Danglars, 
"I do not require you any longer."

Cornelie obeyed, and the next minute 
Madame Danglars left her room in a 
charming loose dress, and came and sat 
down close to Debray. Then she began 
thoughtfully to caress the little 
spaniel. Lucien looked at her for a 
moment in silence. "Come, Hermine," he 
said, after a short time, "answer 
candidly, -- something vexes you -- is 
it not so?"

"Nothing," answered the baroness.

And yet, as she could scarcely breathe, 
she rose and went towards a 
looking-glass. "I am frightful 
to-night," she said. Debray rose, 
smiling, and was about to contradict 
the baroness upon this latter point, 
when the door opened suddenly. M. 
Danglars appeared; Debray reseated 
himself. At the noise of the door 
Madame Danglars turned round, and 
looked upon her husband with an 
astonishment she took no trouble to 
conceal. "Good-evening, madame," said 
the banker; "good-evening, M. Debray."

Probably the baroness thought this 
unexpected visit signified a desire to 
make up for the sharp words he had 
uttered during the day. Assuming a 
dignified air, she turned round to 
Debray, without answering her husband. 
"Read me something, M. Debray," she 
said. Debray, who was slightly 
disturbed at this visit, recovered 
himself when he saw the calmness of the 
baroness, and took up a book marked by 
a mother-of-pearl knife inlaid with 
gold. "Excuse me," said the banker, 
"but you will tire yourself, baroness, 
by such late hours, and M. Debray lives 
some distance from here."

Debray was petrified, not only to hear 
Danglars speak so calmly and politely, 
but because it was apparent that 
beneath outward politeness there really 
lurked a determined spirit of 
opposition to anything his wife might 
wish to do. The baroness was also 
surprised, and showed her astonishment 
by a look which would doubtless have 
had some effect upon her husband if he 
had not been intently occupied with the 
paper, where he was looking to see the 
closing stock quotations. The result 
was, that the proud look entirely 
failed of its purpose.

"M. Lucien," said the baroness, "I 
assure you I have no desire to sleep, 
and that I have a thousand things to 
tell you this evening, which you must 
listen to, even though you slept while 
hearing me."

"I am at your service, madame," replied 
Lucien coldly.

"My dear M. Debray," said the banker, 
"do not kill yourself to-night 
listening to the follies of Madame 
Danglars, for you can hear them as well 
to-morrow; but I claim to-night and 
will devote it, if you will allow me, 
to talk over some serious matters with 
my wife." This time the blow was so 
well aimed, and hit so directly, that 
Lucien and the baroness were staggered, 
and they interrogated each other with 
their eyes, as if to seek help against 
this aggression, but the irresistible 
will of the master of the house 
prevailed, and the husband was 
victorious.

"Do not think I wish to turn you out, 
my dear Debray," continued Danglars; 
"oh, no, not at all. An unexpected 
occurrence forces me to ask my wife to 
have a little conversation with me; it 
is so rarely I make such a request, I 
am sure you cannot grudge it to me." 
Debray muttered something, bowed and 
went out, knocking himself against the 
edge of the door, like Nathan in 
"Athalie."

"It is extraordinary," he said, when 
the door was closed behind him, "how 
easily these husbands, whom we 
ridicule, gain an advantage over us."

Lucien having left, Danglars took his 
place on the sofa, closed the open 
book, and placing himself in a 
dreadfully dictatorial attitude, he 
began playing with the dog; but the 
animal, not liking him as well as 
Debray, and attempting to bite him, 
Danglars seized him by the skin of his 
neck and threw him upon a couch on the 
other side of the room. The animal 
uttered a cry during the transit, but, 
arrived at its destination, it crouched 
behind the cushions, and stupefied at 
such unusual treatment remained silent 
and motionless. "Do you know, sir," 
asked the baroness, "that you are 
improving? Generally you are only rude, 
but to-night you are brutal."

"It is because I am in a worse humor 
than usual," replied Danglars. Hermine 
looked at the banker with supreme 
disdain. These glances frequently 
exasperated the pride of Danglars, but 
this evening he took no notice of them.

"And what have I to do with your 
ill-humor?" said the baroness, 
irritated at the impassibility of her 
husband; "do these things concern me? 
Keep your ill-humor at home in your 
money boxes, or, since you have clerks 
whom you pay, vent it upon them."

"Not so," replied Danglars; "your 
advice is wrong, so I shall not follow 
it. My money boxes are my Pactolus, as, 
I think, M. Demoustier says, and I will 
not retard its course, or disturb its 
calm. My clerks are honest men, who 
earn my fortune, whom I pay much below 
their deserts, if I may value them 
according to what they bring in; 
therefore I shall not get into a 
passion with them; those with whom I 
will be in a passion are those who eat 
my dinners, mount my horses, and 
exhaust my fortune."

"And pray who are the persons who 
exhaust your fortune? Explain yourself 
more clearly, I beg, sir."

"Oh, make yourself easy! -- I am not 
speaking riddles, and you will soon 
know what I mean. The people who 
exhaust my fortune are those who draw 
out 700,000 francs in the course of an 
hour."

"I do not understand you, sir," said 
the baroness, trying to disguise the 
agitation of her voice and the flush of 
her face. "You understand me perfectly, 
on the contrary," said Danglars: "but, 
if you will persist, I will tell you 
that I have just lost 700,000 francs 
upon the Spanish loan."

"And pray," asked the baroness, "am I 
responsible for this loss?"

"Why not?"

"Is it my fault you have lost 700,000 
francs?"

"Certainly it is not mine."

"Once for all, sir," replied the 
baroness sharply, "I tell you I will 
not hear cash named; it is a style of 
language I never heard in the house of 
my parents or in that of my first 
husband."

"Oh, I can well believe that, for 
neither of them was worth a penny."

"The better reason for my not being 
conversant with the slang of the bank, 
which is here dinning in my ears from 
morning to night; that noise of 
jingling crowns, which are constantly 
being counted and re-counted, is odious 
to me. I only know one thing I dislike 
more, which is the sound of your voice."

"Really?" said Danglars. "Well, this 
surprises me, for I thought you took 
the liveliest interest in all my 
affairs!"

"I? What could put such an idea into 
your head?"

"Yourself."

"Ah? -- what next?"

"Most assuredly."

"I should like to know upon what 
occasion?"

"Oh, mon Dieu, that is very easily 
done. Last February you were the first 
who told me of the Haitian funds. You 
had dreamed that a ship had entered the 
harbor at Havre, that this ship brought 
news that a payment we had looked upon 
as lost was going to be made. I know 
how clear-sighted your dreams are; I 
therefore purchased immediately as many 
shares as I could of the Haitian debt, 
and I gained 400,000 francs by it, of 
which 100,000 have been honestly paid 
to you. You spent it as you pleased; 
that was your business. In March there 
was a question about a grant to a 
railway. Three companies presented 
themselves, each offering equal 
securities. You told me that your 
instinct, -- and although you pretend 
to know nothing about speculations, I 
think on the contrary, that your 
comprehension is very clear upon 
certain affairs, -- well, you told me 
that your instinct led you to believe 
the grant would be given to the company 
called the Southern. I bought two 
thirds of the shares of that company; 
as you had foreseen, the shares trebled 
in value, and I picked up a million, 
from which 250,000 francs were paid to 
you for pin-money. How have you spent 
this 250,000 francs? -- it is no 
business of mine."

"When are you coming to the point?" 
cried the baroness, shivering with 
anger and impatience.

"Patience, madame, I am coming to it."

"That's fortunate."

"In April you went to dine at the 
minister's. You heard a private 
conversation respecting Spanish affairs 
-- on the expulsion of Don Carlos. I 
bought some Spanish shares. The 
expulsion took place and I pocketed 
600,000 francs the day Charles V. 
repassed the Bidassoa. Of these 600,000 
francs you took 50,000 crowns. They 
were yours, you disposed of them 
according to your fancy, and I asked no 
questions; but it is not the less true 
that you have this year received 
500,000 livres."

"Well, sir, and what then?"

"Ah, yes, it was just after this that 
you spoiled everything."

"Really, your manner of speaking" --

"It expresses my meaning, and that is 
all I want. Well, three days after that 
you talked politics with M. Debray, and 
you fancied from his words that Don 
Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I 
sold my shares, the news got out, and I 
no longer sold -- I gave them away, 
next day I find the news was false, and 
by this false report I have lost 
700,000 francs."

"Well?"

"Well, since I gave you a fourth of my 
gains, I think you owe me a fourth of 
my losses; the fourth of 700,000 francs 
is 175,000 francs."

"What you say is absurd, and I cannot 
see why M. Debray's name is mixed up in 
this affair."

"Because if you do not possess the 
175,000 francs I reclaim, you must have 
lent them to your friends, and M. 
Debray is one of your friends."

"For shame!" exclaimed the baroness.

"Oh, let us have no gestures, no 
screams, no modern drama, or you will 
oblige me to tell you that I see Debray 
leave here, pocketing the whole of the 
500,000 livres you have handed over to 
him this year, while he smiles to 
himself, saying that he has found what 
the most skilful players have never 
discovered -- that is, a roulette where 
he wins without playing, and is no 
loser when he loses." The baroness 
became enraged. "Wretch!" she cried, 
"will you dare to tell me you did not 
know what you now reproach me with?"

"I do not say that I did know it, and I 
do not say that I did not know it. I 
merely tell you to look into my conduct 
during the last four years that we have 
ceased to be husband and wife, and see 
whether it has not always been 
consistent. Some time after our 
rupture, you wished to study music, 
under the celebrated baritone who made 
such a successful appearance at the 
Theatre Italien; at the same time I 
felt inclined to learn dancing of the 
danseuse who acquired such a reputation 
in London. This cost me, on your 
account and mine, 100,000 francs. I 
said nothing, for we must have peace in 
the house; and 100,000 francs for a 
lady and gentleman to be properly 
instructed in music and dancing are not 
too much. Well, you soon become tired 
of singing, and you take a fancy to 
study diplomacy with the minister's 
secretary. You understand, it signifies 
nothing to me so long as you pay for 
your lessons out of your own cashbox. 
But to-day I find you are drawing on 
mine, and that your apprenticeship may 
cost me 700,000 francs per month. Stop 
there, madame, for this cannot last. 
Either the diplomatist must give his 
lessons gratis, and I will tolerate 
him, or he must never set his foot 
again in my house; -- do you 
understand, madame?"

"Oh, this is too much," cried Hermine, 
choking, "you are worse than 
despicable."

"But," continued Danglars, "I find you 
did not even pause there" --

"Insults!"

"You are right; let us leave these 
facts alone, and reason coolly. I have 
never interfered in your affairs 
excepting for your good; treat me in 
the same way. You say you have nothing 
to do with my cash-box. Be it so. Do as 
you like with your own, but do not fill 
or empty mine. Besides, how do I know 
that this was not a political trick, 
that the minister enraged at seeing me 
in the opposition, and jealous of the 
popular sympathy I excite, has not 
concerted with M. Debray to ruin me?"

"A probable thing!"

"Why not? Who ever heard of such an 
occurrence as this? -- a false 
telegraphic despatch -- it is almost 
impossible for wrong signals to be made 
as they were in the last two telegrams. 
It was done on purpose for me -- I am 
sure of it."

"Sir," said the baroness humbly, "are 
you not aware that the man employed 
there was dismissed, that they talked 
of going to law with him, that orders 
were issued to arrest him and that this 
order would have been put into 
execution if he had not escaped by 
flight, which proves that he was either 
mad or guilty? It was a mistake."

"Yes, which made fools laugh, which 
caused the minister to have a sleepless 
night, which has caused the minister's 
secretaries to blacken several sheets 
of paper, but which has cost me 700,000 
francs."

"But, sir," said Hermine suddenly, "if 
all this is, as you say, caused by M. 
Debray, why, instead of going direct to 
him, do you come and tell me of it? 
Why, to accuse the man, do you address 
the woman?"

"Do I know M. Debray? -- do I wish to 
know him? -- do I wish to know that he 
gives advice? -- do I wish to follow 
it? -- do I speculate? No; you do all 
this, not I."

"Still it seems to me, that as you 
profit by it -- "

Danglars shrugged his shoulders. 
"Foolish creature," he exclaimed. 
"Women fancy they have talent because 
they have managed two or three 
intrigues without being the talk of 
Paris! But know that if you had even 
hidden your irregularities from your 
husband, who has but the commencement 
of the art -- for generally husbands 
will not see -- you would then have 
been but a faint imitation of most of 
your friends among the women of the 
world. But it has not been so with me, 
-- I see, and always have seen, during 
the last sixteen years. You may, 
perhaps, have hidden a thought; but not 
a step, not an action, not a fault, has 
escaped me, while you flattered 
yourself upon your address, and firmly 
believed you had deceived me. What has 
been the result? -- that, thanks to my 
pretended ignorance, there is none of 
your friends, from M. de Villefort to 
M. Debray, who has not trembled before 
me. There is not one who has not 
treated me as the master of the house, 
-- the only title I desire with respect 
to you; there is not one, in fact, who 
would have dared to speak of me as I 
have spoken of them this day. I will 
allow you to make me hateful, but I 
will prevent your rendering me 
ridiculous, and, above all, I forbid 
you to ruin me."

The baroness had been tolerably 
composed until the name of Villefort 
had been pronounced; but then she 
became pale, and, rising, as if touched 
by a spring, she stretched out her 
hands as though conjuring an 
apparition; she then took two or three 
steps towards her husband, as though to 
tear the secret from him, of which he 
was ignorant, or which he withheld from 
some odious calculation, -- odious, as 
all his calculations were. "M. de 
Villefort! -- What do you mean?"

"I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first 
husband, being neither a philosopher 
nor a banker, or perhaps being both, 
and seeing there was nothing to be got 
out of a king's attorney, died of grief 
or anger at finding, after an absence 
of nine months, that you had been 
enceinte six. I am brutal, -- I not 
only allow it, but boast of it; it is 
one of the reasons of my success in 
commercial business. Why did he kill 
himself instead of you? Because he had 
no cash to save. My life belongs to my 
cash. M. Debray has made me lose 
700,000 francs; let him bear his share 
of the loss, and we will go on as 
before; if not, let him become bankrupt 
for the 250,000 livres, and do as all 
bankrupts do -- disappear. He is a 
charming fellow, I allow, when his news 
is correct; but when it is not, there 
are fifty others in the world who would 
do better than he."

Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot; 
she made a violent effort to reply to 
this last attack, but she fell upon a 
chair thinking of Villefort, of the 
dinner scene, of the strange series of 
misfortunes which had taken place in 
her house during the last few days, and 
changed the usual calm of her 
establishment to a scene of scandalous 
debate. Danglars did not even look at 
her, though she did her best to faint. 
He shut the bedroom door after him, 
without adding another word, and 
returned to his apartments; and when 
Madame Danglars recovered from her 
half-fainting condition, she could 
almost believe that she had had a 
disagreeable dream. 

 Chapter 66 Matrimonial Projects.

The day following this scene, at the 
hour the banker usually chose to pay a 
visit to Madame Danglars on his way to 
his office, his coupe did not appear. 
At this time, that is, about half-past 
twelve, Madame Danglars ordered her 
carriage, and went out. Danglars, 
hidden behind a curtain, watched the 
departure he had been waiting for. He 
gave orders that he should be informed 
as soon as Madame Danglars appeared; 
but at two o'clock she had not 
returned. He then called for his 
horses, drove to the Chamber, and 
inscribed his name to speak against the 
budget. From twelve to two o'clock 
Danglars had remained in his study, 
unsealing his dispatches, and becoming 
more and more sad every minute, heaping 
figure upon figure, and receiving, 
among other visits, one from Major 
Cavalcanti, who, as stiff and exact as 
ever, presented himself precisely at 
the hour named the night before, to 
terminate his business with the banker. 
On leaving the Chamber, Danglars, who 
had shown violent marks of agitation 
during the sitting, and been more 
bitter than ever against the ministry, 
re-entered his carriage, and told the 
coachman to drive to the Avenue des 
Champs-Elysees, No. 30.

Monte Cristo was at home; only he was 
engaged with some one and begged 
Danglars to wait for a moment in the 
drawing-room. While the banker was 
waiting in the anteroom, the door 
opened, and a man dressed as an abbe 
and doubtless more familiar with the 
house than he was, came in and instead 
of waiting, merely bowed, passed on to 
the farther apartments, and 
disappeared. A minute after the door by 
which the priest had entered reopened, 
and Monte Cristo appeared. "Pardon me," 
said he, "my dear baron, but one of my 
friends, the Abbe Busoni, whom you 
perhaps saw pass by, has just arrived 
in Paris; not having seen him for a 
long time, I could not make up my mind 
to leave him sooner, so I hope this 
will be sufficient reason for my having 
made you wait."

"Nay," said Danglars, "it is my fault; 
I have chosen my visit at a wrong time, 
and will retire."

"Not at all; on the contrary, be 
seated; but what is the matter with 
you? You look careworn; really, you 
alarm me. Melancholy in a capitalist, 
like the appearance of a comet, 
presages some misfortune to the world."

"I have been in ill-luck for several 
days," said Danglars, "and I have heard 
nothing but bad news."

"Ah, indeed?" said Monte Cristo. "Have 
you had another fall at the Bourse?"

"No; I am safe for a few days at least. 
I am only annoyed about a bankrupt of 
Trieste."

"Really? Does it happen to be Jacopo 
Manfredi?"

"Exactly so. Imagine a man who has 
transacted business with me for I don't 
know how long, to the amount of 800,000 
or 900,000 francs during the year. 
Never a mistake or delay -- a fellow 
who paid like a prince. Well, I was a 
million in advance with him, and now my 
fine Jacopo Manfredi suspends payment!"

"Really?"

"It is an unheard-of fatality. I draw 
upon him for 600,000 francs, my bills 
are returned unpaid, and, more than 
that, I hold bills of exchange signed 
by him to the value of 400,000 francs, 
payable at his correspondent's in Paris 
at the end of this month. To-day is the 
30th. I present them; but my 
correspondent has disappeared. This, 
with my Spanish affairs, made a pretty 
end to the month."

"Then you really lost by that affair in 
Spain?"

"Yes; only 700,000 francs out of my 
cash-box -- nothing more!"

"Why, how could you make such a mistake 
-- such an old stager?"

"Oh, it is all my wife's fault. She 
dreamed Don Carlos had returned to 
Spain; she believes in dreams. It is 
magnetism, she says, and when she 
dreams a thing it is sure to happen, 
she assures me. On this conviction I 
allow her to speculate, she having her 
bank and her stockbroker; she 
speculated and lost. It is true she 
speculates with her own money, not 
mine; nevertheless, you can understand 
that when 700,000 francs leave the 
wife's pocket, the husband always finds 
it out. But do you mean to say you have 
not heard of this? Why, the thing has 
made a tremendous noise."

"Yes, I heard it spoken of, but I did 
not know the details, and then no one 
can be more ignorant than I am of the 
affairs in the Bourse."

"Then you do not speculate?"

"I? -- How could I speculate when I 
already have so much trouble in 
regulating my income? I should be 
obliged, besides my steward, to keep a 
clerk and a boy. But touching these 
Spanish affairs, I think that the 
baroness did not dream the whole of the 
Don Carlos matter. The papers said 
something about it, did they not?"

"Then you believe the papers?"

"I? -- not the least in the world; only 
I fancied that the honest Messager was 
an exception to the rule, and that it 
only announced telegraphic despatches."

"Well, that's what puzzles me," replied 
Danglars; "the news of the return of 
Don Carlos was brought by telegraph."

"So that," said Monte Cristo, "you have 
lost nearly 1,700,000 francs this 
month."

"Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my 
loss."

"Diable," said Monte Cristo 
compassionately, "it is a hard blow for 
a third-rate fortune."

"Third-rate," said Danglars, rather 
humble, "what do you mean by that?"

"Certainly," continued Monte Cristo, "I 
make three assortments in fortune -- 
first-rate, second-rate, and third-rate 
fortunes. I call those first-rate which 
are composed of treasures one possesses 
under one's hand, such as mines, lands, 
and funded property, in such states as 
France, Austria, and England, provided 
these treasures and property form a 
total of about a hundred millions; I 
call those second-rate fortunes, that 
are gained by manufacturing 
enterprises, joint-stock companies, 
viceroyalties, and principalities, not 
drawing more than 1,500,000 francs, the 
whole forming a capital of about fifty 
millions; finally, I call those 
third-rate fortunes, which are composed 
of a fluctuating capital, dependent 
upon the will of others, or upon 
chances which a bankruptcy involves or 
a false telegram shakes, such as banks, 
speculations of the day -- in fact, all 
operations under the influence of 
greater or less mischances, the whole 
bringing in a real or fictitious 
capital of about fifteen millions. I 
think this is about your position, is 
it not?"

"Confound it, yes!" replied Danglars.

"The result, then, of six more such 
months as this would be to reduce the 
third-rate house to despair."

"Oh," said Danglars, becoming very 
pale, how you are running on!"

"Let us imagine seven such months," 
continued Monte Cristo, in the same 
tone. "Tell me, have you ever thought 
that seven times 1,700,000 francs make 
nearly twelve millions? No, you have 
not; -- well, you are right, for if you 
indulged in such reflections, you would 
never risk your principal, which is to 
the speculator what the skin is to 
civilized man. We have our clothes, 
some more splendid than others, -- this 
is our credit; but when a man dies he 
has only his skin; in the same way, on 
retiring from business, you have 
nothing but your real principal of 
about five or six millions, at the 
most; for third-rate fortunes are never 
more than a fourth of what they appear 
to be, like the locomotive on a 
railway, the size of which is magnified 
by the smoke and steam surrounding it. 
Well, out of the five or six millions 
which form your real capital, you have 
just lost nearly two millions, which 
must, of course, in the same degree 
diminish your credit and fictitious 
fortune; to follow out my simile, your 
skin has been opened by bleeding, and 
this if repeated three or four times 
will cause death -- so pay attention to 
it, my dear Monsieur Danglars. Do you 
want money? Do you wish me to lend you 
some?"

"What a bad calculator you are!" 
exclaimed Danglars, calling to his 
assistance all his philosophy and 
dissimulation. "I have made money at 
the same time by speculations which 
have succeeded. I have made up the loss 
of blood by nutrition. I lost a battle 
in Spain, I have been defeated in 
Trieste, but my naval army in India 
will have taken some galleons, and my 
Mexican pioneers will have discovered 
some mine."

"Very good, very good! But the wound 
remains and will reopen at the first 
loss."

"No, for I am only embarked in 
certainties," replied Danglars, with 
the air of a mountebank sounding his 
own praises; "to involve me, three 
governments must crumble to dust."

"Well, such things have been."

"That there should be a famine!"

"Recollect the seven fat and the seven 
lean kine."

"Or, that the sea should become dry, as 
in the days of Pharaoh, and even then 
my vessels would become caravans."

"So much the better. I congratulate 
you, my dear M. Danglars," said Monte 
Cristo; "I see I was deceived, and that 
you belong to the class of second-rate 
fortunes."

"I think I may aspire to that honor," 
said Danglars with a smile, which 
reminded Monte Cristo of the sickly 
moons which bad artists are so fond of 
daubing into their pictures of ruins. 
"But, while we are speaking of 
business," Danglars added, pleased to 
find an opportunity of changing the 
subject, "tell me what I am to do for 
M. Cavalcanti."

"Give him money, if he is recommended 
to you, and the recommendation seems 
good."

"Excellent; he presented himself this 
morning with a bond of 40,000 francs, 
payable at sight, on you, signed by 
Busoni, and returned by you to me, with 
your indorsement -- of course, I 
immediately counted him over the forty 
bank-notes."

Monte Cristo nodded his head in token 
of assent. "But that is not all," 
continued Danglars; "he has opened an 
account with my house for his son."

"May I ask how much he allows the young 
man?"

"Five thousand francs per month."

"Sixty thousand francs per year. I 
thought I was right in believing that 
Cavalcanti to be a stingy fellow. How 
can a young man live upon 5,000 francs 
a month?"

"But you understand that if the young 
man should want a few thousands more" --

"Do not advance it; the father will 
never repay it. You do not know these 
ultramontane millionaires; they are 
regular misers. And by whom were they 
recommended to you?"

"Oh, by the house of Fenzi, one of the 
best in Florence."

"I do not mean to say you will lose, 
but, nevertheless, mind you hold to the 
terms of the agreement."

"Would you not trust the Cavalcanti?"

"I? oh, I would advance six millions on 
his signature. I was only speaking in 
reference to the second-rate fortunes 
we were mentioning just now."

"And with all this, how unassuming he 
is! I should never have taken him for 
anything more than a mere major."

"And you would have flattered him, for 
certainly, as you say, he has no 
manner. The first time I saw him he 
appeared to me like an old lieutenant 
who had grown mouldy under his 
epaulets. But all the Italians are the 
same; they are like old Jews when they 
are not glittering in Oriental 
splendor."

"The young man is better," said 
Danglars.

"Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but, 
upon the whole, he appeared tolerable. 
I was uneasy about him."

"Why?"

"Because you met him at my house, just 
after his introduction into the world, 
as they told me. He has been travelling 
with a very severe tutor, and had never 
been to Paris before."

"Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst 
themselves, do they not?" asked 
Danglars carelessly; they like to unite 
their fortunes."

"It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti 
is an original who does nothing like 
other people. I cannot help thinking 
that he has brought his son to France 
to choose a wife."

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"And you have heard his fortune 
mentioned?"

"Nothing else was talked of; only some 
said he was worth millions, and others 
that he did not possess a farthing."

"And what is your opinion?"

"I ought not to influence you, because 
it is only my own personal impression."

"Well, and it is that" --

"My opinion is, that all these old 
podestas, these ancient condottieri, -- 
for the Cavalcanti have commanded 
armies and governed provinces, -- my 
opinion, I say, is, that they have 
buried their millions in corners, the 
secret of which they have transmitted 
only to their eldest sons, who have 
done the same from generation to 
generation; and the proof of this is 
seen in their yellow and dry 
appearance, like the florins of the 
republic, which, from being constantly 
gazed upon, have become reflected in 
them."

"Certainly," said Danglars, "and this 
is further supported by the fact of 
their not possessing an inch of land."

"Very little, at least; I know of none 
which Cavalcanti possesses, excepting 
his palace in Lucca."

"Ah, he has a palace?" said Danglars, 
laughing; "come, that is something."

"Yes; and more than that, he lets it to 
the Minister of Finance while he lives 
in a simple house. Oh, as I told you 
before, I think the old fellow is very 
close."

"Come, you do not flatter him."

"I scarcely know him; I think I have 
seen him three times in my life; all I 
know relating to him is through Busoni 
and himself. He was telling me this 
morning that, tired of letting his 
property lie dormant in Italy, which is 
a dead nation, he wished to find a 
method, either in France or England, of 
multiplying his millions, but remember, 
that though I place great confidence in 
Busoni, I am not responsible for this."

"Never mind; accept my thanks for the 
client you have sent me. It is a fine 
name to inscribe on my ledgers, and my 
cashier was quite proud of it when I 
explained to him who the Cavalcanti 
were. By the way, this is merely a 
simple question, when this sort of 
people marry their sons, do they give 
them any fortune?"

"Oh, that depends upon circumstances. I 
know an Italian prince, rich as a gold 
mine, one of the noblest families in 
Tuscany, who, when his sons married 
according to his wish, gave them 
millions; and when they married against 
his consent, merely allowed them thirty 
crowns a month. Should Andrea marry 
according to his father's views, he 
will, perhaps, give him one, two, or 
three millions. For example, supposing 
it were the daughter of a banker, he 
might take an interest in the house of 
the father-in-law of his son; then 
again, if he disliked his choice, the 
major takes the key, double-locks his 
coffer, and Master Andrea would be 
obliged to live like the sons of a 
Parisian family, by shuffling cards or 
rattling the dice."

"Ah, that boy will find out some 
Bavarian or Peruvian princess; he will 
want a crown and an immense fortune."

"No; these grand lords on the other 
side of the Alps frequently marry into 
plain families; like Jupiter, they like 
to cross the race. But do you wish to 
marry Andrea, my dear M. Danglars, that 
you are asking so many questions?"

"Ma foi," said Danglars, "it would not 
be a bad speculation, I fancy, and you 
know I am a speculator."

"You are not thinking of Mademoiselle 
Danglars, I hope; you would not like 
poor Andrea to have his throat cut by 
Albert?"

"Albert," repeated Danglars, shrugging 
his shoulders; "ah, well; he would care 
very little about it, I think."

"But he is betrothed to your daughter, 
I believe?"

"Well, M. de Morcerf and I have talked 
about this marriage, but Madame de 
Morcerf and Albert" --

"You do not mean to say that it would 
not be a good match?"

"Indeed, I imagine that Mademoiselle 
Danglars is as good as M. de Morcerf."

"Mademoiselle Danglars' fortune will be 
great, no doubt, especially it the 
telegraph should not make any more 
mistakes."

"Oh, I do not mean her fortune only; 
but tell me" --

"What?"

"Why did you not invite M. and Madame 
de Morcerf to your dinner?"

"I did so, but he excused himself on 
account of Madame de Morcerf being 
obliged to go to Dieppe for the benefit 
of sea air."

"Yes, yes," said Danglars, laughing, 
"it would do her a great deal of good."

"Why so?"

"Because it is the air she always 
breathed in her youth." Monte Cristo 
took no notice of this ill-natured 
remark.

"But still, if Albert be not so rich as 
Mademoiselle Danglars," said the count, 
"you must allow that he has a fine 
name?"

"So he has; but I like mine as well."

"Certainly; your name is popular, and 
does honor to the title they have 
adorned it with; but you are too 
intelligent not to know that according 
to a prejudice, too firmly rooted to be 
exterminated, a nobility which dates 
back five centuries is worth more than 
one that can only reckon twenty years."

"And for this very reason," said 
Danglars with a smile, which he tried 
to make sardonic, "I prefer M. Andrea 
Cavalcanti to M. Albert de Morcerf."

"Still, I should not think the Morcerfs 
would yield to the Cavalcanti?"

"The Morcerfs! -- Stay, my dear count," 
said Danglars; "you are a man of the 
world, are you not?"

"I think so."

"And you understand heraldry?"

"A little."

"Well, look at my coat-of-arms, it is 
worth more than Morcerf's."

"Why so?"

"Because, though I am not a baron by 
birth, my real name is, at least, 
Danglars."

"Well, what then?"

"While his name is not Morcerf."

"How? -- not Morcerf?"

"Not the least in the world."

"Go on."

"I have been made a baron, so that I 
actually am one; he made himself a 
count, so that he is not one at all."

"Impossible!"

"Listen my dear count; M. de Morcerf 
has been my friend, or rather my 
acquaintance, during the last thirty 
years. You know I have made the most of 
my arms, though I never forgot my 
origin."

"A proof of great humility or great 
pride," said Monte Cristo.

"Well, when I was a clerk, Morcerf was 
a mere fisherman."

"And then he was called" --

"Fernand."

"Only Fernand?"

"Fernand Mondego."

"You are sure?"

"Pardieu, I have bought enough fish of 
him to know his name."

"Then, why did you think of giving your 
daughter to him?"

"Because Fernand and Danglars, being 
both parvenus, both having become 
noble, both rich, are about equal in 
worth, excepting that there have been 
certain things mentioned of him that 
were never said of me."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing!"

"Ah, yes; what you tell me recalls to 
mind something about the name of 
Fernand Mondego. I have heard that name 
in Greece."

"In conjunction with the affairs of Ali 
Pasha?"

"Exactly so."

"This is the mystery," said Danglars. 
"I acknowledge I would have given 
anything to find it out."

"It would be very easy if you much 
wished it?"

"How so?"

"Probably you have some correspondent 
in Greece?"

"I should think so."

"At Yanina?"

"Everywhere."

"Well, write to your correspondent in 
Yanina, and ask him what part was 
played by a Frenchman named Fernand 
Mondego in the catastrophe of Ali 
Tepelini."

"You are right," exclaimed Danglars, 
rising quickly, "I will write to-day."

"Do so."

"I will."

"And if you should hear of anything 
very scandalous" --

"I will communicate it to you."

"You will oblige me." Danglars rushed 
out of the room, and made but one leap 
into his coupe. 

 Chapter 67 At the Office of the King's 
Attorney.

Let us leave the banker driving his 
horses at their fullest speed, and 
follow Madame Danglars in her morning 
excursion. We have said that at 
half-past twelve o'clock Madame 
Danglars had ordered her horses, and 
had left home in the carriage. She 
directed her course towards the 
Faubourg Saint Germain, went down the 
Rue Mazarine, and stopped at the 
Passage du Pont-Neuf. She descended, 
and went through the passage. She was 
very plainly dressed, as would be the 
case with a woman of taste walking in 
the morning. At the Rue Guenegaud she 
called a cab, and directed the driver 
to go to the Rue de Harlay. As soon as 
she was seated in the vehicle, she drew 
from her pocket a very thick black 
veil, which she tied on to her straw 
bonnet. She then replaced the bonnet, 
and saw with pleasure, in a little 
pocket-mirror, that her white 
complexion and brilliant eyes were 
alone visible. The cab crossed the 
Pont-Neuf and entered the Rue de Harlay 
by the Place Dauphine; the driver was 
paid as the door opened, and stepping 
lightly up the stairs Madame Danglars 
soon reached the Salle des Pas-Perdus.

There was a great deal going on that 
morning, and many business-like persons 
at the Palais; business-like persons 
pay very little attention to women, and 
Madame Danglars crossed the hall 
without exciting any more attention 
than any other woman calling upon her 
lawyer. There was a great press of 
people in M. de Villefort's 
ante-chamber, but Madame Danglars had 
no occasion even to pronounce her name. 
The instant she appeared the 
door-keeper rose, came to her, and 
asked her whether she was not the 
person with whom the procureur had made 
an appointment; and on her affirmative 
answer being given, he conducted her by 
a private passage to M. de Villefort's 
office. The magistrate was seated in an 
arm-chair, writing, with his back 
towards the door; he did not move as he 
heard it open, and the door-keeper 
pronounce the words, "Walk in, madame," 
and then reclose it; but no sooner had 
the man's footsteps ceased, than he 
started up, drew the bolts, closed the 
curtains, and examined every corner of 
the room. Then, when he had assured 
himself that he could neither be seen 
nor heard, and was consequently 
relieved of doubts, he said, -- 
"Thanks, madame, -- thanks for your 
punctuality; "and he offered a chair to 
Madame Danglars, which she accepted, 
for her heart beat so violently that 
she felt nearly suffocated.

"It is a long time, madame," said the 
procureur, describing a half-circle 
with his chair, so as to place himself 
exactly opposite to Madame Danglars, -- 
"it is a long time since I had the 
pleasure of speaking alone with you, 
and I regret that we have only now met 
to enter upon a painful conversation."

"Nevertheless, sir, you see I have 
answered your first appeal, although 
certainly the conversation must be much 
more painful for me than for you." 
Villefort smiled bitterly.

"It is true, then," he said, rather 
uttering his thoughts aloud than 
addressing his companion, -- "it is 
true, then, that all our actions leave 
their traces -- some sad, others bright 
-- on our paths; it is true that every 
step in our lives is like the course of 
an insect on the sands; -- it leaves 
its track! Alas, to many the path is 
traced by tears."

"Sir," said Madame Danglars, "you can 
feel for my emotion, can you not? Spare 
me, then, I beseech you. When I look at 
this room, -- whence so many guilty 
creatures have departed, trembling and 
ashamed, when I look at that chair 
before which I now sit trembling and 
ashamed, -- oh, it requires all my 
reason to convince me that I am not a 
very guilty woman and you a menacing 
judge." Villefort dropped his head and 
sighed. "And I," he said, "I feel that 
my place is not in the judge's seat, 
but on the prisoner's stool."

"You?" said Madame Danglars.

"Yes, I."

"I think, sir, you exaggerate your 
situation," said Madame Danglars, whose 
beautiful eyes sparkled for a moment. 
"The paths of which you were just 
speaking have been traced by all young 
men of ardent imaginations. Besides the 
pleasure, there is always remorse from 
the indulgence of our passions, and, 
after all, what have you men to fear 
from all this? the world excuses, and 
notoriety ennobles you."

"Madame," replied Villefort, "you know 
that I am no hypocrite, or, at least, 
that I never deceive without a reason. 
If my brow be severe, it is because 
many misfortunes have clouded it; if my 
heart be petrified, it is that it might 
sustain the blows it has received. I 
was not so in my youth, I was not so on 
the night of the betrothal, when we 
were all seated around a table in the 
Rue du Cours at Marseilles. But since 
then everything has changed in and 
about me; I am accustomed to brave 
difficulties, and, in the conflict to 
crush those who, by their own free 
will, or by chance, voluntarily or 
involuntarily, interfere with me in my 
career. It is generally the case that 
what we most ardently desire is as 
ardently withheld from us by those who 
wish to obtain it, or from whom we 
attempt to snatch it. Thus, the greater 
number of a man's errors come before 
him disguised under the specious form 
of necessity; then, after error has 
been committed in a moment of 
excitement, of delirium, or of fear, we 
see that we might have avoided and 
escaped it. The means we might have 
used, which we in our blindness could 
not see, then seem simple and easy, and 
we say, `Why did I not do this, instead 
of that?' Women, on the contrary, are 
rarely tormented with remorse; for the 
decision does not come from you, -- 
your misfortunes are generally imposed 
upon you, and your faults the results 
of others' crimes."

"In any case, sir, you will allow," 
replied Madame Danglars, "that, even if 
the fault were alone mine, I last night 
received a severe punishment for it."

"Poor thing," said Villefort, pressing 
her hand, "it was too severe for your 
strength, for you were twice 
overwhelmed, and yet" --

"Well?"

"Well, I must tell you. Collect all 
your courage, for you have not yet 
heard all."

"Ah," exclaimed Madame Danglars, 
alarmed, "what is there more to hear?"

"You only look back to the past, and it 
is, indeed, bad enough. Well, picture 
to yourself a future more gloomy still 
-- certainly frightful, perhaps 
sanguinary." The baroness knew how calm 
Villefort naturally was, and his 
present excitement frightened her so 
much that she opened her mouth to 
scream, but the sound died in her 
throat. "How has this terrible past 
been recalled?" cried Villefort; "how 
is it that it has escaped from the 
depths of the tomb and the recesses of 
our hearts, where it was buried, to 
visit us now, like a phantom, whitening 
our cheeks and flushing our brows with 
shame?"

"Alas," said Hermine, "doubtless it is 
chance."

"Chance?" replied Villefort; "No, no, 
madame, there is no such thing as 
chance."

"Oh, yes; has not a fatal chance 
revealed all this? Was it not by chance 
the Count of Monte Cristo bought that 
house? Was it not by chance he caused 
the earth to be dug up? Is it not by 
chance that the unfortunate child was 
disinterred under the trees? -- that 
poor innocent offspring of mine, which 
I never even kissed, but for whom I 
wept many, many tears. Ah, my heart 
clung to the count when he mentioned 
the dear spoil found beneath the 
flowers."

"Well, no, madame, -- this is the 
terrible news I have to tell you," said 
Villefort in a hollow voice -- "no, 
nothing was found beneath the flowers; 
there was no child disinterred -- no. 
You must not weep, no, you must not 
groan, you must tremble!"

"What can you mean?" asked Madame 
Danglars, shuddering.

"I mean that M. de Monte Cristo, 
digging underneath these trees, found 
neither skeleton nor chest, because 
neither of them was there!"

"Neither of them there?" repeated 
Madame Danglars, her staring, wide-open 
eyes expressing her alarm.

"Neither of them there!" she again 
said, as though striving to impress 
herself with the meaning of the words 
which escaped her.

"No," said Villefort, burying his face 
in his hands, "no, a hundred times no!"

"Then you did not bury the poor child 
there, sir? Why did you deceive me? 
Where did you place it? tell me -- 
where?"

"There! But listen to me -- listen -- 
and you will pity me who has for twenty 
years alone borne the heavy burden of 
grief I am about to reveal, without 
casting the least portion upon you."

"Oh, you frighten me! But speak; I will 
listen."

"You recollect that sad night, when you 
were half-expiring on that bed in the 
red damask room, while I, scarcely less 
agitated than you, awaited your 
delivery. The child was born, was given 
to me -- motionless, breathless, 
voiceless; we thought it dead." Madame 
Danglars moved rapidly, as though she 
would spring from her chair, but 
Villefort stopped, and clasped his 
hands as if to implore her attention. 
"We thought it dead," he repeated; "I 
placed it in the chest, which was to 
take the place of a coffin; I descended 
to the garden, I dug a hole, and then 
flung it down in haste. Scarcely had I 
covered it with earth, when the arm of 
the Corsican was stretched towards me; 
I saw a shadow rise, and, at the same 
time, a flash of light. I felt pain; I 
wished to cry out, but an icy shiver 
ran through my veins and stifled my 
voice; I fell lifeless, and fancied 
myself killed. Never shall I forget 
your sublime courage, when, having 
returned to consciousness, I dragged 
myself to the foot of the stairs, and 
you, almost dying yourself, came to 
meet me. We were obliged to keep silent 
upon the dreadful catastrophe. You had 
the fortitude to regain the house, 
assisted by your nurse. A duel was the 
pretext for my wound. Though we 
scarcely expected it, our secret 
remained in our own keeping alone. I 
was taken to Versailles; for three 
months I struggled with death; at last, 
as I seemed to cling to life, I was 
ordered to the South. Four men carried 
me from Paris to Chalons, walking six 
leagues a day; Madame de Villefort 
followed the litter in her carriage. At 
Chalons I was put upon the Saone, 
thence I passed on to he Rhone, whence 
I descended, merely with the current, 
to Arles; at Arles I was again placed 
on my litter, and continued my journey 
to Marseilles. My recovery lasted six 
months. I never heard you mentioned, 
and I did not dare inquire for you. 
When I returned to Paris, I learned 
that you, the widow of M. de Nargonne, 
had married M. Danglars.

"What was the subject of my thoughts 
from the time consciousness returned to 
me? Always the same -- always the 
child's corpse, coming every night in 
my dreams, rising from the earth, and 
hovering over the grave with menacing 
look and gesture. I inquired 
immediately on my return to Paris; the 
house had not been inhabited since we 
left it, but it had just been let for 
nine years. I found the tenant. I 
pretended that I disliked the idea that 
a house belonging to my wife's father 
and mother should pass into the hands 
of strangers. I offered to pay them for 
cancelling the lease; they demanded 
6,000 francs. I would have given 10,000 
-- I would have given 20,000. I had the 
money with me; I made the tenant sign 
the deed of resilition, and when I had 
obtained what I so much wanted, I 
galloped to Auteuil.

"No one had entered the house since I 
had left it. It was five o'clock in the 
afternoon; I ascended into the red 
room, and waited for night. There all 
the thoughts which had disturbed me 
during my year of constant agony came 
back with double force. The Corsican, 
who had declared the vendetta against 
me, who had followed me from Nimes to 
Paris, who had hid himself in the 
garden, who had struck me, had seen me 
dig the grave, had seen me inter the 
child, -- he might become acquainted 
with your person, -- nay, he might even 
then have known it. Would he not one 
day make you pay for keeping this 
terrible secret? Would it not be a 
sweet revenge for him when he found 
that I had not died from the blow of 
his dagger? It was therefore necessary, 
before everything else, and at all 
risks, that I should cause all traces 
of the past to disappear -- that I 
should destroy every material vestige; 
too much reality would always remain in 
my recollection. It was for this I had 
annulled the lease -- it was for this I 
had come -- it was for this I was 
waiting. Night arrived; I allowed it to 
become quite dark. I was without a 
light in that room; when the wind shook 
all the doors, behind which I 
continually expected to see some spy 
concealed, I trembled. I seemed 
everywhere to hear your moans behind me 
in the bed, and I dared not turn 
around. My heart beat so violently that 
I feared my wound would open. At 
length, one by one, all the noises in 
the neighborhood ceased. I understood 
that I had nothing to fear, that I 
should neither be seen nor heard, so I 
decided upon descending to the garden.

"Listen, Hermine; I consider myself as 
brave as most men, but when I drew from 
my breast the little key of the 
staircase, which I had found in my coat 
-- that little key we both used to 
cherish so much, which you wished to 
have fastened to a golden ring -- when 
I opened the door, and saw the pale 
moon shedding a long stream of white 
light on the spiral staircase like a 
spectre, I leaned against the wall, and 
nearly shrieked. I seemed to be going 
mad. At last I mastered my agitation. I 
descended the staircase step by step; 
the only thing I could not conquer was 
a strange trembling in my knees. I 
grasped the railings; if I had relaxed 
my hold for a moment, I should have 
fallen. I reached the lower door. 
Outside this door a spade was placed 
against the wall; I took it, and 
advanced towards the thicket. I had 
provided myself with a dark lantern. In 
the middle of the lawn I stopped to 
light it, then I continued my path.

"It was the end of November, all the 
verdure of the garden had disappeared, 
the trees were nothing more than 
skeletons with their long bony arms, 
and the dead leaves sounded on the 
gravel under my feet. My terror 
overcame me to such a degree as I 
approached the thicket, that I took a 
pistol from my pocket and armed myself. 
I fancied continually that I saw the 
figure of the Corsican between the 
branches. I examined the thicket with 
my dark lantern; it was empty. I looked 
carefully around; I was indeed alone, 
-- no noise disturbed the silence but 
the owl, whose piercing cry seemed to 
be calling up the phantoms of the 
night. I tied my lantern to a forked 
branch I had noticed a year before at 
the precise spot where I stopped to dig 
the hole.

"The grass had grown very thickly there 
during the summer, and when autumn 
arrived no one had been there to mow 
it. Still one place where the grass was 
thin attracted my attention; it 
evidently was there I had turned up the 
ground. I went to work. The hour, then, 
for which I had been waiting during the 
last year had at length arrived. How I 
worked, how I hoped, how I struck every 
piece of turf, thinking to find some 
resistance to my spade! But no, I found 
nothing, though I had made a hole twice 
as large as the first. I thought I had 
been deceived -- had mistaken the spot. 
I turned around, I looked at the trees, 
I tried to recall the details which had 
struck me at the time. A cold, sharp 
wind whistled through the leafless 
branches, and yet the drops fell from 
my forehead. I recollected that I was 
stabbed just as I was trampling the 
ground to fill up the hole; while doing 
so I had leaned against a laburnum; 
behind me was an artificial rockery, 
intended to serve as a resting-place 
for persons walking in the garden; in 
falling, my hand, relaxing its hold of 
the laburnum, felt the coldness of the 
stone. On my right I saw the tree, 
behind me the rock. I stood in the same 
attitude, and threw myself down. I 
rose, and again began digging and 
enlarging the hole; still I found 
nothing, nothing -- the chest was no 
longer there!"

"The chest no longer there?" murmured 
Madame Danglars, choking with fear.

Think not I contented myself with this 
one effort," continued Villefort. "No; 
I searched the whole thicket. I thought 
the assassin, having discovered the 
chest, and supposing it to be a 
treasure, had intended carrying it off, 
but, perceiving his error, had dug 
another hole, and deposited it there; 
but I could find nothing. Then the idea 
struck me that he had not taken these 
precautions, and had simply thrown it 
in a corner. In the last case I must 
wait for daylight to renew my search. I 
remained the room and waited."

"Oh, heavens!"

When daylight dawned I went down again. 
My first visit was to the thicket. I 
hoped to find some traces which had 
escaped me in the darkness. I had 
turned up the earth over a surface of 
more than twenty feet square, and a 
depth of two feet. A laborer would not 
have done in a day what occupied me an 
hour. But I could find nothing -- 
absolutely nothing. Then I renewed the 
search. Supposing it had been thrown 
aside, it would probably be on the path 
which led to the little gate; but this 
examination was as useless as the 
first, and with a bursting heart I 
returned to the thicket, which now 
contained no hope for me."

"Oh," cried Madame Danglars, "it was 
enough to drive you mad!"

"I hoped for a moment that it might," 
said Villefort; "but that happiness was 
denied me. However, recovering my 
strength and my ideas, `Why,' said I, 
`should that man have carried away the 
corpse?'"

"But you said," replied Madame 
Danglars, "he would require it as a 
proof."

"Ah, no, madame, that could not be. 
Dead bodies are not kept a year; they 
are shown to a magistrate, and the 
evidence is taken. Now, nothing of the 
kind has happened."

"What then?" asked Hermine, trembling 
violently.

"Something more terrible, more fatal, 
more alarming for us -- the child was, 
perhaps, alive, and the assassin may 
have saved it!"

Madame Danglars uttered a piercing cry, 
and, seizing Villefort's hands, 
exclaimed, "My child was alive?" said 
she; "you buried my child alive? You 
were not certain my child was dead, and 
you buried it? Ah" --

Madame Danglars had risen, and stood 
before the procureur, whose hands she 
wrung in her feeble grasp. "I know not; 
I merely suppose so, as I might suppose 
anything else," replied Villefort with 
a look so fixed, it indicated that his 
powerful mind was on the verge of 
despair and madness. "Ah, my child, my 
poor child!" cried the baroness, 
falling on her chair, and stifling her 
sobs in her handkerchief. Villefort, 
becoming somewhat reassured, perceived 
that to avert the maternal storm 
gathering over his head, he must 
inspire Madame Danglars with the terror 
he felt. "You understand, then, that if 
it were so," said he, rising in his 
turn, and approaching the baroness, to 
speak to her in a lower tone, "we are 
lost. This child lives, and some one 
knows it lives -- some one is in 
possession of our secret; and since 
Monte Cristo speaks before us of a 
child disinterred, when that child 
could not be found, it is he who is in 
possession of our secret."

"Just God, avenging God!" murmured 
Madame Danglars.

Villefort's only answer was a stifled 
groan.

"But the child -- the child, sir?" 
repeated the agitated mother.

"How I have searched for him," replied 
Villefort, wringing his hands; "how I 
have called him in my long sleepless 
nights; how I have longed for royal 
wealth to purchase a million of secrets 
from a million of men, and to find mine 
among them! At last, one day, when for 
the hundredth time I took up my spade, 
I asked myself again and again what the 
Corsican could have done with the 
child. A child encumbers a fugitive; 
perhaps, on perceiving it was still 
alive, he had thrown it into the river."

"Impossible!" cried Madame Danglars: "a 
man may murder another out of revenge, 
but he would not deliberately drown a 
child."

"Perhaps," continued Villefort, "he had 
put it in the foundling hospital."

"Oh, yes, yes," cried the baroness; "my 
child is there!"

"I ran to the hospital, and learned 
that the same night -- the night of the 
20th of September -- a child had been 
brought there, wrapped in part of a 
fine linen napkin, purposely torn in 
half. This portion of the napkin was 
marked with half a baron's crown, and 
the letter H."

"Truly, truly," said Madame Danglars, 
"all my linen is marked thus; Monsieur 
de Nargonne was a baronet, and my name 
is Hermine. Thank God, my child was not 
then dead!"

"No, it was not dead."

"And you can tell me so without fearing 
to make me die of joy? Where is the 
child?" Villefort shrugged his 
shoulders. "Do I know?" said he; "and 
do you believe that if I knew I would 
relate to you all its trials and all 
its adventures as would a dramatist or 
a novel writer? Alas, no, I know not. A 
woman, about six months after, came to 
claim it with the other half of the 
napkin. This woman gave all the 
requisite particulars, and it was 
intrusted to her."

"But you should have inquired for the 
woman; you should have traced her."

"And what do you think I did? I feigned 
a criminal process, and employed all 
the most acute bloodhounds and skilful 
agents in search of her. They traced 
her to Chalons, and there they lost 
her."

"They lost her?"

"Yes, forever." Madame Danglars had 
listened to this recital with a sigh, a 
tear, or a shriek for every detail. 
"And this is all?" said she; "and you 
stopped there?"

"Oh, no," said Villefort; "I never 
ceased to search and to inquire. 
However, the last two or three years I 
had allowed myself some respite. But 
now I will begin with more perseverance 
and fury than ever, since fear urges 
me, not my conscience."

"But," replied Madame Danglars, "the 
Count of Monte Cristo can know nothing, 
or he would not seek our society as he 
does."

"Oh, the wickedness of man is very 
great," said Villefort, "since it 
surpasses the goodness of God. Did you 
observe that man's eyes while he was 
speaking to us?"

"No."

"But have you ever watched him 
carefully?"

"Doubtless he is capricious, but that 
is all; one thing alone struck me, -- 
of all the exquisite things he placed 
before us, he touched nothing. I might 
have suspected he was poisoning us."

"And you see you would have been 
deceived."

"Yes, doubtless."

"But believe me, that man has other 
projects. For that reason I wished to 
see you, to speak to you, to warn you 
against every one, but especially 
against him. Tell me," cried Villefort, 
fixing his eyes more steadfastly on her 
than he had ever done before, "did you 
ever reveal to any one our connection?"

"Never, to any one."

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

"Yes, yes, I understand very well," 
ejaculated the baroness; "never, I 
swear to you."

"Were you ever in the habit of writing 
in the evening what had transpired in 
the morning? Do you keep a journal?"

"No, my life has been passed in 
frivolity; I wish to forget it myself."

"Do you talk in your sleep?"

"I sleep soundly, like a child; do you 
not remember?" The color mounted to the 
baroness's face, and Villefort turned 
awfully pale.

"It is true," said he, in so low a tone 
that he could hardly be heard.

"Well?" said the baroness.

"Well, I understand what I now have to 
do," replied Villefort. "In less than 
one week from this time I will 
ascertain who this M. de Monte Cristo 
is, whence he comes, where he goes, and 
why he speaks in our presence of 
children that have been disinterred in 
a garden." Villefort pronounced these 
words with an accent which would have 
made the count shudder had he heard 
him. Then he pressed the hand the 
baroness reluctantly gave him, and led 
her respectfully back to the door. 
Madame Danglars returned in another cab 
to the passage, on the other side of 
which she found her carriage, and her 
coachman sleeping peacefully on his box 
while waiting for her. 

 Chapter 68 A Summer Ball.

The same day during the interview 
between Madame Danglars and the 
procureur, a travelling-carriage 
entered the Rue du Helder, passed 
through the gateway of No. 27, and 
stopped in the yard. In a moment the 
door was opened, and Madame de Morcerf 
alighted, leaning on her son's arm. 
Albert soon left her, ordered his 
horses, and having arranged his toilet, 
drove to the Champs Elysees, to the 
house of Monte Cristo. The count 
received him with his habitual smile. 
It was a strange thing that no one ever 
appeared to advance a step in that 
man's favor. Those who would, as it 
were, force a passage to his heart, 
found an impassable barrier. Morcerf, 
who ran towards him with open arms, was 
chilled as he drew near, in spite of 
the friendly smile, and simply held out 
his hand. Monte Cristo shook it coldly, 
according to his invariable practice. 
"Here I am, dear count."

"Welcome home again."

"I arrived an hour since."

"From Dieppe?"

"No, from Treport."

"Indeed?"

"And I have come at once to see you."

"That is extremely kind of you," said 
Monte Cristo with a tone of perfect 
indifference.

"And what is the news?"

"You should not ask a stranger, a 
foreigner, for news."

"I know it, but in asking for news, I 
mean, have you done anything for me?"

"Had you commissioned me?" said Monte 
Cristo, feigning uneasiness.

"Come, come," said Albert, "do not 
assume so much indifference. It is 
said, sympathy travels rapidly, and 
when at Treport, I felt the electric 
shock; you have either been working for 
me or thinking of me."

"Possibly," said Monte Cristo, "I have 
indeed thought of you, but the magnetic 
wire I was guiding acted, indeed, 
without my knowledge."

"Indeed? Pray tell me how it happened?"

"Willingly. M. Danglars dined with me."

"I know it; to avoid meeting him, my 
mother and I left town."

"But he met here M. Andrea Cavalcanti."

"Your Italian prince?"

"Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls 
himself count."

"Calls himself, do you say?"

"Yes, calls himself."

"Is he not a count?"

"What can I know of him? He calls 
himself so. I, of course, give him the 
same title, and every one else does 
likewise."

"What a strange man you are! What next? 
You say M. Danglars dined here?"

"Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the 
marquis his father, Madame Danglars, M. 
and Madame de Villefort, -- charming 
people, -- M. Debray, Maximilian 
Morrel, and M. de Chateau-Renaud."

"Did they speak of me?"

"Not a word."

"So much the worse."

"Why so? I thought you wished them to 
forget you?"

"If they did not speak of me, I am sure 
they thought about me, and I am in 
despair."

"How will that affect you, since 
Mademoiselle Danglars was not among the 
number here who thought of you? Truly, 
she might have thought of you at home."

"I have no fear of that; or, if she 
did, it was only in the same way in 
which I think of her."

"Touching sympathy! So you hate each 
other?" said the count.

"Listen," said Morcerf -- "if 
Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to 
take pity on my supposed martyrdom on 
her account, and would dispense with 
all matrimonial formalities between our 
two families, I am ready to agree to 
the arrangement. In a word, 
Mademoiselle Danglars would make a 
charming mistress -- but a wife -- 
diable!"

"And this," said Monte Cristo, "is your 
opinion of your intended spouse?"

"Yes; it is rather unkind, I 
acknowledge, but it is true. But as 
this dream cannot be realized, since 
Mademoiselle Danglars must become my 
lawful wife, live perpetually with me, 
sing to me, compose verses and music 
within ten paces of me, and that for my 
whole life, it frightens me. One may 
forsake a mistress, but a wife, -- good 
heavens! There she must always be; and 
to marry Mademoiselle Danglars would be 
awful."

"You are difficult to please, viscount."

"Yes, for I often wish for what is 
impossible."

"What is that?"

"To find such a wife as my father 
found." Monte Cristo turned pale, and 
looked at Albert, while playing with 
some magnificent pistols.

"Your father was fortunate, then?" said 
he.

"You know my opinion of my mother, 
count; look at her, -- still beautiful, 
witty, more charming than ever. For any 
other son to have stayed with his 
mother for four days at Treport, it 
would have been a condescension or a 
martyrdom, while I return, more 
contented, more peaceful -- shall I say 
more poetic! -- than if I had taken 
Queen Mab or Titania as my companion."

"That is an overwhelming demonstration, 
and you would make every one vow to 
live a single life."

"Such are my reasons for not liking to 
marry Mademoiselle Danglars. Have you 
ever noticed how much a thing is 
heightened in value when we obtain 
possession of it? The diamond which 
glittered in the window at Marle's or 
Fossin's shines with more splendor when 
it is our own; but if we are compelled 
to acknowledge the superiority of 
another, and still must retain the one 
that is inferior, do you not know what 
we have to endure?"

"Worldling," murmured the count.

"Thus I shall rejoice when Mademoiselle 
Eugenie perceives I am but a pitiful 
atom, with scarcely as many hundred 
thousand francs as she has millions." 
Monte Cristo smiled. "One plan occurred 
to me," continued Albert; "Franz likes 
all that is eccentric; I tried to make 
him fall in love with Mademoiselle 
Danglars; but in spite of four letters, 
written in the most alluring style, he 
invariably answered: `My eccentricity 
may be great, but it will not make me 
break my promise.'"

"That is what I call devoted 
friendship, to recommend to another one 
whom you would not marry yourself." 
Albert smiled. -- "Apropos," continued 
he, "Franz is coming soon, but it will 
not interest you; you dislike him, I 
think?"

"I?" said Monte Cristo; "my dear 
Viscount, how have you discovered that 
I did not like M. Franz! I like every 
one."

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

"Let us not mistake," said Monte 
Cristo; "I love every one as God 
commands us to love our neighbor, as 
Christians; but I thoroughly hate but a 
few. Let us return to M. Franz 
d'Epinay. Did you say he was coming?"

"Yes; summoned by M. de Villefort, who 
is apparently as anxious to get 
Mademoiselle Valentine married as M. 
Danglars is to see Mademoiselle Eugenie 
settled. It must be a very irksome 
office to be the father of a grown-up 
daughter; it seems to make one 
feverish, and to raise one's pulse to 
ninety beats a minute until the deed is 
done."

"But M. d'Epinay, unlike you, bears his 
misfortune patiently."

"Still more, he talks seriously about 
the matter, puts on a white tie, and 
speaks of his family. He entertains a 
very high opinion of M. and Madame de 
Villefort."

"Which they deserve, do they not?"

"I believe they do. M. de Villefort has 
always passed for a severe but a just 
man."

"There is, then, one," said Monte 
Cristo, "whom you do not condemn like 
poor Danglars?"

"Because I am not compelled to marry 
his daughter perhaps," replied Albert, 
laughing.

"Indeed, my dear sir," said Monte 
Cristo, "you are revoltingly foppish."

"I foppish? how do you mean?"

"Yes; pray take a cigar, and cease to 
defend yourself, and to struggle to 
escape marrying Mademoiselle Danglars. 
Let things take their course; perhaps 
you may not have to retract."

"Bah," said Albert, staring.

"Doubtless, my dear viscount, you will 
not be taken by force; and seriously, 
do you wish to break off your 
engagement?"

"I would give a hundred thousand francs 
to be able to do so."

"Then make yourself quite easy. M. 
Danglars would give double that sum to 
attain the same end."

"Am I, indeed, so happy?" said Albert, 
who still could not prevent an almost 
imperceptible cloud passing across his 
brow. "But, my dear count, has M. 
Danglars any reason?"

"Ah, there is your proud and selfish 
nature. You would expose the self-love 
of another with a hatchet, but you 
shrink if your own is attacked with a 
needle."

"But yet M. Danglars appeared" --

"Delighted with you, was he not? Well, 
he is a man of bad taste, and is still 
more enchanted with another. I know not 
whom; look and judge for yourself."

"Thank you, I understand. But my mother 
-- no, not my mother; I mistake -- my 
father intends giving a ball."

"A ball at this season?"

"Summer balls are fashionable."

"If they were not, the countess has 
only to wish it, and they would become 
so."

"You are right; You know they are 
select affairs; those who remain in 
Paris in July must be true Parisians. 
Will you take charge of our invitation 
to Messieurs Cavalcanti?"

"When will it take place?"

"On Saturday."

"M. Cavalcanti's father will be gone."

"But the son will be here; will you 
invite young M. Cavalcanti?"

"I do not know him, viscount."

"You do not know him?"

"No, I never saw him until a few days 
since, and am not responsible for him."

"But you receive him at your house?"

"That is another thing: he was 
recommended to me by a good abbe, who 
may be deceived. Give him a direct 
invitation, but do not ask me to 
present him. If he were afterwards to 
marry Mademoiselle Danglars, you would 
accuse me of intrigue, and would be 
challenging me, -- besides, I may not 
be there myself."

"Where?"

"At your ball."

"Why should you not be there?"

"Because you have not yet invited me."

"But I come expressly for that purpose."

"You are very kind, but I may be 
prevented."

"If I tell you one thing, you will be 
so amiable as to set aside all 
impediments."

"Tell me what it is."

"My mother begs you to come."

"The Comtesse de Morcerf?" said Monte 
Cristo, starting.

"Ah, count," said Albert, "I assure you 
Madame de Morcerf speaks freely to me, 
and if you have not felt those 
sympathetic fibres of which I spoke 
just now thrill within you, you must be 
entirely devoid of them, for during the 
last four days we have spoken of no one 
else."

"You have talked of me?"

"Yes, that is the penalty of being a 
living puzzle!"

"Then I am also a puzzle to your 
mother? I should have thought her too 
reasonable to be led by imagination."

"A problem, my dear count, for every 
one -- for my mother as well as others; 
much studied, but not solved, you still 
remain an enigma, do not fear. My 
mother is only astonished that you 
remain so long unsolved. I believe, 
while the Countess G---- takes you for 
Lord Ruthven, my mother imagines you to 
be Cagliostro or the Count 
Saint-Germain. The first opportunity 
you have, confirm her in her opinion; 
it will be easy for you, as you have 
the philosophy of the one and the wit 
of the other."

"I thank you for the warning," said the 
count; "I shall endeavor to be prepared 
for all suppositions."

"You will, then, come on Saturday?"

"Yes, since Madame de Morcerf invites 
me."

"You are very kind."

"Will M. Danglars be there?"

"He has already been invited by my 
father. We shall try to persuade the 
great d'Aguesseau,* M. de Villefort, to 
come, but have not much hope of seeing 
him."

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

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

"Do you dance, count?"

"I dance?"

"Yes, you; it would not be astonishing."

"That is very well before one is over 
forty. No, I do not dance, but I like 
to see others do so. Does Madame de 
Morcerf dance?"

"Never; you can talk to her, she so 
delights in your conversation."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, truly; and I assure you. You are 
the only man of whom I have heard her 
speak with interest." Albert rose and 
took his hat; the count conducted him 
to the door. "I have one thing to 
reproach myself with," said he, 
stopping Albert on the steps. "What is 
it?"

"I have spoken to you indiscreetly 
about Danglars."

"On the contrary, speak to me always in 
the same strain about him."

"I am glad to be reassured on that 
point. Apropos, when do you aspect M. 
d'Epinay?"

"Five or six days hence at the latest."

"And when is he to be married?"

"Immediately on the arrival of M. and 
Madame de Saint-Meran."

"Bring him to see me. Although you say 
I do not like him, I assure you I shall 
be happy to see him."

"I will obey your orders, my lord."

"Good-by."

"Until Saturday, when I may expect you, 
may I not?"

"Yes, I promised you." The Count 
watched Albert, waving his hand to him. 
When he had mounted his phaeton, Monte 
Cristo turned, and seeing Bertuccio, 
"What news?" said he. "She went to the 
Palais," replied the steward.

"Did she stay long there?"

"An hour and a half."

"Did she return home?"

"Directly."

"Well, my dear Bertuccio," said the 
count, "I now advise you to go in quest 
of the little estate I spoke to you of 
in Normandy." Bertuccio bowed, and as 
his wishes were in perfect harmony with 
the order he had received, he started 
the same evening. 

 Chapter 69 The Inquiry.

M. de Villefort kept the promise he had 
made to Madame Danglars, to endeavor to 
find out how the Count of Monte Cristo 
had discovered the history of the house 
at Auteuil. He wrote the same day for 
the required information to M. de 
Boville, who, from having been an 
inspector of prisons, was promoted to a 
high office in the police; and the 
latter begged for two days time to 
ascertain exactly who would be most 
likely to give him full particulars. At 
the end of the second day M. de 
Villefort received the following note: 
--

"The person called the Count of Monte 
Cristo is an intimate acquaintance of 
Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner, who is 
sometimes seen in Paris and who is 
there at this moment; he is also known 
to the Abbe Busoni, a Sicilian priest, 
of high repute in the East, where he 
has done much good."

M. de Villefort replied by ordering the 
strictest inquiries to be made 
respecting these two persons; his 
orders were executed, and the following 
evening he received these details: --

"The abbe, who was in Paris only for a 
month, inhabited a small two-storied 
house behind Saint-Sulpice; there were 
two rooms on each floor and he was the 
only tenant. The two lower rooms 
consisted of a dining-room, with a 
table, chairs, and side-board of 
walnut, -- and a wainscoted parlor, 
without ornaments, carpet, or 
timepiece. It was evident that the abbe 
limited himself to objects of strict 
necessity. He preferred to use the 
sitting-room upstairs, which was more 
library than parlor, and was furnished 
with theological books and parchments, 
in which he delighted to bury himself 
for months at a time, according to his 
valet de chambre. His valet looked at 
the visitors through a sort of wicket; 
and if their faces were unknown to him 
or displeased him, he replied that the 
abbe was not in Paris, an answer which 
satisfied most persons, because the 
abbe was known to be a great traveller. 
Besides, whether at home or not, 
whether in Paris or Cairo, the abbe 
always left something to give away, 
which the valet distributed through 
this wicket in his master's name. The 
other room near the library was a 
bedroom. A bed without curtains, four 
arm-chairs, and a couch, covered with 
yellow Utrecht velvet, composed, with a 
prie-Dieu, all its furniture. Lord 
Wilmore resided in Rue 
Fontaine-Saint-George. He was one of 
those English tourists who consume a 
large fortune in travelling. He hired 
the apartment in which he lived 
furnished, passed only a few hours in 
the day there, and rarely slept there. 
One of his peculiarities was never to 
speak a word of French, which he 
however wrote with great facility."

The day after this important 
information had been given to the 
king's attorney, a man alighted from a 
carriage at the corner of the Rue 
Ferou, and rapping at an olive-green 
door, asked if the Abbe Busoni were 
within. "No, he went out early this 
morning," replied the valet.

"I might not always be content with 
that answer," replied the visitor, "for 
I come from one to whom everyone must 
be at home. But have the kindness to 
give the Abbe Busoni" --

"I told you he was not at home," 
repeated the valet. "Then on his return 
give him that card and this sealed 
paper. Will he be at home at eight 
o'clock this evening?"

"Doubtless, unless he is at work, which 
is the same as if he were out."

"I will come again at that time," 
replied the visitor, who then retired.

At the appointed hour the same man 
returned in the same carriage, which, 
instead of stopping this time at the 
end of the Rue Ferou, drove up to the 
green door. He knocked, and it opened 
immediately to admit him. From the 
signs of respect the valet paid him, he 
saw that his note had produced a good 
effect. "Is the abbe at home?" asked he.

"Yes; he is at work in his library, but 
he expects you, sir," replied the 
valet. The stranger ascended a rough 
staircase, and before a table, 
illumined by a lamp whose light was 
concentrated by a large shade while the 
rest of the apartment was in partial 
darkness, he perceived the abbe in a 
monk's dress, with a cowl on his head 
such as was used by learned men of the 
Middle Ages. "Have I the honor of 
addressing the Abbe Busoni?" asked the 
visitor.

"Yes, sir," replied the abbe; "and you 
are the person whom M. de Boville, 
formerly an inspector of prisons, sends 
to me from the prefect of police?"

"Exactly, sir."

"One of the agents appointed to secure 
the safety of Paris?"

"Yes, sir"" replied the stranger with a 
slight hesitation, and blushing.

The abbe replaced the large spectacles, 
which covered not only his eyes but his 
temples, and sitting down motioned to 
his visitor to do the same. "I am at 
your service, sir," said the abbe, with 
a marked Italian accent.

"The mission with which I am charged, 
sir," replied the visitor, speaking 
with hesitation, "is a confidential one 
on the part of him who fulfils it, and 
him by whom he is employed." The abbe 
bowed. "Your probity," replied the 
stranger, "is so well known to the 
prefect that he wishes as a magistrate 
to ascertain from you some particulars 
connected with the public safety, to 
ascertain which I am deputed to see 
you. It is hoped that no ties of 
friendship or humane consideration will 
induce you to conceal the truth."

"Provided, sir, the particulars you 
wish for do not interfere with my 
scruples or my conscience. I am a 
priest, sir, and the secrets of 
confession, for instance, must remain 
between me and God, and not between me 
and human justice."

"Do not alarm yourself, monsieur, we 
will duly respect your conscience."

At this moment the abbe pressed down 
his side of the shade and so raised it 
on the other, throwing a bright light 
on the stranger's face, while his own 
remained obscured. "Excuse me, abbe," 
said the envoy of the prefect of the 
police, "but the light tries my eyes 
very much." The abbe lowered the shade. 
"Now, sir, I am listening -- go on."

"I will come at once to the point. Do 
you know the Count of Monte Cristo?"

"You mean Monsieur Zaccone, I presume?"

"Zaccone? -- is not his name Monte 
Cristo?"

"Monte Cristo is the name of an estate, 
or, rather, of a rock, and not a family 
name."

"Well, be it so -- let us not dispute 
about words; and since M. de Monte 
Cristo and M. Zaccone are the same" --

"Absolutely the same."

"Let us speak of M. Zaccone."

"Agreed."

"I asked you if you knew him?"

"Extremely well."

"Who is he?"

"The son of a rich shipbuilder in 
Malta."

"I know that is the report; but, as you 
are aware, the police does not content 
itself with vague reports."

"However," replied the abbe, with an 
affable smile, "when that report is in 
accordance with the truth, everybody 
must believe it, the police as well as 
all the rest."

"Are you sure of what you assert?"

"What do you mean by that question?"

"Understand, sir, I do not in the least 
suspect your veracity; I ask if you are 
certain of it?"

"I knew his father, M. Zaccone."

"Ah, indeed?"

"And when a child I often played with 
the son in the timber-yards."

"But whence does he derive the title of 
count?"

"You are aware that may be bought."

"In Italy?"

"Everywhere."

"And his immense riches, whence does he 
procure them?"

"They may not be so very great."

"How much do you suppose he possesses?"

"From one hundred and fifty to two 
hundred thousand livres per annum."

"That is reasonable," said the visitor; 
"I have heard he had three or four 
millions."

"Two hundred thousand per annum would 
make four millions of capital."

"But I was told he had four millions 
per annum?"

"That is not probable."

"Do you know this Island of Monte 
Cristo?"

"Certainly, every one who has come from 
Palermo, Naples, or Rome to France by 
sea must know it, since he has passed 
close to it and must have seen it."

"I am told it is a delightful place?"

"It is a rock."

"And why has the count bought a rock?"

"For the sake of being a count. In 
Italy one must have territorial 
possessions to be a count."

"You have, doubtless, heard the 
adventures of M. Zaccone's youth?"

"The father's?"

"No, the son's."

"I know nothing certain; at that period 
of his life, I lost sight of my young 
comrade."

"Was he in the wars?"

"I think he entered the service."

"In what branch?"

"In the navy."

"Are you not his confessor?"

"No, sir; I believe he is a Lutheran."

"A Lutheran?"

"I say, I believe such is the case, I 
do not affirm it; besides, liberty of 
conscience is established in France."

"Doubtless, and we are not now 
inquiring into his creed, but his 
actions; in the name of the prefect of 
police, I ask you what you know of him.

"He passes for a very charitable man. 
Our holy father, the pope, has made him 
a knight of Jesus Christ for the 
services he rendered to the Christians 
in the East; he has five or six rings 
as testimonials from Eastern monarchs 
of his services."

"Does he wear them?"

"No, but he is proud of them; he is 
better pleased with rewards given to 
the benefactors of man than to his 
destroyers."

"He is a Quaker then?"

"Exactly, he is a Quaker, with the 
exception of the peculiar dress."

"Has he any friends?"

"Yes, every one who knows him is his 
friend."

"But has he any enemies?"

"One only."

"What is his name?"

"Lord Wilmore."

"Where is he?"

"He is in Paris just now."

"Can he give me any particulars?"

"Important ones; he was in India with 
Zaccone."

"Do you know his abode?"

"It's somewhere in the Chaussee 
d'Antin; but I know neither the street 
nor the number."

"Are you at variance with the 
Englishman?"

"I love Zaccone, and he hates him; we 
are consequently not friends."

"Do you think the Count of Monte Cristo 
had ever been in France before he made 
this visit to Paris?"

"To that question I can answer 
positively; no, sir, he had not, 
because he applied to me six months ago 
for the particulars he required, and as 
I did not know when I might again come 
to Paris, I recommended M. Cavalcanti 
to him."

"Andrea?"

"No, Bartolomeo, his father."

"Now, sir, I have but one question more 
to ask, and I charge you, in the name 
of honor, of humanity, and of religion, 
to answer me candidly."

"What is it, sir?"

"Do you know with what design M. de 
Monte Cristo purchased a house at 
Auteuil?"

"Certainly, for he told me."

"What is it, sir?"

"To make a lunatic asylum of it, 
similar to that founded by the Count of 
Pisani at Palermo. Do you know about 
that institution?"

"I have heard of it."

"It is a magnificent charity." Having 
said this, the abbe bowed to imply he 
wished to pursue his studies. The 
visitor either understood the abbe's 
meaning, or had no more questions to 
ask; he arose, and the abbe accompanied 
him to the door. "You are a great 
almsgiver," said the visitor, "and 
although you are said to be rich, I 
will venture to offer you something for 
your poor people; will you accept my 
offering?"

"I thank you, sir; I am only jealous in 
one thing, and that is that the relief 
I give should be entirely from my own 
resources."

"However" --

"My resolution, sir, is unchangeable, 
but you have only to search for 
yourself and you will find, alas, but 
too many objects upon whom to exercise 
your benevolence." The abbe once more 
bowed as he opened the door, the 
stranger bowed and took his leave, and 
the carriage conveyed him straight to 
the house of M. de Villefort. An hour 
afterwards the carriage was again 
ordered, and this time it went to the 
Rue Fontaine-Saint-George, and stopped 
at No. 5, where Lord Wilmore lived. The 
stranger had written to Lord Wilmore, 
requesting an interview, which the 
latter had fixed for ten o'clock. As 
the envoy of the prefect of police 
arrived ten minutes before ten, he was 
told that Lord Wilmore, who was 
precision and punctuality personified, 
was not yet come in, but that he would 
be sure to return as the clock struck.

The visitor was introduced into the 
drawing-room, which was like all other 
furnished drawing-rooms. A 
mantle-piece, with two modern Sevres 
vases, a timepiece representing Cupid 
with his bent bow, a mirror with an 
engraving on each side -- one 
representing Homer carrying his guide, 
the other, Belisarius begging -- a 
grayish paper; red and black tapestry 
-- such was the appearance of Lord 
Wilmore's drawing-room. It was 
illuminated by lamps with ground-glass 
shades which gave only a feeble light, 
as if out of consideration for the 
envoy's weak sight. After ten minutes' 
expectation the clock struck ten; at 
the fifth stroke the door opened and 
Lord Wilmore appeared. He was rather 
above the middle height, with thin 
reddish whiskers, light complexion and 
light hair, turning rather gray. He was 
dressed with all the English 
peculiarity, namely, in a blue coat, 
with gilt buttons and high collar, in 
the fashion of 1811, a white kerseymere 
waistcoat, and nankeen pantaloons, 
three inches too short, but which were 
prevented by straps from slipping up to 
the knee. His first remark on entering 
was, -- "You know, sir, I do not speak 
French?"

"I know you do not like to converse in 
our language," replied the envoy. "But 
you may use it," replied Lord Wilmore; 
"I understand it."

"And I," replied the visitor, changing 
his idiom, "know enough of English to 
keep up the conversation. Do not put 
yourself to the slightest 
inconvenience."

"Aw?" said Lord Wilmore, with that tone 
which is only known to natives of Great 
Britain.

The envoy presented his letter of 
introduction, which the latter read 
with English coolness, and having 
finished, -- "I understand," said he, 
"perfectly."

Then began the questions, which were 
similar to those which had been 
addressed to the Abbe Busoni. But as 
Lord Wilmore, in the character of the 
count's enemy, was less restrained in 
his answers, they were more numerous; 
he described the youth of Monte Cristo, 
who he said, at ten years of age, 
entered the service of one of the petty 
sovereigns of India who make war on the 
English. It was there Wilmore had first 
met him and fought against him; and in 
that war Zaccone had been taken 
prisoner, sent to England, and 
consigned to the hulks, whence he had 
escaped by swimming. Then began his 
travels, his duels, his caprices; then 
the insurrection in Greece broke out, 
and he had served in the Grecian ranks. 
While in that service he had discovered 
a silver mine in the mountains of 
Thessaly, but he had been careful to 
conceal it from every one. After the 
battle of Navarino, when the Greek 
government was consolidated, he asked 
of King Otho a mining grant for that 
district, which was given him. Hence 
that immense fortune, which, in Lord 
Wilmore's opinion, possibly amounted to 
one or two millions per annum, -- a 
precarious fortune, which might be 
momentarily lost by the failure of the 
mine.

"But," asked the visitor, "do you know 
why he came to France?"

"He is speculating in railways," said 
Lord Wilmore, "and as he is an expert 
chemist and physicist, he has invented 
a new system of telegraphy, which he is 
seeking to bring to perfection."

"How much does he spend yearly?" asked 
the prefect.

"Not more than five or six hundred 
thousand francs," said Lord Wilmore; 
"he is a miser." Hatred evidently 
inspired the Englishman, who, knowing 
no other reproach to bring on the 
count, accused him of avarice. "Do you 
know his house at Auteuil?"

"Certainly."

"What do you know respecting it?"

"Do you wish to know why he bought it?"

"Yes."

"The count is a speculator, who will 
certainly ruin himself in experiments. 
He supposes there is in the 
neighborhood of the house he has bought 
a mineral spring equal to those at 
Bagneres, Luchon, and Cauterets. He is 
going to turn his house into a Badhaus, 
as the Germans term it. He has already 
dug up all the garden two or three 
times to find the famous spring, and, 
being unsuccessful, he will soon 
purchase all the contiguous houses. 
Now, as I dislike him, and hope his 
railway, his electric telegraph, or his 
search for baths, will ruin him, I am 
watching for his discomfiture, which 
must soon take place."

"What was the cause of your quarrel?"

"When he was in England he seduced the 
wife of one of my friends."

"Why do you not seek revenge?"

"I have already fought three duels with 
him," said the Englishman, "the first 
with the pistol, the second with the 
sword, and the third with the sabre."

"And what was the result of those 
duels?"

"The first time, he broke my arm; the 
second, he wounded me in the breast; 
and the third time, made this large 
wound." The Englishman turned down his 
shirt-collar, and showed a scar, whose 
redness proved it to be a recent one. 
"So that, you see, there is a deadly 
feud between us."

"But," said the envoy, "you do not go 
about it in the right way to kill him, 
if I understand you correctly."

"Aw?" said the Englishman, "I practice 
shooting every day, and every other day 
Grisier comes to my house."

This was all the visitor wished to 
ascertain, or, rather, all the 
Englishman appeared to know. The agent 
arose, and having bowed to Lord 
Wilmore, who returned his salutation 
with the stiff politeness of the 
English, he retired. Lord Wilmore, 
having heard the door close after him, 
returned to his bedroom, where with one 
hand he pulled off his light hair, his 
red whiskers, his false jaw, and his 
wound, to resume the black hair, dark 
complexion, and pearly teeth of the 
Count of Monte Cristo. It was M. de 
Villefort, and not the prefect, who 
returned to the house of M. de 
Villefort. The procureur felt more at 
ease, although he had learned nothing 
really satisfactory, and, for the first 
time since the dinner-party at Auteuil, 
he slept soundly. 

