 Chapter 70 The Ball.

It was in the warmest days of July, 
when in due course of time the Saturday 
arrived upon which the ball was to take 
place at M. de Morcerf's. It was ten 
o'clock at night; the branches of the 
great trees in the garden of the 
count's house stood out boldly against 
the azure canopy of heaven, which was 
studded with golden stars, but where 
the last fleeting clouds of a vanishing 
storm yet lingered. From the apartments 
on the ground-floor might be heard the 
sound of music, with the whirl of the 
waltz and galop, while brilliant 
streams of light shone through the 
openings of the Venetian blinds. At 
this moment the garden was only 
occupied by about ten servants, who had 
just received orders from their 
mistress to prepare the supper, the 
serenity of the weather continuing to 
increase. Until now, it had been 
undecided whether the supper should 
take place in the dining-room, or under 
a long tent erected on the lawn, but 
the beautiful blue sky, studded with 
stars, had settled the question in 
favor of the lawn. The gardens were 
illuminated with colored lanterns, 
according to the Italian custom, and, 
as is usual in countries where the 
luxuries of the table -- the rarest of 
all luxuries in their complete form -- 
are well understood, the supper-table 
was loaded with wax-lights and flowers.

At the time the Countess of Morcerf 
returned to the rooms, after giving her 
orders, many guests were arriving, more 
attracted by the charming hospitality 
of the countess than by the 
distinguished position of the count; 
for, owing to the good taste of 
Mercedes, one was sure of finding some 
devices at her entertainment worthy of 
describing, or even copying in case of 
need. Madame Danglars, in whom the 
events we have related had caused deep 
anxiety, had hesitated about going to 
Madame de Morcerf's, when during the 
morning her carriage happened to meet 
that of Villefort. The latter made a 
sign, and when the carriages had drawn 
close together, said, -- "You are going 
to Madame de Morcerf's, are you not?"

"No," replied Madame Danglars, "I am 
too ill."

"You are wrong," replied Villefort, 
significantly; "it is important that 
you should be seen there."

"Do you think so?" asked the baroness.

"I do."

"In that case I will go." And the two 
carriages passed on towards their 
different destinations. Madame Danglars 
therefore came, not only beautiful in 
person, but radiant with splendor; she 
entered by one door at the time when 
Mercedes appeared at the door. The 
countess took Albert to meet Madame 
Danglars. He approached, paid her some 
well merited compliments on her toilet, 
and offered his arm to conduct her to a 
seat. Albert looked around him. "You 
are looking for my daughter?" said the 
baroness, smiling.

"I confess it," replied Albert. "Could 
you have been so cruel as not to bring 
her?"

"Calm yourself. She has met 
Mademoiselle de Villefort, and has 
taken her arm; see, they are following 
us, both in white dresses, one with a 
bouquet of camellias, the other with 
one of myosotis. But tell me" --

"Well, what do you wish to know?"

"Will not the Count of Monte Cristo be 
here to-night?"

"Seventeen!" replied Albert.

"What do you mean?"

"I only mean that the count seems the 
rage," replied the viscount, smiling, 
"and that you are the seventeenth 
person that has asked me the same 
question. The count is in fashion; I 
congratulate him upon it."

"And have you replied to every one as 
you have to me?"

"Ah, to be sure, I have not answered 
you; be satisfied, we shall have this 
`lion;' we are among the privileged 
ones."

"Were you at the opera yesterday?"

"No."

"He was there."

"Ah, indeed? And did the eccentric 
person commit any new originality?"

"Can he be seen without doing so? 
Elssler was dancing in the `Diable 
Boiteux;' the Greek princess was in 
ecstasies. After the cachucha he placed 
a magnificent ring on the stem of a 
bouquet, and threw it to the charming 
danseuse, who, in the third act, to do 
honor to the gift, reappeared with it 
on her finger. And the Greek princess, 
-- will she be here?"

"No, you will be deprived of that 
pleasure; her position in the count's 
establishment is not sufficiently 
understood."

"Wait; leave me here, and go and speak 
to Madame de Villefort, who is trying 
to attract your attention."

Albert bowed to Madame Danglars, and 
advanced towards Madame de Villefort, 
whose lips opened as he approached. "I 
wager anything," said Albert, 
interrupting her, "that I know what you 
were about to say."

"Well, what is it?"

"If I guess rightly, will you confess 
it?"

"Yes."

"On your honor?"

"On my honor."

"You were going to ask me if the Count 
of Monte Cristo had arrived, or was 
expected."

"Not at all. It is not of him that I am 
now thinking. I was going to ask you if 
you had received any news of Monsieur 
Franz."

"Yes, -- yesterday."

"What did he tell you?"

"That he was leaving at the same time 
as his letter."

"Well, now then, the count?"

"The count will come, of that you may 
be satisfied."

"You know that he has another name 
besides Monte Cristo?"

"No, I did not know it."

"Monte Cristo in the name of an island, 
and he has a family name."

"I never heard it."

"Well, then, I am better informed than 
you; his name is Zaccone."

"It is possible."

"He is a Maltese."

"That is also possible.

"The son of a shipowner."

"Really, you should relate all this 
aloud, you would have the greatest 
success."

"He served in India, discovered a mine 
in Thessaly, and comes to Paris to 
establish a mineral water-cure at 
Auteuil."

"Well, I'm sure," said Morcerf, "this 
is indeed news! Am I allowed to repeat 
it?"

"Yes, but cautiously, tell one thing at 
a time, and do not say I told you."

"Why so?"

"Because it is a secret just 
discovered."

"By whom?"

"The police."

"Then the news originated" --

"At the prefect's last night. Paris, 
you can understand, is astonished at 
the sight of such unusual splendor, and 
the police have made inquiries."

"Well, well! Nothing more is wanting 
than to arrest the count as a vagabond, 
on the pretext of his being too rich."

"Indeed, that doubtless would have 
happened if his credentials had not 
been so favorable."

"Poor count! And is he aware of the 
danger he has been in?"

"I think not."

"Then it will be but charitable to 
inform him. When he arrives, I will not 
fail to do so."

Just then, a handsome young man, with 
bright eyes, black hair, and glossy 
mustache, respectfully bowed to Madame 
de Villefort. Albert extended his hand. 
"Madame," said Albert, "allow me to 
present to you M. Maximilian Morrel, 
captain of Spahis, one of our best, 
and, above all, of our bravest 
officers."

"I have already had the pleasure of 
meeting this gentleman at Auteuil, at 
the house of the Count of Monte 
Cristo," replied Madame de Villefort, 
turning away with marked coldness of 
manner. This answer, and especially the 
tone in which it was uttered, chilled 
the heart of poor Morrel. But a 
recompense was in store for him; 
turning around, he saw near the door a 
beautiful fair face, whose large blue 
eyes were, without any marked 
expression, fixed upon him, while the 
bouquet of myosotis was gently raised 
to her lips.

The salutation was so well understood 
that Morrel, with the same expression 
in his eyes, placed his handkerchief to 
his mouth; and these two living 
statues, whose hearts beat so violently 
under their marble aspect, separated 
from each other by the whole length of 
the room, forgot themselves for a 
moment, or rather forgot the world in 
their mutual contemplation. They might 
have remained much longer lost in one 
another, without any one noticing their 
abstraction. The Count of Monte Cristo 
had just entered.

We have already said that there was 
something in the count which attracted 
universal attention wherever he 
appeared. It was not the coat, 
unexceptional in its cut, though simple 
and unornamented; it was not the plain 
white waistcoat; it was not the 
trousers, that displayed the foot so 
perfectly formed -- it was none of 
these things that attracted the 
attention, -- it was his pale 
complexion, his waving black hair, his 
calm and serene expression, his dark 
and melancholy eye, his mouth, 
chiselled with such marvellous 
delicacy, which so easily expressed 
such high disdain, -- these were what 
fixed the attention of all upon him. 
Many men might have been handsomer, but 
certainly there could be none whose 
appearance was more significant, if the 
expression may be used. Everything 
about the count seemed to have its 
meaning, for the constant habit of 
thought which he had acquired had given 
an ease and vigor to the expression of 
his face, and even to the most trifling 
gesture, scarcely to be understood. Yet 
the Parisian world is so strange, that 
even all this might not have won 
attention had there not been connected 
with it a mysterious story gilded by an 
immense fortune.

Meanwhile he advanced through the 
assemblage of guests under a battery of 
curious glances towards Madame de 
Morcerf, who, standing before a 
mantle-piece ornamented with flowers, 
had seen his entrance in a 
looking-glass placed opposite the door, 
and was prepared to receive him. She 
turned towards him with a serene smile 
just at the moment he was bowing to 
her. No doubt she fancied the count 
would speak to her, while on his side 
the count thought she was about to 
address him; but both remained silent, 
and after a mere bow, Monte Cristo 
directed his steps to Albert, who 
received him cordially. "Have you seen 
my mother?" asked Albert.

"I have just had the pleasure," replied 
the count; "but I have not seen your 
father."

"See, he is down there, talking 
politics with that little group of 
great geniuses."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo; "and so 
those gentlemen down there are men of 
great talent. I should not have guessed 
it. And for what kind of talent are 
they celebrated? You know there are 
different sorts."

"That tall, harsh-looking man is very 
learned, he discovered, in the 
neighborhood of Rome, a kind of lizard 
with a vertebra more than lizards 
usually have, and he immediately laid 
his discovery before the Institute. The 
thing was discussed for a long time, 
but finally decided in his favor. I can 
assure you the vertebra made a great 
noise in the learned world, and the 
gentleman, who was only a knight of the 
Legion of Honor, was made an officer."

"Come," said Monte Cristo, "this cross 
seems to me to be wisely awarded. I 
suppose, had he found another 
additional vertebra, they would have 
made him a commander."

"Very likely," said Albert.

"And who can that person be who has 
taken it into his head to wrap himself 
up in a blue coat embroidered with 
green?"

"Oh, that coat is not his own idea; it 
is the Republic's, which deputed David* 
to devise a uniform for the 
Academicians."

* Louis David, a famous French painter.

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo; "so this 
gentleman is an Academician?"

"Within the last week he has been made 
one of the learned assembly."

"And what is his especial talent?"

"His talent? I believe he thrusts pins 
through the heads of rabbits, he makes 
fowls eat madder, and punches the 
spinal marrow out of dogs with 
whalebone."

"And he is made a member of the Academy 
of Sciences for this?"

"No; of the French Academy."

"But what has the French Academy to do 
with all this?"

"I was going to tell you. It seems" --

"That his experiments have very 
considerably advanced the cause of 
science, doubtless?"

"No; that his style of writing is very 
good."

"This must be very flattering to the 
feelings of the rabbits into whose 
heads he has thrust pins, to the fowls 
whose bones he has dyed red, and to the 
dogs whose spinal marrow he has punched 
out?"

Albert laughed.

"And the other one?" demanded the count.

"That one?"

"Yes, the third."

"The one in the dark blue coat?"

"Yes."

"He is a colleague of the count, and 
one of the most active opponents to the 
idea of providing the Chamber of Peers 
with a uniform. He was very successful 
upon that question. He stood badly with 
the Liberal papers, but his noble 
opposition to the wishes of the court 
is now getting him into favor with the 
journalists. They talk of making him an 
ambassador."

"And what are his claims to the 
peerage?"

"He has composed two or three comic 
operas, written four or five articles 
in the Siecle, and voted five or six 
years on the ministerial side."

"Bravo, Viscount," said Monte Cristo, 
smiling; "you are a delightful 
cicerone. And now you will do me a 
favor, will you not?"

"What is it?"

"Do not introduce me to any of these 
gentlemen; and should they wish it, you 
will warn me." Just then the count felt 
his arm pressed. He turned round; it 
was Danglars.

"Ah, is it you, baron?" said he.

"Why do you call me baron?" said 
Danglars; "you know that I care nothing 
for my title. I am not like you, 
viscount; you like your title, do you 
not?"

"Certainly," replied Albert, "seeing 
that without my title I should be 
nothing; while you, sacrificing the 
baron, would still remain the 
millionaire."

"Which seems to me the finest title 
under the royalty of July," replied 
Danglars.

"Unfortunately," said Monte Cristo, 
"one's title to a millionaire does not 
last for life, like that of baron, peer 
of France, or Academician; for example, 
the millionaires Franck & Poulmann, of 
Frankfort, who have just become 
bankrupts."

"Indeed?" said Danglars, becoming pale.

"Yes; I received the news this evening 
by a courier. I had about a million in 
their hands, but, warned in time, I 
withdrew it a month ago."

"Ah, mon Dieu," exclaimed Danglars, 
"they have drawn on me for 200,000 
francs!"

"Well, you can throw out the draft; 
their signature is worth five per cent."

"Yes, but it is too late," said 
Danglars, "I have honored their bills."

"Then," said Monte Cristo, "here are 
200,000 francs gone after" --

"Hush, do not mention these things," 
said Danglars; then, approaching Monte 
Cristo, he added, "especially before 
young M. Cavalcanti;" after which he 
smiled, and turned towards the young 
man in question. Albert had left the 
count to speak to his mother, Danglars 
to converse with young Cavalcanti; 
Monte Cristo was for an instant alone. 
Meanwhile the heat became excessive. 
The footmen were hastening through the 
rooms with waiters loaded with ices. 
Monte Cristo wiped the perspiration 
from his forehead, but drew back when 
the waiter was presented to him; he 
took no refreshment. Madame de Morcerf 
did not lose sight of Monte Cristo; she 
saw that he took nothing, and even 
noticed his gesture of refusal.

"Albert," she asked, "did you notice 
that?"

"What, mother?"

"That the count has never been willing 
to partake of food under the roof of M. 
de Morcerf."

"Yes; but then he breakfasted with me 
-- indeed, he made his first appearance 
in the world on that occasion."

"But your house is not M. de 
Morcerf's," murmured Mercedes; "and 
since he has been here I have watched 
him."

"Well?"

"Well, he has taken nothing yet."

"The count is very temperate." Mercedes 
smiled sadly. "Approach him," said she, 
"and when the next waiter passes, 
insist upon his taking something."

"But why, mother?"

"Just to please me, Albert," said 
Mercedes. Albert kissed his mother's 
hand, and drew near the count. Another 
salver passed, loaded like the 
preceding ones; she saw Albert attempt 
to persuade the count, but he 
obstinately refused. Albert rejoined 
his mother; she was very pale.

"Well," said she, "you see he refuses?"

"Yes; but why need this annoy you?"

"You know, Albert, women are singular 
creatures. I should like to have seen 
the count take something in my house, 
if only an ice. Perhaps he cannot 
reconcile himself to the French style 
of living, and might prefer something 
else."

"Oh, no; I have seen him eat of 
everything in Italy; no doubt he does 
not feel inclined this evening."

"And besides," said the countess, 
"accustomed as he is to burning 
climates, possibly he does not feel the 
heat as we do."

"I do not think that, for he has 
complained of feeling almost 
suffocated, and asked why the Venetian 
blinds were not opened as well as the 
windows."

"In a word," said Mercedes, "it was a 
way of assuring me that his abstinence 
was intended." And she left the room. A 
minute afterwards the blinds were 
thrown open, and through the jessamine 
and clematis that overhung the window 
one could see the garden ornamented 
with lanterns, and the supper laid 
under the tent. Dancers, players, 
talkers, all uttered an exclamation of 
joy -- every one inhaled with delight 
the breeze that floated in. At the same 
time Mercedes reappeared, paler than 
before, but with that imperturbable 
expression of countenance which she 
sometimes wore. She went straight to 
the group of which her husband formed 
the centre. "Do not detain those 
gentlemen here, count," she said; "they 
would prefer, I should think, to 
breathe in the garden rather than 
suffocate here, since they are not 
playing."

"Ah," said a gallant old general, who, 
in 1809, had sung "Partant pour la 
Syrie," -- "we will not go alone to the 
garden."

"Then," said Mercedes, "I will lead the 
way." Turning towards Monte Cristo, she 
added, "count, will you oblige me with 
your arm?" The count almost staggered 
at these simple words; then he fixed 
his eyes on Mercedes. It was only a 
momentary glance, but it seemed to the 
countess to have lasted for a century, 
so much was expressed in that one look. 
He offered his arm to the countess; she 
took it, or rather just touched it with 
her little hand, and they together 
descended the steps, lined with 
rhododendrons and camellias. Behind 
them, by another outlet, a group of 
about twenty persons rushed into the 
garden with loud exclamations of 
delight. 

 Chapter 71 Bread and Salt.

Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of 
trees with her companion. It led 
through a grove of lindens to a 
conservatory.

"It was too warm in the room, was it 
not, count?" she asked.

"Yes, madame; and it was an excellent 
idea of yours to open the doors and the 
blinds." As he ceased speaking, the 
count felt the hand of Mercedes 
tremble. "But you," he said, "with that 
light dress, and without anything to 
cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps 
you feel cold?"

"Do you know where I am leading you?" 
said the countess, without replying to 
the question.

"No, madame," replied Monte Cristo; 
"but you see I make no resistance."

"We are going to the greenhouse that 
you see at the other end of the grove."

The count looked at Mercedes as if to 
interrogate her, but she continued to 
walk on in silence, and he refrained 
from speaking. They reached the 
building, ornamented with magnificent 
fruits, which ripen at the beginning of 
July in the artificial temperature 
which takes the place of the sun, so 
frequently absent in our climate. The 
countess left the arm of Monte Cristo, 
and gathered a bunch of Muscatel 
grapes. "See, count," she said, with a 
smile so sad in its expression that one 
could almost detect the tears on her 
eyelids -- "see, our French grapes are 
not to be compared, I know, with yours 
of Sicily and Cyprus, but you will make 
allowance for our northern sun." The 
count bowed, but stepped back. "Do you 
refuse?" said Mercedes, in a tremulous 
voice. "Pray excuse me, madame," 
replied Monte Cristo, "but I never eat 
Muscatel grapes."

Mercedes let them fall, and sighed. A 
magnificent peach was hanging against 
an adjoining wall, ripened by the same 
artificial heat. Mercedes drew near, 
and plucked the fruit. "Take this 
peach, then," she said. The count again 
refused. "What, again?" she exclaimed, 
in so plaintive an accent that it 
seemed to stifle a sob; "really, you 
pain me."

A long silence followed; the peach, 
like the grapes, fell to the ground. 
"Count," added Mercedes with a 
supplicating glance, "there is a 
beautiful Arabian custom, which makes 
eternal friends of those who have 
together eaten bread and salt under the 
same roof."

"I know it, madame," replied the count; 
"but we are in France, and not in 
Arabia, and in France eternal 
friendships are as rare as the custom 
of dividing bread and salt with one 
another."

"But," said the countess, breathlessly, 
with her eyes fixed on Monte Cristo, 
whose arm she convulsively pressed with 
both hands, "we are friends, are we 
not?"

The count became pale as death, the 
blood rushed to his heart, and then 
again rising, dyed his cheeks with 
crimson; his eyes swam like those of a 
man suddenly dazzled. "Certainly, we 
are friends," he replied; "why should 
we not be?" The answer was so little 
like the one Mercedes desired, that she 
turned away to give vent to a sigh, 
which sounded more like a groan. "Thank 
you," she said. And they walked on 
again. They went the whole length of 
the garden without uttering a word. 
"Sir," suddenly exclaimed the countess, 
after their walk had continued ten 
minutes in silence, "is it true that 
you have seen so much, travelled so 
far, and suffered so deeply?"

"I have suffered deeply, madame," 
answered Monte Cristo.

"But now you are happy?"

"Doubtless," replied the count, "since 
no one hears me complain."

"And your present happiness, has it 
softened your heart?"

"My present happiness equals my past 
misery," said the count.

"Are you not married?" asked the 
countess. "I married?" exclaimed Monte 
Cristo, shuddering; "who could have 
told you so?"

"No one told me you were, but you have 
frequently been seen at the opera with 
a young and lovely woman."

"She is a slave whom I bought at 
Constantinople, madame, the daughter of 
a prince. I have adopted her as my 
daughter, having no one else to love in 
the world."

"You live alone, then?"

"I do."

"You have no sister -- no son -- no 
father?"

"I have no one."

"How can you exist thus without any one 
to attach you to life?"

"It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, 
I loved a young girl, was on the point 
of marrying her, when war came and 
carried me away. I thought she loved me 
well enough to wait for me, and even to 
remain faithful to my memory. When I 
returned she was married. This is the 
history of most men who have passed 
twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart 
was weaker than the hearts of most men, 
and I suffered more than they would 
have done in my place; that is all." 
The countess stopped for a moment, as 
if gasping for breath. "Yes," she said, 
"and you have still preserved this love 
in your heart -- one can only love once 
-- and did you ever see her again?"

"Never."

"Never?"

"I never returned to the country where 
she lived."

"To Malta?"

"Yes; Malta."

"She is, then, now at Malta?"

"I think so."

"And have you forgiven her for all she 
has made you suffer?"

"Her, -- yes."

"But only her; do you then still hate 
those who separated you?"

"I hate them? Not at all; why should 
I?" The countess placed herself before 
Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand 
a portion of the perfumed grapes. "Take 
some," she said. "Madame, I never eat 
Muscatel grapes," replied Monte Cristo, 
as if the subject had not been 
mentioned before. The countess dashed 
the grapes into the nearest thicket, 
with a gesture of despair. "Inflexible 
man!" she murmured. Monte Cristo 
remained as unmoved as if the reproach 
had not been addressed to him. Albert 
at this moment ran in. "Oh, mother," he 
exclaimed, "such a misfortune his 
happened!"

"What? What has happened?" asked the 
countess, as though awakening from a 
sleep to the realities of life; "did 
you say a misfortune? Indeed, I should 
expect misfortunes."

"M. de Villefort is here."

"Well?"

"He comes to fetch his wife and 
daughter."

"Why so?"

"Because Madame de Saint-Meran is just 
arrived in Paris, bringing the news of 
M. de Saint-Meran's death, which took 
place on the first stage after he left 
Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who 
was in very good spirits, would neither 
believe nor think of the misfortune, 
but Mademoiselle Valentine, at the 
first words, guessed the whole truth, 
notwithstanding all the precautions of 
her father; the blow struck her like a 
thunderbolt, and she fell senseless."

"And how was M. de Saint-Meran related 
to Mademoiselle de Villefort?" said the 
count.

"He was her grandfather on the mother's 
side. He was coming here to hasten her 
marriage with Franz."

"Ah, indeed?"

"So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de 
Saint-Meran also grandfather to 
Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Albert, Albert," said Madame de 
Morcerf, in a tone of mild reproof, 
"what are you saying? Ah, count, he 
esteems you so highly, tell him that he 
has spoken amiss." And she took two or 
three steps forward. Monte Cristo 
watched her with an air so thoughtful, 
and so full of affectionate admiration, 
that she turned back and grasped his 
hand; at the same time she seized that 
of her son, and joined them together.

"We are friends; are we not?" she asked.

"Oh, madame, I do not presume to call 
myself your friend, but at all times I 
am your most respectful servant." The 
countess left with an indescribable 
pang in her heart, and before she had 
taken ten steps the count saw her raise 
her handkerchief to her eyes. "Do not 
my mother and you agree?" asked Albert, 
astonished.

"On the contrary," replied the count, 
"did you not hear her declare that we 
were friends?" They re-entered the 
drawing-room, which Valentine and 
Madame de Villefort had just quitted. 
It is perhaps needless to add that 
Morrel departed almost at the same 
time. 

 Chapter 72 Madame de Saint-Meran.

A gloomy scene had indeed just passed 
at the house of M. de Villefort. After 
the ladies had departed for the ball, 
whither all the entreaties of Madame de 
Villefort had failed in persuading him 
to accompany them, the procureur had 
shut himself up in his study, according 
to his custom. with a heap of papers 
calculated to alarm any one else, but 
which generally scarcely satisfied his 
inordinate desires. But this time the 
papers were a mere matter of form. 
Villefort had secluded himself, not to 
study, but to reflect; and with the 
door locked and orders given that he 
should not be disturbed excepting for 
important business, he sat down in his 
arm-chair and began to ponder over the 
events, the remembrance of which had 
during the last eight days filled his 
mind with so many gloomy thoughts and 
bitter recollections. Then, instead of 
plunging into the mass of documents 
piled before him, he opened the drawer 
of his desk. touched a spring, and drew 
out a parcel of cherished memoranda, 
amongst which he had carefully 
arranged, in characters only known to 
himself, the names of all those who, 
either in his political career, in 
money matters, at the bar, or in his 
mysterious love affairs, had become his 
enemies.

Their number was formidable, now that 
he had begun to fear, and yet these 
names, powerful though they were, had 
often caused him to smile with the same 
kind of satisfaction experienced by a 
traveller who from the summit of a 
mountain beholds at his feet the craggy 
eminences, the almost impassable paths, 
and the fearful chasms, through which 
he has so perilously climbed. When he 
had run over all these names in his 
memory, again read and studied them, 
commenting meanwhile upon his lists, he 
shook his head.

"No," he murmured, "none of my enemies 
would have waited so patiently and 
laboriously for so long a space of 
time, that they might now come and 
crush me with this secret. Sometimes, 
as Hamlet says --

`Foul deeds will rise, Tho, all the 
earth o'erwhelm them to men's eyes;'

but, like a phosphoric light, they rise 
but to mislead. The story has been told 
by the Corsican to some priest, who in 
his turn has repeated it. M. de Monte 
Cristo may have heard it, and to 
enlighten himself -- but why should he 
wish to enlighten himself upon the 
subject?" asked Villefort, after a 
moment's reflection, "what interest can 
this M. de Monte Cristo or M. Zaccone, 
-- son of a shipowner of Malta, 
discoverer of a mine in Thessaly, now 
visiting Paris for the first time, -- 
what interest, I say, can he take in 
discovering a gloomy, mysterious, and 
useless fact like this? However, among 
all the incoherent details given to me 
by the Abbe Busoni and by Lord Wilmore, 
by that friend and that enemy, one 
thing appears certain and clear in my 
opinion -- that in no period, in no 
case, in no circumstance, could there 
have been any contact between him and 
me."

But Villefort uttered words which even 
he himself did not believe. He dreaded 
not so much the revelation, for he 
could reply to or deny its truth; -- he 
cared little for that mene, tekel, 
upharsin, which appeared suddenly in 
letters of blood upon the wall; -- but 
what he was really anxious for was to 
discover whose hand had traced them. 
While he was endeavoring to calm his 
fears, -- and instead of dwelling upon 
the political future that had so often 
been the subject of his ambitious 
dreams, was imagining a future limited 
to the enjoyments of home, in fear of 
awakening the enemy that had so long 
slept, -- the noise of a carriage 
sounded in the yard, then he heard the 
steps of an aged person ascending the 
stairs, followed by tears and 
lamentations, such as servants always 
give vent to when they wish to appear 
interested in their master's grief. He 
drew back the bolt of his door, and 
almost directly an old lady entered, 
unannounced, carrying her shawl on her 
arm, and her bonnet in her hand. The 
white hair was thrown back from her 
yellow forehead, and her eyes, already 
sunken by the furrows of age, now 
almost disappeared beneath the eyelids 
swollen with grief. "Oh, sir," she 
said; "oh, sir, what a misfortune! I 
shall die of it; oh, yes, I shall 
certainly die of it!"

And then, falling upon the chair 
nearest the door, she burst into a 
paroxysm of sobs. The servants, 
standing in the doorway, not daring to 
approach nearer, were looking at 
Noirtier's old servant, who had heard 
the noise from his master's room, and 
run there also, remaining behind the 
others. Villefort rose, and ran towards 
his mother-in-law, for it was she.

"Why, what can have happened?" he 
exclaimed, "what has thus disturbed 
you? Is M. de Saint-Meran with you?"

"M. de Saint-Meran is dead," answered 
the old marchioness, without preface 
and without expression; she appeared to 
be stupefied. Villefort drew back, and 
clasping his hands together, exclaimed 
-- "Dead! -- so suddenly?"

"A week ago," continued Madame de 
Saint-Meran, "we went out together in 
the carriage after dinner. M. de 
Saint-Meran had been unwell for some 
days; still, the idea of seeing our 
dear Valentine again inspired him with 
courage, and notwithstanding his 
illness he would leave. At six leagues 
from Marseilles, after having eaten 
some of the lozenges he is accustomed 
to take, he fell into such a deep 
sleep, that it appeared to me 
unnatural; still I hesitated to wake 
him, although I fancied that his face 
was flushed, and that the veins of his 
temples throbbed more violently than 
usual. However, as it became dark, and 
I could no longer see, I fell asleep; I 
was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, 
as from a person suffering in his 
dreams, and he suddenly threw his head 
back violently. I called the valet, I 
stopped the postilion, I spoke to M. de 
Saint-Meran, I applied my 
smelling-salts; but all was over, and I 
arrived at Aix by the side of a 
corpse." Villefort stood with his mouth 
half open, quite stupefied.

"Of course you sent for a doctor?"

"Immediately; but, as I have told you, 
it was too late."

"Yes; but then he could tell of what 
complaint the poor marquis had died."

"Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears 
to have been an apoplectic stroke."

"And what did you do then?"

"M. de Saint-Meran had always expressed 
a desire, in case his death happened 
during his absence from Paris, that his 
body might be brought to the family 
vault. I had him put into a leaden 
coffin, and I am preceding him by a few 
days."

"Oh, my poor mother," said Villefort, 
"to have such duties to perform at your 
age after such a blow!"

"God has supported me through all; and 
then, my dear marquis, he would 
certainly have done everything for me 
that I performed for him. It is true 
that since I left him, I seem to have 
lost my senses. I cannot cry; at my age 
they say that we have no more tears, -- 
still I think that when one is in 
trouble one should have the power of 
weeping. Where is Valentine. sir? It is 
on her account I am here; I wish to see 
Valentine." Villefort thought it would 
be terrible to reply that Valentine was 
at a ball; so he only said that she had 
gone out with her step-mother, and that 
she should be fetched. "This instant, 
sir -- this instant, I beseech you!" 
said the old lady. Villefort placed the 
arm of Madame de Saint-Meran within his 
own, and conducted her to his 
apartment. "Rest yourself, mother," he 
said.

The marchioness raised her head at this 
word, and beholding the man who so 
forcibly reminded her of her 
deeply-regretted child, who still lived 
for her in Valentine, she felt touched 
at the name of mother, and bursting 
into tears, she fell on her knees 
before an arm-chair, where she buried 
her venerable head. Villefort left her 
to the care of the women, while old 
Barrois ran, half-scared, to his 
master; for nothing frightens old 
people so much as when death relaxes 
its vigilance over them for a moment in 
order to strike some other old person. 
Then, while Madame de Saint-Meran 
remained on her knees, praying 
fervently, Villefort sent for a cab, 
and went himself to fetch his wife and 
daughter from Madame de Morcerf's. He 
was so pale when he appeared at the 
door of the ball-room, that Valentine 
ran to him, saying --

"Oh, father, some misfortune has 
happened!"

"Your grandmamma has just arrived, 
Valentine," said M. de Villefort.

"And grandpapa?" inquired the young 
girl, trembling with apprehension. M. 
de Villefort only replied by offering 
his arm to his daughter. It was just in 
time, for Valentine's head swam, and 
she staggered; Madame de Villefort 
instantly hastened to her assistance, 
and aided her husband in dragging her 
to the carriage, saying -- "What a 
singular event! Who could have thought 
it? Ah, yes, it is indeed strange!" And 
the wretched family departed, leaving a 
cloud of sadness hanging over the rest 
of the evening. At the foot of the 
stairs, Valentine found Barrois 
awaiting her.

"M. Noirtier wishes to see you 
to-night, he said, in an undertone.

"Tell him I will come when I leave my 
dear grandmamma," she replied, feeling, 
with true delicacy, that the person to 
whom she could be of the most service 
just then was Madame de Saint-Meran. 
Valentine found her grandmother in bed; 
silent caresses, heartwrung sobs, 
broken sighs, burning tears, were all 
that passed in this sad interview, 
while Madame de Villefort, leaning on 
her husband's arm, maintained all 
outward forms of respect, at least 
towards the poor widow. She soon 
whispered to her husband, "I think it 
would be better for me to retire, with 
your permission, for the sight of me 
appears still to afflict your 
mother-in-law." Madame de Saint-Meran 
heard her. "Yes, yes," she said softly 
to Valentine, "let her leave; but do 
you stay." Madame de Villefort left, 
and Valentine remained alone beside the 
bed, for the procureur, overcome with 
astonishment at the unexpected death, 
had followed his wife. Meanwhile, 
Barrois had returned for the first time 
to old Noirtier, who having heard the 
noise in the house, had, as we have 
said, sent his old servant to inquire 
the cause; on his return, his quick 
intelligent eye interrogated the 
messenger. "Alas, sir," exclaimed 
Barrois, "a great misfortune has 
happened. Madame de Saint-Meran has 
arrived, and her husband is dead!"

M. de Saint-Meran and Noirtier had 
never been on strict terms of 
friendship; still, the death of one old 
man always considerably affects 
another. Noirtier let his head fall 
upon his chest, apparently overwhelmed 
and thoughtful; then he closed one eye, 
in token of inquiry. "Mademoiselle 
Valentine?" Noirtier nodded his head. 
"She is at the ball, as you know, since 
she came to say good-by to you in full 
dress." Noirtier again closed his left 
eye. "Do you wish to see her?" Noirtier 
again made an affirmative sign. "Well, 
they have gone to fetch her, no doubt, 
from Madame de Morcerf's; I will await 
her return, and beg her to come up 
here. Is that what you wish for?"

"Yes," replied the invalid.

Barrois, therefore, as we have seen, 
watched for Valentine, and informed her 
of her grandfather's wish. 
Consequently, Valentine came up to 
Noirtier, on leaving Madame de 
Saint-Meran, who in the midst of her 
grief had at last yielded to fatigue 
and fallen into a feverish sleep. 
Within reach of her hand they placed a 
small table upon which stood a bottle 
of orangeade, her usual beverage, and a 
glass. Then, as we have said, the young 
girl left the bedside to see M. 
Noirtier. Valentine kissed the old man, 
who looked at her with such tenderness 
that her eyes again filled with tears, 
whose sources he thought must be 
exhausted. The old gentleman continued 
to dwell upon her with the same 
expression. "Yes, yes," said Valentine, 
"you mean that I have yet a kind 
grandfather left, do you not." The old 
man intimated that such was his 
meaning. "Ah, yes, happily I have," 
replied Valentine. "Without that, what 
would become of me?"

It was one o'clock in the morning. 
Barrois, who wished to go to bed 
himself, observed that after such sad 
events every one stood in need of rest. 
Noirtier would not say that the only 
rest he needed was to see his child, 
but wished her good-night, for grief 
and fatigue had made her appear quite 
ill. The next morning she found her 
grandmother in bed; the fever had not 
abated, on the contrary her eyes 
glistened and she appeared to be 
suffering from violent nervous 
irritability. "Oh, dear grandmamma, are 
you worse?" exclaimed Valentine, 
perceiving all these signs of agitation.

"No, my child, no," said Madame de 
Saint-Meran; "but I was impatiently 
waiting for your arrival, that I might 
send for your father."

"My father?" inquired Valentine, 
uneasily.

"Yes, I wish to speak to him." 
Valentine durst not oppose her 
grandmother's wish, the cause of which 
she did not know, and an instant 
afterwards Villefort entered. "Sir," 
said Madame de Saint-Meran, without 
using any circumlocution, and as if 
fearing she had no time to lose, "you 
wrote to me concerning the marriage of 
this child?"

"Yes, madame," replied Villefort, "it 
is not only projected but arranged."

"Your intended son-in-law is named M. 
Franz d'Epinay?"

"Yes, madame."

"Is he not the son of General d'Epinay 
who was on our side, and who was 
assassinated some days before the 
usurper returned from the Island of 
Elba?"

"The same."

"Does he not dislike the idea of 
marrying the granddaughter of a 
Jacobin?"

"Our civil dissensions are now happily 
extinguished, mother," said Villefort; 
"M. d'Epinay was quite a child when his 
father died, he knows very little of M. 
Noirtier, and will meet him, if not 
with pleasure, at least with 
indifference."

"Is it a suitable match?"

"In every respect."

"And the young man?"

"Is regarded with universal esteem."

"You approve of him?"

"He is one of the most well-bred young 
men I know." During the whole of this 
conversation Valentine had remained 
silent. "Well, sir," said Madame de 
Saint-Meran, after a few minutes' 
reflection, "I must hasten the 
marriage, for I have but a short time 
to live."

"You, madame?" "You, dear mamma?" 
exclaimed M. de Villefort and Valentine 
at the same time.

"I know what I am saying," continued 
the marchioness; "I must hurry you, so 
that, as she has no mother, she may at 
least have a grandmother to bless her 
marriage. I am all that is left to her 
belonging to my poor Renee, whom you 
have so soon forgotten, sir."

"Ah, madame," said Villefort, "you 
forget that I was obliged to give a 
mother to my child."

"A stepmother is never a mother, sir. 
But this is not to the purpose, -- our 
business concerns Valentine, let us 
leave the dead in peace."

All this was said with such exceeding 
rapidity, that there was something in 
the conversation that seemed like the 
beginning of delirium.

"It shall be as you wish, madame," said 
Villefort; "more especially since your 
wishes coincide with mine, and as soon 
as M. d'Epinay arrives in Paris" --

"My dear grandmother," interrupted 
Valentine, "consider decorum -- the 
recent death. You would not have me 
marry under such sad auspices?"

"My child," exclaimed the old lady 
sharply, "let us hear none of the 
conventional objections that deter weak 
minds from preparing for the future. I 
also was married at the death-bed of my 
mother, and certainly I have not been 
less happy on that account."

"Still that idea of death, madame," 
said Villefort.

"Still? -- Always! I tell you I am 
going to die -- do you understand? 
Well, before dying, I wish to see my 
son-in-law. I wish to tell him to make 
my child happy; I wish to read in his 
eyes whether he intends to obey me; -- 
in fact, I will know him -- I will!" 
continued the old lady, with a fearful 
expression, "that I may rise from the 
depths of my grave to find him, if he 
should not fulfil his duty!"

"Madame," said Villefort, "you must lay 
aside these exalted ideas, which almost 
assume the appearance of madness. The 
dead, once buried in their graves, rise 
no more."

"And I tell you, sir, that you are 
mistaken. This night I have had a 
fearful sleep. It seemed as though my 
soul were already hovering over my 
body, my eyes, which I tried to open, 
closed against my will, and what will 
appear impossible above all to you, 
sir, I saw, with my eyes shut, in the 
spot where you are now standing, 
issuing from that corner where there is 
a door leading into Madame Villefort's 
dressing-room -- I saw, I tell you, 
silently enter, a white figure." 
Valentine screamed. "It was the fever 
that disturbed you, madame," said 
Villefort.

"Doubt, if you please, but I am sure of 
what I say. I saw a white figure, and 
as if to prevent my discrediting the 
testimony of only one of my senses, I 
heard my glass removed -- the same 
which is there now on the table."

"Oh, dear mother, it was a dream."

"So little was it a dream, that I 
stretched my hand towards the bell; but 
when I did so, the shade disappeared; 
my maid then entered with a light."

"But she saw no one?"

"Phantoms are visible to those only who 
ought to see them. It was the soul of 
my husband! -- Well, if my husband's 
soul can come to me, why should not my 
soul reappear to guard my 
granddaughter? the tie is even more 
direct, it seems to me."

"Oh, madame," said Villefort, deeply 
affected, in spite of himself, "do not 
yield to those gloomy thoughts; you 
will long live with us, happy, loved, 
and honored, and we will make you 
forget" --

"Never, never, never," said the 
marchioness. "when does M. d'Epinay 
return?"

"We expect him every moment."

"It is well. As soon as he arrives 
inform me. We must be expeditious. And 
then I also wish to see a notary, that 
I may be assured that all our property 
returns to Valentine."

"Ah, grandmamma," murmured Valentine, 
pressing her lips on the burning brow, 
"do you wish to kill me? Oh, how 
feverish you are; we must not send for 
a notary, but for a doctor."

"A doctor?" said she, shrugging her 
shoulders, "I am not ill; I am thirsty 
-- that is all."

"What are you drinking, dear 
grandmamma?"

"The same as usual, my dear, my glass 
is there on the table -- give it to me, 
Valentine." Valentine poured the 
orangeade into a glass and gave it to 
her grandmother with a certain degree 
of dread, for it was the same glass she 
fancied that had been touched by the 
spectre. The marchioness drained the 
glass at a single draught, and then 
turned on her pillow, repeating, -- 
"The notary, the notary!"

M. de Villefort left the room, and 
Valentine seated herself at the bedside 
of her grandmother. The poor child 
appeared herself to require the doctor 
she had recommended to her aged 
relative. A bright spot burned in 
either cheek, her respiration was short 
and difficult, and her pulse beat with 
feverish excitement. She was thinking 
of the despair of Maximilian, when he 
should be informed that Madame de 
Saint-Meran, instead of being an ally, 
was unconsciously acting as his enemy. 
More than once she thought of revealing 
all to her grandmother, and she would 
not have hesitated a moment, if 
Maximilian Morrel had been named Albert 
de Morcerf or Raoul de Chateau-Renaud; 
but Morrel was of plebeian extraction, 
and Valentine knew how the haughty 
Marquise de Saint-Meran despised all 
who were not noble. Her secret had each 
time been repressed when she was about 
to reveal it, by the sad conviction 
that it would be useless to do so; for, 
were it once discovered by her father 
and mother, all would be lost. Two 
hours passed thus; Madame de 
Saint-Meran was in a feverish sleep, 
and the notary had arrived. Though his 
coming was announced in a very low 
tone, Madame de Saint-Meran arose from 
her pillow. "The notary!" she 
exclaimed, "let him come in."

The notary, who was at the door, 
immediately entered. "Go, Valentine," 
said Madame de Saint-Meran, "and leave 
me with this gentleman."

"But, grandmamma" --

"Leave me -- go!" The young girl kissed 
her grandmother, and left with her 
handkerchief to her eyes; at the door 
she found the valet de chambre, who 
told her that the doctor was waiting in 
the dining-room. Valentine instantly 
ran down. The doctor was a friend of 
the family, and at the same time one of 
the cleverest men of the day, and very 
fond of Valentine, whose birth he had 
witnessed. He had himself a daughter 
about her age, but whose life was one 
continued source of anxiety and fear to 
him from her mother having been 
consumptive.

"Oh," said Valentine, "we have been 
waiting for you with such impatience, 
dear M. d'Avrigny. But, first of all, 
how are Madeleine and Antoinette?" 
Madeleine was the daughter of M. 
d'Avrigny, and Antoinette his niece. M. 
d'Avrigny smiled sadly. "Antoinette is 
very well," he said, "and Madeleine 
tolerably so. But you sent for me, my 
dear child. It is not your father or 
Madame de Villefort who is ill. As for 
you, although we doctors cannot divest 
our patients of nerves, I fancy you 
have no further need of me than to 
recommend you not to allow your 
imagination to take too wide a field." 
Valentine colored. M. d'Avrigny carried 
the science of divination almost to a 
miraculous extent, for he was one of 
the physicians who always work upon the 
body through the mind. "No," she 
replied, "it is for my poor 
grandmother. You know the calamity that 
has happened to us, do you not?"

"I know nothing." said M. d'Avrigny.

"Alas," said Valentine, restraining her 
tears, "my grandfather is dead."

"M. de Saint-Meran?"

"Yes."

"Suddenly?"

"From an apoplectic stroke."

"An apoplectic stroke?" repeated the 
doctor.

"Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies 
that her husband, whom she never left, 
has called her, and that she must go 
and join him. Oh, M. d'Avrigny, I 
beseech you, do something for her!"

"Where is she?"

"In her room with the notary."

"And M. Noirtier?"

"Just as he was, his mind perfectly 
clear, but the same incapability of 
moving or speaking."

"And the same love for you -- eh, my 
dear child?"

"Yes," said Valentine, "he was very 
fond of me."

"Who does not love you?" Valentine 
smiled sadly. "What are your 
grandmother's symptoms?"

"An extreme nervous excitement and a 
strangely agitated sleep; she fancied 
this morning in her sleep that her soul 
was hovering above her body, which she 
at the same time watched. It must have 
been delirium; she fancies, too, that 
she saw a phantom enter her chamber and 
even heard the noise it made on 
touching her glass."

"It is singular," said the doctor; "I 
was not aware that Madame de 
Saint-Meran was subject to such 
hallucinations."

"It is the first time I ever saw her in 
this condition," said Valentine; "and 
this morning she frightened me so that 
I thought her mad; and my father, who 
you know is a strong-minded man, 
himself appeared deeply impressed."

"We will go and see," said the doctor; 
"what you tell me seems very strange." 
The notary here descended, and 
Valentine was informed that her 
grandmother was alone. "Go upstairs," 
she said to the doctor.

"And you?"

"Oh, I dare not -- she forbade my 
sending for you; and, as you say, I am 
myself agitated, feverish and out of 
sorts. I will go and take a turn in the 
garden to recover myself." The doctor 
pressed Valentine's hand, and while he 
visited her grandmother, she descended 
the steps. We need not say which 
portion of the garden was her favorite 
walk. After remaining for a short time 
in the parterre surrounding the house, 
and gathering a rose to place in her 
waist or hair, she turned into the dark 
avenue which led to the bench; then 
from the bench she went to the gate. As 
usual, Valentine strolled for a short 
time among her flowers, but without 
gathering them. The mourning in her 
heart forbade her assuming this simple 
ornament, though she had not yet had 
time to put on the outward semblance of 
woe. She then turned towards the 
avenue. As she advanced she fancied she 
heard a voice speaking her name. She 
stopped astonished, then the voice 
reached her ear more distinctly, and 
she recognized it to be that of 
Maximilian. 

 Chapter 73 The Promise.

It was, indeed, Maximilian Morrel, who 
had passed a wretched existence since 
the previous day. With the instinct 
peculiar to lovers he had anticipated 
after the return of Madame de 
Saint-Meran and the death of the 
marquis, that something would occur at 
M. de Villefort's in connection with 
his attachment for Valentine. His 
presentiments were realized, as we 
shall see, and his uneasy forebodings 
had goaded him pale and trembling to 
the gate under the chestnut-trees. 
Valentine was ignorant of the cause of 
this sorrow and anxiety, and as it was 
not his accustomed hour for visiting 
her, she had gone to the spot simply by 
accident or perhaps through sympathy. 
Morrel called her, and she ran to the 
gate. "You here at this hour?" said 
she. "Yes, my poor girl," replied 
Morrel; "I come to bring and to hear 
bad tidings."

"This is, indeed, a house of mourning," 
said Valentine; "speak, Maximilian, 
although the cup of sorrow seems 
already full."

"Dear Valentine," said Morrel, 
endeavoring to conceal his own emotion, 
"listen, I entreat you; what I am about 
to say is very serious. When are you to 
be married?"

"I will tell you all," said Valentine; 
"from you I have nothing to conceal. 
This morning the subject was 
introduced, and my dear grandmother, on 
whom I depended as my only support, not 
only declared herself favorable to it, 
but is so anxious for it, that they 
only await the arrival of M. d'Epinay, 
and the following day the contract will 
be signed." A deep sigh escaped the 
young man, who gazed long and 
mournfully at her he loved. "Alas," 
replied he, "it is dreadful thus to 
hear my condemnation from your own 
lips. The sentence is passed, and, in a 
few hours, will be executed; it must be 
so, and I will not endeavor to prevent 
it. But, since you say nothing remains 
but for M. d'Epinay to arrive that the 
contract may be signed, and the 
following day you will be his, 
to-morrow you will be engaged to M. 
d'Epinay, for he came this morning to 
Paris." Valentine uttered a cry.

"I was at the house of Monte Cristo an 
hour since," said Morrel; "we were 
speaking, he of the sorrow your family 
had experienced, and I of your grief, 
when a carriage rolled into the 
court-yard. Never, till then, had I 
placed any confidence in presentiments, 
but now I cannot help believing them, 
Valentine. At the sound of that 
carriage I shuddered; soon I heard 
steps on the staircase, which terrified 
me as much as the footsteps of the 
commander did Don Juan. The door at 
last opened; Albert de Morcerf entered 
first, and I began to hope my fears 
were vain, when, after him, another 
young man advanced, and the count 
exclaimed -- `Ah, here is the Baron 
Franz d'Epinay!' I summoned all my 
strength and courage to my support. 
Perhaps I turned pale and trembled, but 
certainly I smiled; and five minutes 
after I left, without having heard one 
word that had passed."

"Poor Maximilian!" murmured Valentine.

"Valentine, the time has arrived when 
you must answer me. And remember my 
life depends on your answer. What do 
you intend doing?" Valentine held down 
her head; she was overwhelmed.

"Listen," said Morrel; "it is not the 
first time you have contemplated our 
present position, which is a serious 
and urgent one; I do not think it is a 
moment to give way to useless sorrow; 
leave that for those who like to suffer 
at their leisure and indulge their 
grief in secret. There are such in the 
world, and God will doubtless reward 
them in heaven for their resignation on 
earth, but those who mean to contend 
must not lose one precious moment, but 
must return immediately the blow which 
fortune strikes. Do you intend to 
struggle against our ill-fortune? Tell 
me, Valentine for it is that I came to 
know."

Valentine trembled, and looked at him 
with amazement. The idea of resisting 
her father, her grandmother, and all 
the family, had never occurred to her. 
"What do you say, Maximilian?" asked 
Valentine. "What do you mean by a 
struggle? Oh, it would be a sacrilege. 
What? I resist my father's order, and 
my dying grandmother's wish? 
Impossible!" Morrel started. "You are 
too noble not to understand me, and you 
understand me so well that you already 
yield, dear Maximilian. No, no; I shall 
need all my strength to struggle with 
myself and support my grief in secret, 
as you say. But to grieve my father -- 
to disturb my grandmother's last 
moments -- never!"

"You are right," said Morrel, calmly.

"In what a tone you speak!" cried 
Valentine.

"I speak as one who admires you, 
mademoiselle."

"Mademoiselle," cried Valentine; 
"mademoiselle! Oh, selfish man, -- he 
sees me in despair, and pretends he 
cannot understand me!"

"You mistake -- I understand you 
perfectly. You will not oppose M. 
Villefort, you will not displease the 
marchioness, and to-morrow you will 
sign the contract which will bind you 
to your husband."

"But, mon Dieu, tell me, how can I do 
otherwise?"

"Do not appeal to me, mademoiselle; I 
shall be a bad judge in such a case; my 
selfishness will blind me," replied 
Morrel, whose low voice and clinched 
hands announced his growing desperation.

"What would you have proposed, 
Maximilian, had you found me willing to 
accede?"

"It is not for me to say."

"You are wrong; you must advise me what 
to do."

"Do you seriously ask my advice, 
Valentine?"

"Certainly, dear Maximilian, for if it 
is good, I will follow it; you know my 
devotion to you."

"Valentine," said Morrel pushing aside 
a loose plank, "give me your hand in 
token of forgiveness of my anger; my 
senses are confused, and during the 
last hour the most extravagant thoughts 
have passed through my brain. Oh, if 
you refuse my advice" --

"What do you advise?" said Valentine, 
raising her eyes to heaven and sighing. 
"I am free," replied Maximilian, "and 
rich enough to support you. I swear to 
make you my lawful wife before my lips 
even shall have approached your 
forehead."

"You make me tremble!" said the young 
girl.

"Follow me," said Morrel; "I will take 
you to my sister, who is worthy also to 
be yours. We will embark for Algiers, 
for England, for America, or, if your 
prefer it, retire to the country and 
only return to Paris when our friends 
have reconciled your family." Valentine 
shook her head. "I feared it, 
Maximilian," said she; "it is the 
counsel of a madman, and I should be 
more mad than you, did I not stop you 
at once with the word `Impossible, 
impossible!'"

"You will then submit to what fate 
decrees for you without even attempting 
to contend with it?" said Morrel 
sorrowfully. "Yes, -- if I die!"

"Well, Valentine," resumed Maximilian, 
"I can only say again that you are 
right. Truly, it is I who am mad, and 
you prove to me that passion blinds the 
most well-meaning. I appreciate your 
calm reasoning. It is then understood 
that to-morrow you will be irrevocably 
promised to M. Franz d'Epinay, not only 
by that theatrical formality invented 
to heighten the effect of a comedy 
called the signature of the contract, 
but your own will?"

"Again you drive me to despair, 
Maximilian," said Valentine, "again you 
plunge the dagger into the wound! What 
would you do, tell me, if your sister 
listened to such a proposition?"

"Mademoiselle," replied Morrel with a 
bitter smile, "I am selfish -- you have 
already said so -- and as a selfish man 
I think not of what others would do in 
my situation, but of what I intend 
doing myself. I think only that I have 
known you not a whole year. From the 
day I first saw you, all my hopes of 
happiness have been in securing your 
affection. One day you acknowledged 
that you loved me, and since that day 
my hope of future happiness has rested 
on obtaining you, for to gain you would 
be life to me. Now, I think no more; I 
say only that fortune has turned 
against me -- I had thought to gain 
heaven, and now I have lost it. It is 
an every-day occurrence for a gambler 
to lose not only what he possesses but 
also what he has not." Morrel 
pronounced these words with perfect 
calmness; Valentine looked at him a 
moment with her large, scrutinizing 
eyes, endeavoring not to let Morrel 
discover the grief which struggled in 
her heart. "But, in a word, what are 
you going to do?" asked she.

"I am going to have the honor of taking 
my leave of you, mademoiselle, solemnly 
assuring you that I wish your life may 
be so calm, so happy, and so fully 
occupied, that there may be no place 
for me even in your memory."

"Oh!" murmured Valentine.

"Adieu, Valentine, adieu!" said Morrel, 
bowing.

"Where are you going?" cried the young 
girl, extending her hand through the 
opening, and seizing Maximilian by his 
coat, for she understood from her own 
agitated feelings that her lover's 
calmness could not be real; "where are 
you going?"

"I am going, that I may not bring fresh 
trouble into your family: and to set an 
example which every honest and devoted 
man, situated as I am, may follow."

"Before you leave me, tell me what you 
are going to do, Maximilian." The young 
man smiled sorrowfully. "Speak, speak!" 
said Valentine; "I entreat you."

"Has your resolution changed, 
Valentine?"

"It cannot change, unhappy man; you 
know it must not!" cried the young 
girl. "Then adieu, Valentine!" 
Valentine shook the gate with a 
strength of which she could not have 
been supposed to be possessed, as 
Morrel was going away, and passing both 
her hands through the opening, she 
clasped and wrung them. "I must know 
what you mean to do!" said she. "Where 
are you going?"

"Oh, fear not," said Maximilian, 
stopping at a short distance, "I do not 
intend to render another man 
responsible for the rigorous fate 
reserved for me. Another might threaten 
to seek M. Franz, to provoke him, and 
to fight with him; all that would be 
folly. What has M. Franz to do with it? 
He saw me this morning for the first 
time, and has already forgotten he has 
seen me. He did not even know I existed 
when it was arranged by your two 
families that you should be united. I 
have no enmity against M. Franz, and 
promise you the punishment shall not 
fall on him."

"On whom, then! -- on me?"

"On you? Valentine! Oh, heaven forbid! 
Woman is sacred; the woman one loves is 
holy."

"On yourself, then, unhappy man; on 
yourself?"

"I am the only guilty person, am I 
not?' said Maximilian.

"Maximilian!" said Valentine, 
"Maximilian, come back, I entreat you!" 
He drew near with his sweet smile, and 
but for his paleness one might have 
thought him in his usual happy mood. 
"Listen, my dear, my adored Valentine," 
said he in his melodious and grave 
tone; "those who, like us, have never 
had a thought for which we need blush 
before the world, such may read each 
other's hearts. I never was romantic, 
and am no melancholy hero. I imitate 
neither Manfred nor Anthony; but 
without words, protestations, or vows, 
my life has entwined itself with yours; 
you leave me, and you are right in 
doing so, -- I repeat it, you are 
right; but in losing you, I lose my 
life.

"The moment you leave me, Valentine, I 
am alone in the world. My sister is 
happily married; her husband is only my 
brother-in-law, that is, a man whom the 
ties of social life alone attach to me; 
no one then longer needs my useless 
life. This is what I shall do; I will 
wait until the very moment you are 
married, for I will not lose the shadow 
of one of those unexpected chances 
which are sometimes reserved for us, 
since M. Franz may, after all, die 
before that time, a thunderbolt may 
fall even on the altar as you approach 
it, -- nothing appears impossible to 
one condemned to die, and miracles 
appear quite reasonable when his escape 
from death is concerned. I will, then, 
wait until the last moment, and when my 
misery is certain, irremediable, 
hopeless, I will write a confidential 
letter to my brother-in-law, another to 
the prefect of police, to acquaint them 
with my intention, and at the corner of 
some wood, on the brink of some abyss, 
on the bank of some river, I will put 
an end to my existence, as certainly as 
I am the son of the most honest man who 
ever lived in France."

Valentine trembled convulsively; she 
loosened her hold of the gate, her arms 
fell by her side, and two large tears 
rolled down her cheeks. The young man 
stood before her, sorrowful and 
resolute. "Oh, for pity's sake," said 
she, "you will live, will you not?"

"No, on my honor," said Maximilian; 
"but that will not affect you. You have 
done your duty, and your conscience 
will be at rest." Valentine fell on her 
knees, and pressed her almost bursting 
heart. "Maximilian," said she, 
"Maximilian, my friend, my brother on 
earth, my true husband in heaven, I 
entreat you, do as I do, live in 
suffering; perhaps we may one day be 
united."

"Adieu, Valentine," repeated Morrel.

"My God," said Valentine, raising both 
her hands to heaven with a sublime 
expression, "I have done my utmost to 
remain a submissive daughter; I have 
begged, entreated, implored; he has 
regarded neither my prayers, my 
entreaties, nor my tears. It is done," 
cried she, willing away her tears, and 
resuming her firmness, "I am resolved 
not to die of remorse, but rather of 
shame. Live, Maximilian, and I will be 
yours. Say when shall it be? Speak, 
command, I will obey." Morrel, who had 
already gone some few steps away, again 
returned, and pale with joy extended 
both hands towards Valentine through 
the opening. "Valentine," said he, 
"dear Valentine, you must not speak 
thus -- rather let me die. Why should I 
obtain you by violence, if our love is 
mutual? Is it from mere humanity you 
bid me live? I would then rather die."

"Truly," murmured Valentine, "who on 
this earth cares for me, if he does 
not? Who has consoled me in my sorrow 
but he? On whom do my hopes rest? On 
whom does my bleeding heart repose? On 
him, on him, always on him! Yes, you 
are right, Maximilian, I will follow 
you. I will leave the paternal home, I 
will give up all. Oh, ungrateful girl 
that I am," cried Valentine, sobbing, 
"I will give up all, even my dear old 
grandfather, whom I had nearly 
forgotten."

"No," said Maximilian, "you shall not 
leave him. M. Noirtier has evinced, you 
say, a kind feeling towards me. Well, 
before you leave, tell him all; his 
consent would be your justification in 
God's sight. As soon as we are married, 
he shall come and live with us, instead 
of one child, he shall have two. You 
have told me how you talk to him and 
how he answers you; I shall very soon 
learn that language by signs, 
Valentine, and I promise you solemnly, 
that instead of despair, it is 
happiness that awaits us."

"Oh, see, Maximilian, see the power you 
have over me, you almost make me 
believe you; and yet, what you tell me 
is madness, for my father will curse me 
-- he is inflexible -- he will never 
pardon me. Now listen to me, 
Maximilian; if by artifice, by 
entreaty, by accident -- in short, if 
by any means I can delay this marriage, 
will you wait?"

"Yes, I promise you, as faithfully as 
you have promised me that this horrible 
marriage shall not take place, and that 
if you are dragged before a magistrate 
or a priest, you will refuse."

"I promise you by all that is most 
sacred to me in the world, namely, by 
my mother."

"We will wait, then," said Morrel.

"Yes, we will wait," replied Valentine, 
who revived at these words; "there are 
so many things which may save unhappy 
beings such as we are."

"I rely on you, Valentine," said 
Morrel; "all you do will be well done; 
only if they disregard your prayers, if 
your father and Madame de Saint-Meran 
insist that M. d'Epinay should be 
called to-morrow to sign the contract" 
--

"Then you have my promise, Maximilian."

"Instead of signing" --

"I will go to you, and we will fly; but 
from this moment until then, let us not 
tempt providence, let us not see each 
other. It is a miracle, it is a 
providence that we have not been 
discovered. If we were surprised, if it 
were known that we met thus, we should 
have no further resource."

"You are right, Valentine; but how 
shall I ascertain?"

"From the notary, M. Deschamps."

"I know him."

"And for myself -- I will write to you, 
depend on me. I dread this marriage, 
Maximilian, as much as you."

"Thank you, my adored Valentine, thank 
you; that is enough. When once I know 
the hour, I will hasten to this spot, 
you can easily get over this fence with 
my assistance, a carriage will await us 
at the gate, in which you will 
accompany me to my sister's; there 
living, retired or mingling in society, 
as you wish, we shall be enabled to use 
our power to resist oppression, and not 
suffer ourselves to be put to death 
like sheep, which only defend 
themselves by sighs."

"Yes," said Valentine, "I will now 
acknowledge you are right, Maximilian; 
and now are you satisfied with your 
betrothal?" said the young girl 
sorrowfully.

"My adored Valentine, words cannot 
express one half of my satisfaction." 
Valentine had approached, or rather, 
had placed her lips so near the fence, 
that they nearly touched those of 
Morrel, which were pressed against the 
other side of the cold and inexorable 
barrier. "Adieu, then, till we meet 
again," said Valentine, tearing herself 
away. "I shall hear from you?"

"Yes."

"Thanks, thanks, dear love, adieu!" The 
sound of a kiss was heard, and 
Valentine fled through the avenue. 
Morrel listened to catch the last sound 
of her dress brushing the branches, and 
of her footstep on the gravel, then 
raised his eyes with an ineffable smile 
of thankfulness to heaven for being 
permitted to be thus loved, and then 
also disappeared. The young man 
returned home and waited all the 
evening and all the next day without 
getting any message. It was only on the 
following day, at about ten o'clock in 
the morning, as he was starting to call 
on M. Deschamps, the notary, that he 
received from the postman a small 
billet, which he knew to be from 
Valentine, although he had not before 
seen her writing. It was to this 
effect: --

Tears, entreaties, prayers, have 
availed me nothing. Yesterday, for two 
hours, I was at the church of 
Saint-Phillippe du Roule, and for two 
hours I prayed most fervently. Heaven 
is as inflexible as man, and the 
signature of the contract is fixed for 
this evening at nine o'clock. I have 
but one promise and but one heart to 
give; that promise is pledged to you, 
that heart is also yours. This evening, 
then, at a quarter to nine at the gate.

Your betrothed,

Valentine de Villefort.

P.S. -- My poor grandmother gets worse 
and worse; yesterday her fever amounted 
to delirium; to-day her delirium is 
almost madness. You will be very kind 
to me, will you not, Morrel, to make me 
forget my sorrow in leaving her thus? I 
think it is kept a secret from 
grandpapa Noirtier, that the contract 
is to be signed this evening.

Morrel went also to the notary, who 
confirmed the news that the contract 
was to be signed that evening. Then he 
went to call on Monte Cristo and heard 
still more. Franz had been to announce 
the ceremony, and Madame de Villefort 
had also written to beg the count to 
excuse her not inviting him; the death 
of M. de Saint-Meran and the dangerous 
illness of his widow would cast a gloom 
over the meeting which she would regret 
should be shared by the count whom she 
wished every happiness. The day before 
Franz had been presented to Madame de 
Saint-Meran, who had left her bed to 
receive him, but had been obliged to 
return to it immediately after. It is 
easy to suppose that Morrel's agitation 
would not escape the count's 
penetrating eye. Monte Cristo was more 
affectionate than ever, -- indeed, his 
manner was so kind that several times 
Morrel was on the point of telling him 
all. But he recalled the promise he had 
made to Valentine, and kept his secret.

The young man read Valentine's letter 
twenty times in the course of the day. 
It was her first, and on what an 
occasion! Each time he read it he 
renewed his vow to make her happy. How 
great is the power of a woman who has 
made so courageous a resolution! What 
devotion does she deserve from him for 
whom she has sacrificed everything! How 
ought she really to be supremely loved! 
She becomes at once a queen and a wife, 
and it is impossible to thank and love 
her sufficiently. Morrel longed 
intensely for the moment when he should 
hear Valentine say, "Here I am, 
Maximilian; come and help me." He had 
arranged everything for her escape; two 
ladders were hidden in the 
clover-field; a cabriolet was ordered 
for Maximilian alone, without a 
servant, without lights; at the turning 
of the first street they would light 
the lamps, as it would be foolish to 
attract the notice of the police by too 
many precautions. Occasionally he 
shuddered; he thought of the moment 
when, from the top of that wall, he 
should protect the descent of his dear 
Valentine, pressing in his arms for the 
first time her of whom he had yet only 
kissed the delicate hand.

When the afternoon arrived and he felt 
that the hour was drawing near, he 
wished for solitude, his agitation was 
extreme; a simple question from a 
friend would have irritated him. He 
shut himself in his room, and tried to 
read, but his eye glanced over the page 
without understanding a word, and he 
threw away the book, and for the second 
time sat down to sketch his plan, the 
ladders and the fence. At length the 
hour drew near. Never did a man deeply 
in love allow the clocks to go on 
peacefully. Morrel tormented his so 
effectually that they struck eight at 
half-past six. He then said, "It is 
time to start; the signature was indeed 
fixed to take place at nine o'clock, 
but perhaps Valentine will not wait for 
that. Consequently, Morrel, having left 
the Rue Meslay at half-past eight by 
his timepiece, entered the clover-field 
while the clock of Saint-Phillippe du 
Roule was striking eight. The horse and 
cabriolet were concealed behind a small 
ruin, where Morrel had often waited.

The night gradually drew on, and the 
foliage in the garden assumed a deeper 
hue. Then Morrel came out from his 
hiding-place with a beating heart, and 
looked through the small opening in the 
gate; there was yet no one to be seen. 
The clock struck half-past eight, and 
still another half-hour was passed in 
waiting, while Morrel walked to and 
fro, and gazed more and more frequently 
through the opening. The garden became 
darker still, but in the darkness he 
looked in vain for the white dress, and 
in the silence he vainly listened for 
the sound of footsteps. The house, 
which was discernible through the 
trees, remained in darkness, and gave 
no indication that so important an 
event as the signature of a 
marriage-contract was going on. Morrel 
looked at his watch, which wanted a 
quarter to ten; but soon the same clock 
he had already heard strike two or 
three times rectified the error by 
striking half-past nine.

This was already half an hour past the 
time Valentine had fixed. It was a 
terrible moment for the young man. The 
slightest rustling of the foliage, the 
least whistling of the wind, attracted 
his attention, and drew the 
perspiration to his brow; then he 
tremblingly fixed his ladder, and, not 
to lose a moment, placed his foot on 
the first step. Amidst all these 
alternations of hope and fear, the 
clock struck ten. "It is impossible," 
said Maximilian, "that the signing of a 
contract should occupy so long a time 
without unexpected interruptions. I 
have weighed all the chances, 
calculated the time required for all 
the forms; something must have 
happened." And then he walked rapidly 
to and fro, and pressed his burning 
forehead against the fence. Had 
Valentine fainted? or had she been 
discovered and stopped in her flight? 
These were the only obstacles which 
appeared possible to the young man.

The idea that her strength had failed 
her in attempting to escape, and that 
she had fainted in one of the paths, 
was the one that most impressed itself 
upon his mind. "In that case," said he, 
"I should lose her, and by my own 
fault." He dwelt on this idea for a 
moment, then it appeared reality. He 
even thought he could perceive 
something on the ground at a distance; 
he ventured to call, and it seemed to 
him that the wind wafted back an almost 
inarticulate sigh. At last the 
half-hour struck. It was impossible to 
wait longer, his temples throbbed 
violently, his eyes were growing dim; 
he passed one leg over the wall, and in 
a moment leaped down on the other side. 
He was on Villefort's premises -- had 
arrived there by scaling the wall. What 
might be the consequences? However, he 
had not ventured thus far to draw back. 
He followed a short distance close 
under the wall, then crossed a path, 
hid entered a clump of trees. In a 
moment he had passed through them, and 
could see the house distinctly. Then 
Morrel saw that he had been right in 
believing that the house was not 
illuminated. Instead of lights at every 
window, as is customary on days of 
ceremony, he saw only a gray mass, 
which was veiled also by a cloud, which 
at that moment obscured the moon's 
feeble light. A light moved rapidly 
from time to time past three windows of 
the second floor. These three windows 
were in Madame de Saint-Meran's room. 
Another remained motionless behind some 
red curtains which were in Madame de 
Villefort's bedroom. Morrel guessed all 
this. So many times, in order to follow 
Valentine in thought at every hour in 
the day, had he made her describe the 
whole house, that without having seen 
it he knew it all.

This darkness and silence alarmed 
Morrel still more than Valentine's 
absence had done. Almost mad with 
grief, and determined to venture 
everything in order to see Valentine 
once more, and be certain of the 
misfortune he feared, Morrel gained the 
edge of the clump of trees, and was 
going to pass as quickly as possible 
through the flower-garden, when the 
sound of a voice, still at some 
distance, but which was borne upon the 
wind, reached him.

At this sound, as he was already 
partially exposed to view, he stepped 
back and concealed himself completely, 
remaining perfectly motionless. He had 
formed his resolution. If it was 
Valentine alone, he would speak as she 
passed; if she was accompanied, and he 
could not speak, still he should see 
her, and know that she was safe; if 
they were strangers, he would listen to 
their conversation, and might 
understand something of this hitherto 
incomprehensible mystery. The moon had 
just then escaped from behind the cloud 
which had concealed it, and Morrel saw 
Villefort come out upon the steps, 
followed by a gentleman in black. They 
descended, and advanced towards the 
clump of trees, and Morrel soon 
recognized the other gentleman as 
Doctor d'Avrigny.

The young man, seeing them approach, 
drew back mechanically, until he found 
himself stopped by a sycamore-tree in 
the centre of the clump; there he was 
compelled to remain. Soon the two 
gentlemen stopped also.

"Ah, my dear doctor," said the 
procureur, "heaven declares itself 
against my house! What a dreadful death 
-- what a blow! Seek not to console me; 
alas, nothing can alleviate so great a 
sorrow -- the wound is too deep and too 
fresh! Dead, dead!" The cold sweat 
sprang to the young man's brow, and his 
teeth chattered. Who could be dead in 
that house, which Villefort himself had 
called accursed? "My dear M. de 
Villefort," replied the doctor, with a 
tone which redoubled the terror of the 
young man, "I have not led you here to 
console you; on the contrary" --

"What can you mean?" asked the 
procureur, alarmed.

"I mean that behind the misfortune 
which has just happened to you, there 
is another, perhaps, still greater."

"Can it be possible?" murmured 
Villefort, clasping his hands. "What 
are you going to tell me?"

"Are we quite alone, my friend?"

"Yes, quite; but why all these 
precautions?"

"Because I have a terrible secret to 
communicate to you," said the doctor. 
"Let us sit down."

Villefort fell, rather than seated 
himself The doctor stood before him, 
with one hand placed on his shoulder. 
Morrel, horrified, supported his head 
with one hand, and with the other 
pressed his heart, lest its beatings 
should be heard. "Dead, dead!" repeated 
he within himself; and he felt as if he 
were also dying.

"Speak, doctor -- I am listening," said 
Villefort; "strike -- I am prepared for 
everything!"

"Madame de Saint-Meran was, doubtless, 
advancing in years, but she enjoyed 
excellent health." Morrel began again 
to breathe freely, which he had not 
done during the last ten minutes.

"Grief has consumed her," said 
Villefort -- "yes, grief, doctor! After 
living forty years with the marquis" --

"It is not grief, my dear Villefort," 
said the doctor; "grief may kill, 
although it rarely does, and never in a 
day, never in an hour, never in ten 
minutes." Villefort answered nothing, 
he simply raised his head, which had 
been cast down before, and looked at 
the doctor with amazement.

"Were you present during the last 
struggle?" asked M. d'Avrigny.

"I was," replied the procureur; "you 
begged me not to leave."

"Did you notice the symptoms of the 
disease to which Madame de Saint-Meran 
has fallen a victim?"

"I did. Madame de Saint-Meran had three 
successive attacks, at intervals of 
some minutes, each one more serious 
than the former. When you arrived, 
Madame de Saint-Meran had already been 
panting for breath some minutes; she 
then had a fit, which I took to be 
simply a nervous attack, and it was 
only when I saw her raise herself in 
the bed, and her limbs and neck appear 
stiffened, that I became really 
alarmed. Then I understood from your 
countenance there was more to fear than 
I had thought. This crisis past, I 
endeavored to catch your eye, but could 
not. You held her hand -- you were 
feeling her pulse -- and the second fit 
came on before you had turned towards 
me. This was more terrible than the 
first; the same nervous movements were 
repeated, and the mouth contracted and 
turned purple."

"And at the third she expired."

"At the end of the first attack I 
discovered symptoms of tetanus; you 
confirmed my opinion."

"Yes, before others," replied the 
doctor; "but now we are alone" --

"What are you going to say? Oh, spare 
me!"

"That the symptoms of tetanus and 
poisoning by vegetable substances are 
the same." M. de Villefort started from 
his seat, then in a moment fell down 
again, silent and motionless. Morrel 
knew not if he were dreaming or awake. 
"Listen, said the doctor; "I know the 
full importance of the statement I have 
just made, and the disposition of the 
man to whom I have made it."

"Do you speak to me as a magistrate or 
as a friend?" asked Villefort.

"As a friend, and only as a friend, at 
this moment. The similarity in the 
symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by 
vegetable substances is so great, that 
were I obliged to affirm by oath what I 
have now stated, I should hesitate; I 
therefore repeat to you, I speak not to 
a magistrate, but to a friend. And to 
that friend I say. `During the 
three-quarters of an hour that the 
struggle continued, I watched the 
convulsions and the death of Madame de 
Saint-Meran, and am thoroughly 
convinced that not only did her death 
proceed from poison, but I could also 
specify the poison.'"

"Can it be possible?"

"The symptoms are marked, do you see? 
-- sleep broken by nervous spasms, 
excitation of the brain, torpor of the 
nerve centres. Madame de Saint-Meran 
succumbed to a powerful dose of brucine 
or of strychnine, which by some 
mistake, perhaps, has been given to 
her." Villefort seized the doctor's 
hand. "Oh, it is impossible," said he, 
"I must be dreaming! It is frightful to 
hear such things from such a man as 
you! Tell me, I entreat you, my dear 
doctor, that you may be deceived."

"Doubtless I may, but" --

"But?"

"But I do not think so."

"Have pity on me doctor! So many 
dreadful things have happened to me 
lately that I am on the verge of 
madness."

"Has any one besides me seen Madame de 
Saint-Meran?"

"No."

"Has anything been sent for from a 
chemist's that I have not examined?"

"Nothing."

"Had Madame de Saint-Meran any enemies?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Would her death affect any one's 
interest?"

"It could not indeed, my daughter is 
her only heiress -- Valentine alone. 
Oh, if such a thought could present 
itself, I would stab myself to punish 
my heart for having for one instant 
harbored it."

"Indeed, my dear friend," said M. 
d'Avrigny, "I would not accuse any one; 
I speak only of an accident, you 
understand, -- of a mistake, -- but 
whether accident or mistake, the fact 
is there; it is on my conscience and 
compels me to speak aloud to you. Make 
inquiry."

"Of whom? -- how? -- of what?"

"May not Barrois, the old servant, have 
made a mistake, and have given Madame 
de Saint-Meran a dose prepared for his 
master?"

"For my father?"

"Yes."

"But how could a dose prepared for M. 
Noirtier poison Madame de Saint-Meran?"

"Nothing is more simple. You know 
poisons become remedies in certain 
diseases, of which paralysis is one. 
For instance, having tried every other 
remedy to restore movement and speech 
to M. Noirtier, I resolved to try one 
last means, and for three months I have 
been giving him brucine; so that in the 
last dose I ordered for him there were 
six grains. This quantity, which is 
perfectly safe to administer to the 
paralyzed frame of M. Noirtier, which 
has become gradually accustomed to it, 
would be sufficient to kill another 
person."

"My dear doctor, there is no 
communication between M. Noirtier's 
apartment and that of Madame de 
Saint-Meran, and Barrois never entered 
my mother-in-law's room. In short, 
doctor although I know you to be the 
most conscientious man in the world, 
and although I place the utmost 
reliance in you, I want, 
notwithstanding my conviction, to 
believe this axiom, errare humanum est."

"Is there one of my brethren in whom 
you have equal confidence with myself?"

"Why do you ask me that? -- what do you 
wish?"

"Send for him; I will tell him what I 
have seen, and we will consult 
together, and examine the body."

"And you will find traces of poison?"

"No, I did not say of poison, but we 
can prove what was the state of the 
body; we shall discover the cause of 
her sudden death, and we shall say, 
`Dear Villefort, if this thing has been 
caused by negligence, watch over your 
servants; if from hatred, watch your 
enemies.'"

"What do you propose to me, d'Avrigny?" 
said Villefort in despair; "so soon as 
another is admitted into our secret, an 
inquest will become necessary; and an 
inquest in my house -- impossible! 
Still," continued the procureur, 
looking at the doctor with uneasiness, 
"if you wish it -- if you demand it, 
why then it shall be done. But, doctor, 
you see me already so grieved -- how 
can I introduce into my house so much 
scandal, after so much sorrow? My wife 
and my daughter would die of it! And I, 
doctor -- you know a man does not 
arrive at the post I occupy -- one has 
not been king's attorney twenty-five 
years without having amassed a 
tolerable number of enemies; mine are 
numerous. Let this affair be talked of, 
it will be a triumph for them, which 
will make them rejoice, and cover me 
with shame. Pardon me, doctor, these 
worldly ideas; were you a priest I 
should not dare tell you that, but you 
are a man, and you know mankind. 
Doctor, pray recall your words; you 
have said nothing, have you?"

"My dear M. de Villefort," replied the 
doctor, "my first duty is to humanity. 
I would have saved Madame de 
Saint-Meran, if science could have done 
it; but she is dead and my duty regards 
the living. Let us bury this terrible 
secret in the deepest recesses of our 
hearts; I am willing, if any one should 
suspect this, that my silence on the 
subject should be imputed to my 
ignorance. Meanwhile, sir, watch always 
-- watch carefully, for perhaps the 
evil may not stop here. And when you 
have found the culprit, if you find 
him, I will say to you, `You are a 
magistrate, do as you will!'"

"I thank you, doctor," said Villefort 
with indescribable joy; "I never had a 
better friend than you." And, as if he 
feared Doctor d'Avrigny would recall 
his promise, he hurried him towards the 
house.

When they were gone, Morrel ventured 
out from under the trees, and the moon 
shone upon his face, which was so pale 
it might have been taken for that of a 
ghost. "I am manifestly protected in a 
most wonderful, but most terrible 
manner," said he; "but Valentine, poor 
girl, how will she bear so much sorrow?"

As he thought thus, he looked 
alternately at the window with red 
curtains and the three windows with 
white curtains. The light had almost 
disappeared from the former; doubtless 
Madame de Villefort had just put out 
her lamp, and the nightlamp alone 
reflected its dull light on the window. 
At the extremity of the building, on 
the contrary, he saw one of the three 
windows open. A wax-light placed on the 
mantle-piece threw some of its pale 
rays without, and a shadow was seen for 
one moment on the balcony. Morrel 
shuddered; he thought he heard a sob.

It cannot be wondered at that his mind, 
generally so courageous, but now 
disturbed by the two strongest human 
passions, love and fear, was weakened 
even to the indulgence of superstitious 
thoughts. Although it was impossible 
that Valentine should see him, hidden 
as he was, he thought he heard the 
shadow at the window call him; his 
disturbed mind told him so. This double 
error became an irresistible reality, 
and by one of the incomprehensible 
transports of youth, he bounded from 
his hiding-place, and with two strides, 
at the risk of being seen, at the risk 
of alarming Valentine, at the risk of 
being discovered by some exclamation 
which might escape the young girl, he 
crossed the flower-garden, which by the 
light of the moon resembled a large 
white lake, and having passed the rows 
of orange-trees which extended in front 
of the house, he reached the step, ran 
quickly up and pushed the door, which 
opened without offering any resistance. 
Valentine had not seen him. Her eyes, 
raised towards heaven, were watching a 
silvery cloud gliding over the azure, 
its form that of a shadow mounting 
towards heaven. Her poetic and excited 
mind pictured it as the soul of her 
grandmother.

Meanwhile, Morrel had traversed the 
anteroom and found the staircase, 
which, being carpeted, prevented his 
approach being heard, and he had 
regained that degree of confidence that 
the presence of M. de Villefort even 
would not have alarmed him. He was 
quite prepared for any such encounter. 
He would at once approach Valentine's 
father and acknowledge all, begging 
Villefort to pardon and sanction the 
love which united two fond and loving 
hearts. Morrel was mad. Happily he did 
not meet any one. Now, especially, did 
he find the description Valentine had 
given of the interior of the house 
useful to him; he arrived safely at the 
top of the staircase, and while he was 
feeling his way, a sob indicated the 
direction he was to take. He turned 
back, a door partly open enabled him to 
see his road, and to hear the voice of 
one in sorrow. He pushed the door open 
and entered. At the other end of the 
room, under a white sheet which covered 
it, lay the corpse, still more alarming 
to Morrel since the account he had so 
unexpectedly overheard. By its side, on 
her knees, and with her head buried in 
the cushion of an easy-chair, was 
Valentine, trembling and sobbing, her 
hands extended above her head, clasped 
and stiff. She had turned from the 
window, which remained open, and was 
praying in accents that would have 
affected the most unfeeling; her words 
were rapid, incoherent, unintelligible, 
for the burning weight of grief almost 
stopped her utterance. The moon shining 
through the open blinds made the lamp 
appear to burn paler, and cast a 
sepulchral hue over the whole scene. 
Morrel could not resist this; he was 
not exemplary for piety, he was not 
easily impressed, but Valentine 
suffering, weeping, wringing her hands 
before him, was more than he could bear 
in silence. He sighed, and whispered a 
name, and the head bathed in tears and 
pressed on the velvet cushion of the 
chair -- a head like that of a Magdalen 
by Correggio -- was raised and turned 
towards him. Valentine perceived him 
without betraying the least surprise. A 
heart overwhelmed with one great grief 
is insensible to minor emotions. Morrel 
held out his hand to her. Valentine, as 
her only apology for not having met 
him, pointed to the corpse under the 
sheet, and began to sob again. Neither 
dared for some time to speak in that 
room. They hesitated to break the 
silence which death seemed to impose; 
at length Valentine ventured.

"My friend," said she, "how came you 
here? Alas, I would say you are 
welcome, had not death opened the way 
for you into this house."

"Valentine," said Morrel with a 
trembling voice, "I had waited since 
half-past eight, and did not see you 
come; I became uneasy, leaped the wall, 
found my way through the garden, when 
voices conversing about the fatal 
event" --

"What voices ?" asked Valentine. Morrel 
shuddered as he thought of the 
conversation of the doctor and M. de 
Villefort, and he thought he could see 
through the sheet the extended hands, 
the stiff neck, and the purple lips.

"Your servants," said he, "who were 
repeating the whole of the sorrowful 
story; from them I learned it all."

"But it was risking the failure of our 
plan to come up here, love."

"Forgive me," replied Morrel; "I will 
go away."

"No," said Valentine, "you might meet 
some one; stay."

"But if any one should come here" --

The young girl shook her head. "No one 
will come," said she; "do not fear, 
there is our safeguard," pointing to 
the bed.

"But what has become of M. d'Epinay?" 
replied Morrel.

"M. Franz arrived to sign the contract 
just as my dear grandmother was dying."

"Alas," said Morrel with a feeling of 
selfish joy; for he thought this death 
would cause the wedding to be postponed 
indefinitely. "But what redoubles my 
sorrow," continued the young girl, as 
if this feeling was to receive its 
immediate punishment, "is that the poor 
old lady, on her death-bed, requested 
that the marriage might take place as 
soon as possible; she also, thinking to 
protect me, was acting against me."

"Hark!" said Morrel. They both 
listened; steps were distinctly heard 
in the corridor and on the stairs.

"It is my father, who has just left his 
study."

"To accompany the doctor to the door," 
added Morrel.

"How do you know it is the doctor?" 
asked Valentine, astonished.

"I imagined it must be," said Morrel. 
Valentine looked at the young man; they 
heard the street door close, then M. de 
Villefort locked the garden door, and 
returned up-stairs. He stopped a moment 
in the anteroom, as if hesitating 
whether to turn to his own apartment or 
into Madame de Saint-Meran's; Morrel 
concealed himself behind a door; 
Valentine remained motionless, grief 
seeming to deprive her of all fear. M. 
de Villefort passed on to his own room. 
"Now," said Valentine, "you can neither 
go out by the front door nor by the 
garden." Morrel looked at her with 
astonishment. "There is but one way 
left you that is safe," said she; "it 
is through my grandfather's room." She 
rose, "Come," she added. -- "Where?" 
asked Maximilian.

"To my grandfather's room."

"I in M. Noirtier's apartment?"

"Yes."

"Can you mean it, Valentine?"

"I have long wished it; he is my only 
remaining friend and we both need his 
help, -- come."

"Be careful, Valentine," said Morrel, 
hesitating to comply with the young 
girl's wishes; "I now see my error -- I 
acted like a madman in coming in here. 
Are you sure you are more reasonable?"

"Yes," said Valentine; "and I have but 
one scruple, -- that of leaving my dear 
grandmother's remains, which I had 
undertaken to watch."

"Valentine," said Morrel, "death is in 
itself sacred."

"Yes," said Valentine; "besides, it 
will not be for long." She then crossed 
the corridor, and led the way down a 
narrow staircase to M. Noirtier's room; 
Morrel followed her on tiptoe; at the 
door they found the old servant. 
"Barrois," said Valentine, "shut the 
door, and let no one come in." She 
passed first. Noirtier, seated in his 
chair, and listening to every sound, 
was watching the door; he saw 
Valentine, and his eye brightened. 
There was something grave and solemn in 
the approach of the young girl which 
struck the old man, and immediately his 
bright eye began to interrogate. "Dear 
grandfather." said she hurriedly, "you 
know poor grandmamma died an hour 
since, and now I have no friend in the 
world but you." His expressive eyes 
evinced the greatest tenderness. "To 
you alone, then, may I confide my 
sorrows and my hopes?" The paralytic 
motioned "Yes." Valentine took 
Maximilian's hand. "Look attentively, 
then, at this gentleman." The old man 
fixed his scrutinizing gaze with slight 
astonishment on Morrel. "It is M. 
Maximilian Morrel," said she; "the son 
of that good merchant of Marseilles, 
whom you doubtless recollect."

"Yes," said the old man. "He brings an 
irreproachable name, which Maximilian 
is likely to render glorious, since at 
thirty years of age he is a captain, an 
officer of the Legion of Honor." The 
old man signified that he recollected 
him. "Well, grandpapa," said Valentine, 
kneeling before him, and pointing to 
Maximilian, "I love him, and will be 
only his; were I compelled to marry 
another, I would destroy myself."

The eyes of the paralytic expressed a 
multitude of tumultuous thoughts. "You 
like M. Maximilian Morrel, do you not, 
grandpapa?" asked Valentine.

"Yes."

"And you will protect us, who are your 
children, against the will of my 
father?" -- Noirtier cast an 
intelligent glance at Morrel, as if to 
say, "perhaps I may." Maximilian 
understood him.

"Mademoiselle," said he, "you have a 
sacred duty to fulfil in your deceased 
grandmother's room, will you allow me 
the honor of a few minutes' 
conversation with M. Noirtier?"

"That is it," said the old man's eye. 
Then he looked anxiously at Valentine.

"Do you fear he will not understand?"

"Yes."

"Oh, we have so often spoken of you, 
that he knows exactly how I talk to 
you." Then turning to Maximilian, with 
an adorable smile; although shaded by 
sorrow, -- "He knows everything I 
know," said she.

Valentine arose, placed a chair for 
Morrel, requested Barrois not to admit 
any one, and having tenderly embraced 
her grandfather, and sorrowfully taken 
leave of Morrel, she went away. To 
prove to Noirtier that he was in 
Valentine's confidence and knew all 
their secrets, Morrel took the 
dictionary, a pen, and some paper, and 
placed them all on a table where there 
was a light.

"But first," said Morrel, "allow me, 
sir, to tell you who I am, how much I 
love Mademoiselle Valentine, and what 
are my designs respecting her." 
Noirtier made a sign that he would 
listen.

It was an imposing sight to witness 
this old man, apparently a mere useless 
burden, becoming the sole protector, 
support, and adviser of the lovers who 
were both young, beautiful, and strong. 
His remarkably noble and austere 
expression struck Morrel, who began his 
story with trembling. He related the 
manner in which he had become 
acquainted with Valentine, and how he 
had loved her, and that Valentine, in 
her solitude and her misfortune, had 
accepted the offer of his devotion. He 
told him his birth, his position, his 
fortune, and more than once, when he 
consulted the look of the paralytic, 
that look answered, "That is good, 
proceed."

"And now," said Morrel, when he had 
finished the first part of his recital, 
"now I have told you of my love and my 
hopes, may I inform you of my 
intentions?"

"Yes," signified the old man.

"This was our resolution; a cabriolet 
was in waiting at the gate, in which I 
intended to carry off Valentine to my 
sister's house, to marry her, and to 
wait respectfully M. de Villefort's 
pardon."

"No," said Noirtier.

"We must not do so?"

"No."

"You do not sanction our project?"

"No."

"There is another way," said Morrel. 
The old man's interrogative eye said, 
"What?"

"I will go," continued Maximilian, "I 
will seek M. Franz d'Epinay -- I am 
happy to be able to mention this in 
Mademoiselle de Villefort's absence -- 
and will conduct myself toward him so 
as to compel him to challenge me." 
Noirtier's look continued to 
interrogate. "You wish to know what I 
will do?"

"Yes."

"I will find him, as I told you. I will 
tell him the ties which bind me to 
Mademoiselle Valentine; if he be a 
sensible man, he will prove it by 
renouncing of his own accord the hand 
of his betrothed, and will secure my 
friendship, and love until death; if he 
refuse, either through interest or 
ridiculous pride, after I have proved 
to him that he would be forcing my wife 
from me, that Valentine loves me, and 
will have no other, I will fight with 
him, give him every advantage, and I 
shall kill him, or he will kill me; if 
I am victorious, he will not marry 
Valentine, and if I die, I am very sure 
Valentine will not marry him." Noirtier 
watched, with indescribable pleasure, 
this noble and sincere countenance, on 
which every sentiment his tongue 
uttered was depicted, adding by the 
expression of his fine features all 
that coloring adds to a sound and 
faithful drawing. Still, when Morrel 
had finished, he shut his eyes several 
times, which was his manner of saying 
"No."

"No?" said Morrel; "you disapprove of 
this second project, as you did of the 
first?"

"I do," signified the old man.

"But what then must be done?" asked 
Morrel. "Madame de Saint-Meran's last 
request was, that the marriage might 
not be delayed; must I let things take 
their course?" Noirtier did not move. 
"I understand," said Morrel; "I am to 
wait."

"Yes."

"But delay may ruin our plan, sir," 
replied the young man. "Alone, 
Valentine has no power; she will be 
compelled to submit. I am here almost 
miraculously, and can scarcely hope for 
so good an opportunity to occur again. 
Believe me, there are only the two 
plans I have proposed to you; forgive 
my vanity, and tell me which you 
prefer. Do you authorize Mademoiselle 
Valentine to intrust herself to my 
honor?"

"No."

"Do you prefer I should seek M. 
d'Epinay?"

"No."

"Whence then will come the help we need 
-- from chance?" resumed Morrel.

"No."

"From you?"

"Yes."

"You thoroughly understand me, sir? 
Pardon my eagerness, for my life 
depends on your answer. Will our help 
come from you?"

"Yes."

"You are sure of it?"

"Yes." There was so much firmness in 
the look which gave this answer, no one 
could, at any rate, doubt his will, if 
they did his power. "Oh, thank you a 
thousand times! But how, unless a 
miracle should restore your speech, 
your gesture, your movement, how can 
you, chained to that arm-chair, dumb 
and motionless, oppose this marriage?" 
A smile lit up the old man's face, a 
strange smile of the eyes in a 
paralyzed face. "Then I must wait?" 
asked the young man.

"Yes."

"But the contract?" The same smile 
returned. "Will you assure me it shall 
not be signed?"

"Yes," said Noirtier.

"The contract shall not be signed!" 
cried Morrel. "Oh, pardon me, sir; I 
can scarcely realize so great a 
happiness. Will they not sign it?"

"No," said the paralytic. 
Notwithstanding that assurance, Morrel 
still hesitated. This promise of an 
impotent old man was so strange that, 
instead of being the result of the 
power of his will, it might emanate 
from enfeebled organs. Is it not 
natural that the madman, ignorant of 
his folly, should attempt things beyond 
his power? The weak man talks of 
burdens he can raise, the timid of 
giants he can confront, the poor of 
treasures he spends, the most humble 
peasant, in the height of his pride, 
calls himself Jupiter. Whether Noirtier 
understood the young man's indecision, 
or whether he had not full confidence 
in his docility, he looked uneasily at 
him. "What do you wish, sir?" asked 
Morrel; "that I should renew my promise 
of remaining tranquil?" Noirtier's eye 
remained fixed and firm, as if to imply 
that a promise did not suffice; then it 
passed from his face to his hands.

"Shall I swear to you, sir?" asked 
Maximilian.

"Yes?" said the paralytic with the same 
solemnity. Morrel understood that the 
old man attached great importance to an 
oath. He extended his hand.

"I swear to you, on my honor," said he, 
"to await your decision respecting the 
course I am to pursue with M. d'Epinay."

"That is right," said the old man.

"Now," said Morrel, "do you wish me to 
retire?"

"Yes."

"Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine?"

"Yes."

Morrel made a sign that he was ready to 
obey. "But," said he, "first allow me 
to embrace you as your daughter did 
just now." Noirtier's expression could 
not be understood. The young man 
pressed his lips on the same spot, on 
the old man's forehead, where 
Valentine's had been. Then he bowed a 
second time and retired. He found 
outside the door the old servant, to 
whom Valentine had given directions. 
Morrel was conducted along a dark 
passage, which led to a little door 
opening on the garden, soon found the 
spot where he had entered, with the 
assistance of the shrubs gained the top 
of the wall, and by his ladder was in 
an instant in the clover-field where 
his cabriolet was still waiting for 
him. He got in it, and thoroughly 
wearied by so many emotions, arrived 
about midnight in the Rue Meslay, threw 
himself on his bed and slept soundly. 

 Chapter 74 The Villefort Family Vault.

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

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

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

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

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

"Nearly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As soon as possible."

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

"If not unpleasant to you."

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

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

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

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

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

"But the mourning?" said Franz, 
hesitating.

"Don't be uneasy on that score," 
replied Villefort; "no ceremony will be 
neglected in my house. Mademoiselle de 
Villefort may retire during the 
prescribed three months to her estate 
of Saint-Meran; I say hers, for she 
inherits it to-day. There, after a few 
days, if you like, the civil marriage 
shall be celebrated without pomp or 
ceremony. Madame de Saint-Meran wished 
her daughter should be married there. 
When that in over, you, sir, can return 
to Paris, while your wife passes the 
time of her mourning with her 
mother-in-law."

"As you please, sir," said Franz.

"Then," replied M. de Villefort, "have 
the kindness to wait half an hour; 
Valentine shall come down into the 
drawing-room. I will send for M. 
Deschamps; we will read and sign the 
contract before we separate, and this 
evening Madame de Villefort; shall 
accompany Valentine to her estate, 
where we will rejoin them in a week."

"Sir," said Franz, "I have one request 
to make."

"What is it?"

"I wish Albert de Morcerf and Raoul de 
Chateau-Renaud to be present at this 
signature; you know they are my 
witnesses."

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

"I prefer going, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 75 A Signed Statement.

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

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

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

"Yes," said the old man.

"And the drawers?"

"Yes."

"Those at the side?"

"No."

"The middle one?"

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

"No."

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

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

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

"Yes," said Noirtier.

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

"Yes."

"Shall I call him?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

"No."

"To Mademoiselle Valentine?"

"No."

"To M. Franz d'Epinay?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

"No," replied Noirtier eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

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

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

"Yes!"

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

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

 Chapter 76 Progress of Cavalcanti the 
Younger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which?"

"M. Debray had told you" --

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But that is not all."

"Not all!"

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

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

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

"Indeed? And is the reason known?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Still, situated as we are" --

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hem," said Danglars.

"Why do you doubt?"

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

"But that does not affect the son."

"Very true."

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

"But I do."

"Have you made inquiry?"

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

"I am not so sure of that."

"And yet you said he had money."

"Fifty thousand livres -- a mere 
trifle."

"He is well educated."

"Hem," said Monte Cristo in his turn.

"He is a musician."

"So are all Italians."

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

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

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

"Indeed."

"Positively."

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

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

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

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

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

"Willingly, if you wish it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

"How can I tell you?"

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

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

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

"No, every one would do that."

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

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo.

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

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

"Immediately."

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

 Chapter 77 Haidee.

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

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

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

"What rival?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What!"

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

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

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

"Jealousy indicates affection."

"True; but I am not jealous."

"He is."

"Of whom? -- of Debray?"

"No, of you."

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

"You are mistaken, my dear viscount."

"Prove it to me."

"Do you wish me to do so?"

"Yes."

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

"By whom are you charged?"

"By the baron himself."

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

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

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

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

"There has been a misunderstanding."

"What, with the baroness?"

"No, with the baron."

"Has he perceived anything?"

"Ah, that is a good joke!"

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

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

"From Congo, if you will."

"It must be farther off than even that."

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

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

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

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

"Certainly I will."

"My carriage shall take you back."

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

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

"What you say is perhaps true; they 
know my habits. For instance, you shall 
see; how do you wish to occupy yourself 
during tea-time?"

"Ma foi, I should like to smoke."

Monte Cristo took the gong and struck 
it once. In about the space of a second 
a private door opened, and Ali 
appeared, bringing two chibouques 
filled with excellent latakia. "It is 
quite wonderful," said Albert.

"Oh no, it is as simple as possible," 
replied Monte Cristo. "Ali knows I 
generally smoke while I am taking my 
tea or coffee; he has heard that I 
ordered tea, and he also knows that I 
brought you home with me; when I 
summoned him he naturally guessed the 
reason of my doing so, and as he comes 
from a country where hospitality is 
especially manifested through the 
medium of smoking, he naturally 
concludes that we shall smoke in 
company, and therefore brings two 
chibouques instead of one -- and now 
the mystery is solved."

"Certainly you give a most commonplace 
air to your explanation, but it is not 
the less true that you -- Ah, but what 
do I hear?" and Morcerf inclined his 
head towards the door, through which 
sounds seemed to issue resembling those 
of a guitar.

"Ma foi, my dear viscount, you are 
fated to hear music this evening; you 
have only escaped from Mademoiselle 
Danglars' piano, to be attacked by 
Haidee's guzla."

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

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

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

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

"And you think she would be angry?"

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

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

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

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

"Undoubtedly."

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

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

"She must be a princess then."

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

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

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

"And is her name a secret?"

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

"Certainly; on my word of honor."

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

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

"True, I had forgotten that."

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

"Well, what is Haidee to Ali Tepelini?"

"Merely his daughter."

"What? the daughter of Ali Pasha?"

"Of Ali Pasha and the beautiful 
Vasiliki."

"And your slave?"

"Ma foi, yes."

"But how did she become so?"

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

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

"Say on."

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

"Well?"

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

"You may venture to ask me anything."

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

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

"I accept them at once."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is his name?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And have you any recollection of your 
country?"

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

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

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

"And how old were you at that time?"

"I was three years old," said Haidee.

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

"Everything."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do not recollect it," said Haidee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 78 We hear From Yanina.

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

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

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

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

In the midst of all the strange events 
which had crowded one on the other, an 
indefinable sentiment of dread had 
taken possession of Valentine's mind. 
She expected every moment that she 
should see Morrel appear, pale and 
trembling, to forbid the signing of the 
contract, like the Laird of Ravenswood 
in "The Bride of Lammermoor." It was 
high time for her to make her 
appearance at the gate, for Maximilian 
had long awaited her coming. He had 
half guessed what was going on when he 
saw Franz quit the cemetery with M. de 
Villefort. He followed M. d'Epinay, saw 
him enter, afterwards go out, and then 
re-enter with Albert and 
Chateau-Renaud. He had no longer any 
doubts as to the nature of the 
conference; he therefore quickly went 
to the gate in the clover-patch, 
prepared to hear the result of the 
proceedings, and very certain that 
Valentine would hasten to him the first 
moment she should he set at liberty. He 
was not mistaken; peering through the 
crevices of the wooden partition, he 
soon discovered the young girl, who 
cast aside all her usual precautions 
and walked at once to the barrier. The 
first glance which Maximilian directed 
towards her entirely reassured him, and 
the first words she spoke made his 
heart bound with delight.

"We are saved!" said Valentine. 
"Saved?" repeated Morrel, not being 
able to conceive such intense 
happiness; "by whom?"

"By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel, pray 
love him for all his goodness to us!" 
Morrel swore to love him with all his 
soul; and at that moment he could 
safely promise to do so, for he felt as 
though it were not enough to love him 
merely as a friend or even as a father. 
"But tell me, Valentine, how has it all 
been effected? What strange means has 
he used to compass this blessed end?"

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

"But when will that be?"

"When I am your wife."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A play?"

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

"That is quite my desire."

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

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

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

"I did say so."

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

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

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

"What do you mean to say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, my lord."

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

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

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

"Out, even to me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"His servant."

"A Nubian?"

"A negro."

"It is he, then."

"Do you know this gentleman?"

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

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

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

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

"What on earth are you talking of?"

"I am to fight to-day."

"For what?"

"I am going to fight" --

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

"I fight in the cause of honor."

"Ah, that is something serious."

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

"What is it?"

"To be my second."

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

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

"How?" said Albert.

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

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

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

"With whom are you going to fight?"

"With Beauchamp."

"One of your friends!"

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

"I suppose you have some cause of 
quarrel?"

"I have."

"What has he done to you?"

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

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

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

"What do I see in it?"

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

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

"Did your father serve under Ali Pasha?"

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

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

"I do not desire to do otherwise."

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

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

"Beauchamp will never retract."

"Then he must fight."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"You do wrong."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he reflect before he insulted my 
father?"

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

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

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

"Well."

"Supposing the assertion to be really 
true?"

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

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

"That is precisely the fault of the 
age."

"And do you undertake to reform it?"

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

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

"Yes, I own it."

"Are you quite impervious to good 
advice?"

"Not when it comes from a friend."

"And do you account me that title?"

"Certainly I do."

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

"From whom?"

"From Haidee."

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

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

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

"You reject this means of information, 
then?"

"I do -- most decidedly."

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

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

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

"On the contrary, I request it."

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

"That would be contrary to all custom."

"Your case is not an ordinary one."

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

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

"Explain yourself."

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

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

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

"So you recommend" --

"I recommend you to be prudent."

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

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

"I believe you are right."

"I am glad of it."

"Then I will go alone."

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

"That is impossible."

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

"Do so, then."

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

"That, too, is impossible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The story sent you from Yanina."

"Yanina?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes," said Albert, blushing.

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

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

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

"You insist?"

"Yes, I insist."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," replied Beauchamp.

"Immediately?" said Albert.

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," replied Albert, raising his 
voice.

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

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

"Certainly, my dear sir."

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

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

"I maintain my original resolution."

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 79 The Lemonade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what?" demanded Morrel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," signed the old man.

"Barrois," cried Valentine, "Barrois!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, come, come!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

"Must I go too?" asked Valentine 
timidly.

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

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

"Drink."

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Any noise in the ears?"

"Frightful."

"When did you first feel that?"

"Just now."

"Suddenly?"

"Yes, like a clap of thunder."

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

"Nothing."

"No drowsiness?"

"None."

"What have you eaten to-day?"

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

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

"Down-stairs in the decanter."

"Whereabouts downstairs?"

"In the kitchen."

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

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

"Yes, doctor."

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

"I believe so."

"What did it taste like?"

"It had a bitter taste."

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

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

"Yes."

"And did you also discover a bitter 
taste?"

"Yes."

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

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

"Yes."

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

"Yes."

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

"Yes."

"Did Barrois make your lemonade?"

"Yes."

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

"No."

"Was it M. de Villefort?"

"No."

"Madame?"

"No."

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

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

"I did."

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

"No."

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

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

"Who brought it into this room, then?"

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

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

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

"Who prepared it?"

"The chemist who came here with me."

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

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

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

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

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

"He is dead."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 80 The Accusation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do."

"Do you then suspect any one?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How? M. Noirtier?"

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

"But why did it not kill my father?"

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

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

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

"O doctor!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you abandon me, doctor?"

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

"I entreat you, doctor!"

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

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

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

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

 Chapter 81 The Room of the Retired 
Baker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which?" asked the young man.

"That you inherit from your mother."

"Truly, from my mother, Leonora 
Corsinari."

"How much may it amount to?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have that honor, your excellency."

"You had a new livery yesterday?"

"Yes, sir."

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

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

"A retired baker?" asked the fruiteress.

"Exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, you have an annuity."

"I have?"

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

"What? of Danglars?"

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

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

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

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

"So you like it, you rogue?"

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

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

"What is that?"

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

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

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

"Good Caderousse!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

"Well."

"I would realize" --

"How would you realize?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Five thousand francs."

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

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

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

"Well, and I shall get it."

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

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

"You must wait for what?" asked 
Caderousse.

"For his death "

"The death of your prince?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

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

"Indeed?"

"On my honor."

"For how much?"

"For five hundred thousand."

"Only that? It's little enough "

"But so it is."

"No it cannot be!"

"Are you my friend, Caderousse?"

"Yes, in life or death."

"Well, I will tell you a secret."

"What is it?"

"But remember" --

"Ah, pardieu, mute as a carp."

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

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

"I think I have discovered my father."

"Your true father?"

"Yes."

"Not old Cavalcanti?"

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

"And that father is" --

"Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo."

"Bah!"

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

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

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

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

"He leaves me five hundred thousand 
livres."

"Are you sure of it?"

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

"Probably."

"And in that codicil he acknowledges 
me."

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

"Now say if I conceal anything from 
you?"

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

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

"Is it possible?"

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

"When I like."

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

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

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

"Yes, No. 30."

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

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

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

"Have you ever seen the Tuileries?"

"No."

"Well, it surpasses that."

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

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

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

"How can I? On what plea?"

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

"No nonsense, Caderousse!"

"I will offer myself as floor-polisher."

"The rooms are all carpeted."

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

"That is the best plan, believe me."

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

"How can I?"

"Nothing is easier. Is it large?"

"Middling."

"How is it arranged?"

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

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

"High walls?"

"Not more than eight or ten feet."

"That is not prudent," said Caderousse.

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

"And no steel-traps?"

"No."

"The stables?"

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

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

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

"Windows?"

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

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

"Luxury has everything."

"But shutters?"

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

"And where do the servants sleep?"

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

"Yes."

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

"What did he answer?"

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

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

"How do you know?"

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

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

"And he is not robbed?"

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

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

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

"And where is it?"

"On the first floor."

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you sure of it?"

"He has invited me to dine there."

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

"That is what it is to be rich."

"And shall you dine there?"

"Probably."

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

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

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

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

"Oh, you despise them."

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

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

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

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

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

"To-day?"

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

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

"May I depend on it?"

"Certainly."

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

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

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

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

"Well?"

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

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

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

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

"What is it?"

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

"How so?" said Andrea.

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

"You guess well."

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

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

"It is a false diamond," said 
Caderousse.

"You are joking now," replied Andrea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," said Andrea.

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

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

"What fortune has she?"

"But I tell you" --

"A million?" Andrea shrugged his 
shoulders.

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

"Thank you," said the young man.

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

"It is not worth while."

"Yes, it is."

"Why?"

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

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

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

 Chapter 82 The Burglary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that 
this night a man will enter his house 
in the Champs-Elysees with the 
intention of carrying off some papers 
supposed to be in the secretary in the 
dressing-room. The count's well-known 
courage will render unnecessary the aid 
of the police, whose interference might 
seriously affect him who sends this 
advice. The count, by any opening from 
the bedroom, or by concealing himself 
in the dressing-room, would be able to 
defend his property himself. Many 
attendents or apparent precautions 
would prevent the villain from the 
attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would 
lose the opportunity of discovering an 
enemy whom chance has revealed to him 
who now sends this warning to the 
count, -- a warning he might not be 
able to send another time, if this 
first attempt should fail and another 
be made."

The count's first idea was that this 
was an artifice -- a gross deception, 
to draw his attention from a minor 
danger in order to expose him to a 
greater. He was on the point of sending 
the letter to the commissary of police, 
notwithstanding the advice of his 
anonymous friend, or perhaps because of 
that advice, when suddenly the idea 
occurred to him that it might be some 
personal enemy, whom he alone should 
recognize and over whom, if such were 
the case, he alone would gain any 
advantage, as Fiesco* had done over the 
Moor who would have killed him. We know 
the Count's vigorous and daring mind, 
denying anything to be impossible, with 
that energy which marks the great man. 
From his past life, from his resolution 
to shrink from nothing, the count had 
acquired an inconceivable relish for 
the contests in which he had engaged, 
sometimes against nature, that is to 
say, against God, and sometimes against 
the world, that is, against the devil.

* The Genoese conspirator.

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

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

"Yes, the porter."

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

"Well?"

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

"By whom?"

"By thieves."

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

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

"And those of the second floor?"

"You know they are never closed. Go!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, reverend sir; I have been 
liberated by some one."

"That some one has done society a great 
kindness."

"Ah," said Caderousse, "I had promised" 
--

"And you are breaking your promise!" 
interrupted Monte Cristo.

"Alas, yes!" said Caderousse very 
uneasily.

"A bad relapse, that will lead you, if 
I mistake not, to the Place de Greve. 
So much the worse, so much the worse -- 
diavolo, as they say in my country."

"Reverend sir, I am impelled" --

"Every criminal says the same thing."

"Poverty" --

"Pshaw!" said Busoni disdainfully; 
"poverty may make a man beg, steal a 
loaf of bread at a baker's door, but 
not cause him to open a secretary in a 
house supposed to be inhabited. And 
when the jeweller Johannes had just 
paid you 40,000 francs for the diamond 
I had given you, and you killed him to 
get the diamond and the money both, was 
that also poverty?"

"Pardon, reverend sir," said 
Caderousse; "you have saved my life 
once, save me again!"

"That is but poor encouragement."

"Are you alone, reverend sir, or have 
you there soldiers ready to seize me?"

"I am alone," said the abbe, "and I 
will again have pity on you, and will 
let you escape, at the risk of the 
fresh miseries my weakness may lead to, 
if you tell me the truth."

"Ah, reverend sir," cried Caderousse, 
clasping his hands, and drawing nearer 
to Monte Cristo, "I may indeed say you 
are my deliverer!"

"You mean to say you have been freed 
from confinement?"

"Yes, that is true, reverend sir."

"Who was your liberator?"

"An Englishman."

"What was his name?"

"Lord Wilmore."

"I know him; I shall know if you lie."

"Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the 
simple truth."

"Was this Englishman protecting you?"

"No, not me, but a young Corsican, my 
companion."

"What was this young Corsican's name?"

"Benedetto."

"Is that his Christian name?"

"He had no other; he was a foundling."

"Then this young man escaped with you?"

"He did."

"In what way?"

"We were working at St. Mandrier, near 
Toulon. Do you know St. Mandrier?"

"I do."

"In the hour of rest, between noon and 
one o'clock" --

"Galley-slaves having a nap after 
dinner! We may well pity the poor 
fellows!" said the abbe.

"Nay," said Caderousse, "one can't 
always work -- one is not a dog."

"So much the better for the dogs," said 
Monte Cristo.

"While the rest slept, then, we went 
away a short distance; we severed our 
fetters with a file the Englishman had 
given us, and swam away."

"And what is become of this Benedetto?"

"I don't know."

"You ought to know."

"No, in truth; we parted at Hyeres." 
And, to give more weight to his 
protestation, Caderousse advanced 
another step towards the abbe, who 
remained motionless in his place, as 
calm as ever, and pursuing his 
interrogation. "You lie," said the Abbe 
Busoni, with a tone of irresistible 
authority.

"Reverend sir!"

"You lie! This man is still your 
friend, and you, perhaps, make use of 
him as your accomplice."

"Oh, reverend sir!"

"Since you left Toulon what have you 
lived on? Answer me!"

"On what I could get."

"You lie," repeated the abbe a third 
time, with a still more imperative 
tone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at 
the count. "You have lived on the money 
he has given you."

"True," said Caderousse; "Benedetto has 
become the son of a great lord."

"How can he be the son of a great lord?"

"A natural son."

"And what is that great lord's name?"

"The Count of Monte Cristo, the very 
same in whose house we are."

"Benedetto the count's son?" replied 
Monte Cristo, astonished in his turn.

"Well, I should think so, since the 
count has found him a false father -- 
since the count gives him four thousand 
francs a month, and leaves him 500,000 
francs in his will."

"Ah, yes," said the factitious abbe, 
who began to understand; "and what name 
does the young man bear meanwhile?"

"Andrea Cavalcanti."

"Is it, then, that young man whom my 
friend the Count of Monte Cristo has 
received into his house, and who is 
going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Exactly."

"And you suffer that, you wretch -- 
you, who know his life and his crime?"

"Why should I stand in a comrade's 
way?" said Caderousse.

"You are right; it is not you who 
should apprise M. Danglars, it is I."

"Do not do so, reverend sir."

"Why not?"

"Because you would bring us to ruin."

"And you think that to save such 
villains as you I will become an 
abettor of their plot, an accomplice in 
their crimes?"

"Reverend sir," said Caderousse, 
drawing still nearer.

"I will expose all."

"To whom?"

"To M. Danglars."

"By heaven!" cried Caderousse, drawing 
from his waistcoat an open knife, and 
striking the count in the breast, "you 
shall disclose nothing, reverend sir!" 
To Caderousse's great astonishment, the 
knife, instead of piercing the count's 
breast, flew back blunted. At the same 
moment the count seized with his left 
hand the assassin's wrist, and wrung it 
with such strength that the knife fell 
from his stiffened fingers, and 
Caderousse uttered a cry of pain. But 
the count, disregarding his cry, 
continued to wring the bandit's wrist, 
until, his arm being dislocated, he 
fell first on his knees, then flat on 
the floor. The count then placed his 
foot on his head, saying, "I know not 
what restrains me from crushing thy 
skull, rascal."

"Ah, mercy -- mercy!" cried Caderousse. 
The count withdrew his foot. "Rise!" 
said he. Caderousse rose.

"What a wrist you have, reverend sir!" 
said Caderousse. stroking his arm, all 
bruised by the fleshy pincers which had 
held it; "what a wrist!"

"Silence! God gives me strength to 
overcome a wild beast like you; in the 
name of that God I act, -- remember 
that, wretch, -- and to spare thee at 
this moment is still serving him."

"Oh!" said Caderousse, groaning with 
pain.

"Take this pen and paper, and write 
what I dictate."

"I don't know how to write, reverend 
sir."

"You lie! Take this pen, and write!" 
Caderousse, awed by the superior power 
of the abbe, sat down and wrote: --

Sir, -- The man whom you are receiving 
at your house, and to whom you intend 
to marry your daughter, is a felon who 
escaped with me from confinement at 
Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He 
was called Benedetto, but he is 
ignorant of his real name, having never 
known his parents.

"Sign it!" continued the count.

"But would you ruin me?"

"If I sought your ruin, fool, I should 
drag you to the first guard-house; 
besides, when that note is delivered, 
in all probability you will have no 
more to fear. Sign it, then!"

Caderousse signed it. "The address, `To 
monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, 
Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin.'" 
Caderousse wrote the address. The abbe 
took the note. "Now," said he, "that 
suffices -- begone!"

"Which way?"

"The way you came."

"You wish me to get out at that window?"

"You got in very well."

"Oh, you have some design against me, 
reverend sir."

"Idiot! what design can I have?"

"Why, then, not let me out by the door?"

"What would be the advantage of waking 
the porter?" --

"Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish 
me dead?"

"I wish what God wills."

"But swear that you will not strike me 
as I go down."

"Cowardly fool!"

"What do you intend doing with me?"

"I ask you what can I do? I have tried 
to make you a happy man, and you have 
turned out a murderer."

"Oh, monsieur," said Caderousse, "make 
one more attempt -- try me once more!"

"I will," said the count. "Listen -- 
you know if I may be relied on."

"Yes," said Caderousse.

"If you arrive safely at home" --

"What have I to fear, except from you?"

"If you reach your home safely, leave 
Paris, leave France, and wherever you 
may be, so long as you conduct yourself 
well, I will send you a small annuity; 
for, if you return home safely, then" --

"Then?" asked Caderousse, shuddering.

"Then I shall believe God has forgiven 
you, and I will forgive you too."

"As true as I am a Christian," 
stammered Caderousse, "you will make me 
die of fright!"

"Now begone," said the count, pointing 
to the window.

Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on 
this promise, put his legs out of the 
window and stood on the ladder. "Now go 
down," said the abbe, folding his arms. 
Understanding he had nothing more to 
fear from him, Caderousse began to go 
down. Then the count brought the taper 
to the window, that it might be seen in 
the Champs-Elysees that a man was 
getting out of the window while another 
held a light.

"What are you doing, reverend sir? 
Suppose a watchman should pass?" And he 
blew out the light. He then descended, 
but it was only when he felt his foot 
touch the ground that he was satisfied 
of his safety.

Monte Cristo returned to his bedroom, 
and, glancing rapidly from the garden 
to the street, he saw first Caderousse, 
who after walking to the end of the 
garden, fixed his ladder against the 
wall at a different part from where he 
came in. The count then looking over 
into the street, saw the man who 
appeared to be waiting run in the same 
direction, and place himself against 
the angle of the wall where Caderousse 
would come over. Caderousse climbed the 
ladder slowly, and looked over the 
coping to see if the street was quiet. 
No one could be seen or heard. The 
clock of the Invalides struck one. Then 
Caderousse sat astride the coping, and 
drawing up his ladder passed it over 
the wall; then he began to descend, or 
rather to slide down by the two 
stanchions, which he did with an ease 
which proved how accustomed he was to 
the exercise. But, once started, he 
could not stop. In vain did he see a 
man start from the shadow when he was 
halfway down -- in vain did he see an 
arm raised as he touched the ground. 
Before he could defend himself that arm 
struck him so violently in the back 
that he let go the ladder, crying, 
"Help!" A second blow struck him almost 
immediately in the side, and he fell, 
calling, "Help, murder!" Then, as he 
rolled on the ground, his adversary 
seized him by the hair, and struck him 
a third blow in the chest. This time 
Caderousse endeavored to call again, 
but he could only utter a groan, and he 
shuddered as the blood flowed from his 
three wounds. The assassin, finding 
that he no longer cried out, lifted his 
head up by the hair; his eyes were 
closed, and the mouth was distorted. 
The murderer, supposing him dead, let 
fall his head and disappeared. Then 
Caderousse, feeling that he was leaving 
him, raised himself on his elbow, and 
with a dying voice cried with great 
effort, "Murder! I am dying! Help, 
reverend sir, -- help!"

This mournful appeal pierced the 
darkness. The door of the 
back-staircase opened, then the 
side-gate of the garden, and Ali and 
his master were on the spot with 
lights. 

 Chapter 83 The Hand of God.

Caderousse continued to call piteously, 
"Help, reverend sir, help!"

"What is the matter?" asked Monte 
Cristo.

"Help," cried Caderousse; "I am 
murdered!"

"We are here; -- take courage."

"Ah, it's all over! You are come too 
late -- you are come to see me die. 
What blows, what blood!" He fainted. 
Ali and his master conveyed the wounded 
man into a room. Monte Cristo motioned 
to Ali to undress him, and he then 
examined his dreadful wounds. "My God!" 
he exclaimed, "thy vengeance is 
sometimes delayed, but only that it may 
fall the more effectually." Ali looked 
at his master for further instructions. 
"Bring here immediately the king's 
attorney, M. de Villefort, who lives in 
the Faubourg St. Honore. As you pass 
the lodge, wake the porter, and send 
him for a surgeon." Ali obeyed, leaving 
the abbe alone with Caderousse, who had 
not yet revived.

When the wretched man again opened his 
eyes, the count looked at him with a 
mournful expression of pity, and his 
lips moved as if in prayer. "A surgeon, 
reverend sir -- a surgeon!" said 
Caderousse.

"I have sent for one," replied the abbe.

"I know he cannot save my life, but he 
may strengthen me to give my evidence."

"Against whom?"

"Against my murderer."

"Did you recognize him?"

"Yes; it was Benedetto."

"The young Corsican?"

"Himself."

"Your comrade?"

"Yes. After giving me the plan of this 
house, doubtless hoping I should kill 
the count and he thus become his heir, 
or that the count would kill me and I 
should be out of his way, he waylaid 
me, and has murdered me."

"I have also sent for the procureur."

"He will not come in time; I feel my 
life fast ebbing."

"Wait a moment," said Monte Cristo. He 
left the room, and returned in five 
minutes with a phial. The dying man's 
eyes were all the time riveted on the 
door, through which he hoped succor 
would arrive. "Hasten, reverend sir, 
hasten! I shall faint again!" Monte 
Cristo approached, and dropped on his 
purple lips three or four drops of the 
contents of the phial. Caderousse drew 
a deep breath. "Oh," said he, "that is 
life to me; more, more!"

"Two drops more would kill you," 
replied the abbe.

"Oh, send for some one to whom I can 
denounce the wretch!"

"Shall I write your deposition? You can 
sign it."

"Yes yes," said Caderousse; and his 
eyes glistened at the thought of this 
posthumous revenge. Monte Cristo wrote: 
--

"I die, murdered by the Corsican 
Benedetto, my comrade in the galleys at 
Toulouse, No. 59."

"Quick, quick!" said Caderousse, "or I 
shall be unable to sign it."

Monte Cristo gave the pen to 
Caderousse, who collected all his 
strength, signed it, and fell back on 
his bed, saying: "You will relate all 
the rest, reverend sir; you will say he 
calls himself Andrea Cavalcanti. He 
lodges at the Hotel des Princes. Oh, I 
am dying!" He again fainted. The abbe 
made him smell the contents of the 
phial, and he again opened his eyes. 
His desire for revenge had not forsaken 
him.

"Ah, you will tell all I have said, 
will you not, reverend sir?"

"Yes, and much more."

"What more will you say?"

"I will say he had doubtless given you 
the plan of this house, in the hope the 
count would kill you. I will say, 
likewise, he had apprised the count, by 
a note, of your intention, and, the 
count being absent, I read the note and 
sat up to await you."

"And he will be guillotined, will be 
not?" said Caderousse. "Promise me 
that, and I will die with that hope."

"I will say," continued the count, 
"that he followed and watched you the 
whole time, and when he saw you leave 
the house, ran to the angle of the wall 
to conceal himself."

"Did you see all that?"

"Remember my words: `If you return home 
safely, I shall believe God has 
forgiven you, and I will forgive you 
also.'"

"And you did not warn me!" cried 
Caderousse, raising himself on his 
elbows. "You knew I should be killed on 
leaving this house, and did not warn 
me!"

"No; for I saw God's justice placed in 
the hands of Benedetto, and should have 
thought it sacrilege to oppose the 
designs of providence."

"God's justice! Speak not of it, 
reverend sir. If God were just, you 
know how many would be punished who now 
escape."

"Patience," said the abbe, in a tone 
which made the dying man shudder; "have 
patience!" Caderousse looked at him 
with amazement. "Besides," said the 
abbe, "God is merciful to all, as he 
has been to you; he is first a father, 
then a judge."

"Do you then believe in God?" said 
Caderousse.

"Had I been so unhappy as not to 
believe in him until now," said Monte 
Cristo, "I must believe on seeing you." 
Caderousse raised his clinched hands 
towards heaven.

"Listen," said the abbe, extending his 
hand over the wounded man, as if to 
command him to believe; "this is what 
the God in whom, on your death-bed, you 
refuse to believe, has done for you -- 
he gave you health, strength, regular 
employment, even friends -- a life, in 
fact, which a man might enjoy with a 
calm conscience. Instead of improving 
these gifts, rarely granted so 
abundantly, this has been your course 
-- you have given yourself up to sloth 
and drunkenness, and in a fit of 
intoxication have ruined your best 
friend."

"Help!" cried Caderousse; "I require a 
surgeon, not a priest; perhaps I am not 
mortally wounded -- I may not die; 
perhaps they can yet save my life."

"Your wounds are so far mortal that, 
without the three drops I gave you, you 
would now be dead. Listen, then."

"Ah," murmured Caderousse, "what a 
strange priest you are; you drive the 
dying to despair, instead of consoling 
them."

"Listen," continued the abbe. "When you 
had betrayed your friend God began not 
to strike, but to warn you. Poverty 
overtook you. You had already passed 
half your life in coveting that which 
you might have honorably acquired; and 
already you contemplated crime under 
the excuse of want, when God worked a 
miracle in your behalf, sending you, by 
my hands, a fortune -- brilliant, 
indeed, for you, who had never 
possessed any. But this unexpected, 
unhoped-for, unheard-of fortune 
sufficed you no longer when you once 
possessed it; you wished to double it, 
and how? -- by a murder! You succeeded, 
and then God snatched it from you, and 
brought you to justice."

"It was not I who wished to kill the 
Jew," said Caderousse; "it was La 
Carconte."

"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "and God, -- 
I cannot say in justice, for his 
justice would have slain you, -- but 
God, in his mercy, spared your life."

"Pardieu, to transport me for life, how 
merciful!"

"You thought it a mercy then, miserable 
wretch! The coward who feared death 
rejoiced at perpetual disgrace; for 
like all galley-slaves, you said, `I 
may escape from prison, I cannot from 
the grave.' And you said truly; the way 
was opened for you unexpectedly. An 
Englishman visited Toulon, who had 
vowed to rescue two men from infamy, 
and his choice fell on you and your 
companion. You received a second 
fortune, money and tranquillity were 
restored to you, and you, who had been 
condemned to a felon's life, might live 
as other men. Then, wretched creature, 
then you tempted God a third time. `I 
have not enough,' you said, when you 
had more than you before possessed, and 
you committed a third crime, without 
reason, without excuse. God is wearied; 
he has punished you." Caderousse was 
fast sinking. "Give me drink," said he: 
"I thirst -- I burn!" Monte Cristo gave 
him a glass of water. "And yet that 
villain, Benedetto, will escape!"

"No one, I tell you, will escape; 
Benedetto will be punished."

"Then, you, too, will be punished, for 
you did not do your duty as a priest -- 
you should have prevented Benedetto 
from killing me."

"I?" said the count, with a smile which 
petrified the dying man, "when you had 
just broken your knife against the coat 
of mail which protected my breast! Yet 
perhaps if I had found you humble and 
penitent, I might have prevented 
Benedetto from killing you; but I found 
you proud and blood-thirsty, and I left 
you in the hands of God."

"I do not believe there is a God," 
howled Caderousse; "you do not believe 
it; you lie -- you lie!"

"Silence," said the abbe; "you will 
force the last drop of blood from your 
veins. What! you do not believe in God 
when he is striking you dead? you will 
not believe in him, who requires but a 
prayer, a word, a tear, and he will 
forgive? God, who might have directed 
the assassin's dagger so as to end your 
career in a moment, has given you this 
quarter of an hour for repentance. 
Reflect, then, wretched man, and 
repent."

"No," said Caderousse, "no; I will not 
repent. There is no God; there is no 
providence -- all comes by chance." --

"There is a providence; there is a 
God," said Monte Cristo, "of whom you 
are a striking proof, as you lie in 
utter despair, denying him, while I 
stand before you, rich, happy, safe and 
entreating that God in whom you 
endeavor not to believe, while in your 
heart you still believe in him."

"But who are you, then?" asked 
Caderousse, fixing his dying eyes on 
the count. "Look well at me!" said 
Monte Cristo, putting the light near 
his face. "Well, the abbe -- the Abbe 
Busoni." Monte Cristo took off the wig 
which disfigured him, and let fall his 
black hair, which added so much to the 
beauty of his pallid features. "Oh?" 
said Caderousse, thunderstruck, "but 
for that black hair, I should say you 
were the Englishman, Lord Wilmore."

"I am neither the Abbe Busoni nor Lord 
Wilmore," said Monte Cristo; "think 
again, -- do you not recollect me?" 
Those was a magic effect in the count's 
words, which once more revived the 
exhausted powers of the miserable man. 
"Yes, indeed," said he; "I think I have 
seen you and known you formerly."

"Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you 
knew me once."

"Who, then, are you? and why, if you 
knew me, do you let me die?"

"Because nothing can save you; your 
wounds are mortal. Had it been possible 
to save you, I should have considered 
it another proof of God's mercy, and I 
would again have endeavored to restore 
you, I swear by my father's tomb."

"By your father's tomb!" said 
Caderousse, supported by a supernatural 
power, and half-raising himself to see 
more distinctly the man who had just 
taken the oath which all men hold 
sacred; "who, then, are you?" The count 
had watched the approach of death. He 
knew this was the last struggle. He 
approached the dying man, and, leaning 
over him with a calm and melancholy 
look, he whispered, "I am -- I am" -- 
And his almost closed lips uttered a 
name so low that the count himself 
appeared afraid to hear it. Caderousse, 
who had raised himself on his knees, 
and stretched out his arm, tried to 
draw back, then clasping his hands, and 
raising them with a desperate effort, 
"O my God, my God!" said he, "pardon me 
for having denied thee; thou dost 
exist, thou art indeed man's father in 
heaven, and his judge on earth. My God, 
my Lord, I have long despised thee! 
Pardon me, my God; receive me, O my 
Lord!" Caderousse sighed deeply, and 
fell back with a groan. The blood no 
longer flowed from his wounds. He was 
dead.

"One!" said the count mysteriously, his 
eyes fixed on the corpse, disfigured by 
so awful a death. Ten minutes 
afterwards the surgeon and the 
procureur arrived, the one accompanied 
by the porter, the other by Ali, and 
were received by the Abbe Busoni, who 
was praying by the side of the corpse. 

 Chapter 84 Beauchamp.

The daring attempt to rob the count was 
the topic of conversation throughout 
Paris for the next fortnight. The dying 
man had signed a deposition declaring 
Benedetto to be the assassin. The 
police had orders to make the strictest 
search for the murderer. Caderousse's 
knife, dark lantern, bunch of keys, and 
clothing, excepting the waistcoat, 
which could not be found, were 
deposited at the registry; the corpse 
was conveyed to the morgue. The count 
told every one that this adventure had 
happened during his absence at Auteuil, 
and that he only knew what was related 
by the Abbe Busoni, who that evening, 
by mere chance, had requested to pass 
the night in his house, to examine some 
valuable books in his library. 
Bertuccio alone turned pale whenever 
Benedetto's name was mentioned in his 
presence, but there was no reason why 
any one should notice his doing so. 
Villefort, being called on to prove the 
crime, was preparing his brief with the 
same ardor that he was accustomed to 
exercise when required to speak in 
criminal cases.

But three weeks had already passed, and 
the most diligent search had been 
unsuccessful; the attempted robbery and 
the murder of the robber by his comrade 
were almost forgotten in anticipation 
of the approaching marriage of 
Mademoiselle Danglars to the Count 
Andrea Cavalcanti. It was expected that 
this wedding would shortly take place, 
as the young man was received at the 
banker's as the betrothed. Letters had 
been despatched to M. Cavalcanti, as 
the count's father, who highly approved 
of the union, regretted his inability 
to leave Parma at that time, and 
promised a wedding gift of a hundred 
and fifty thousand livres. It was 
agreed that the three millions should 
be intrusted to Danglars to invest; 
some persons had warned the young man 
of the circumstances of his future 
father-in-law, who had of late 
sustained repeated losses; but with 
sublime disinterestedness and 
confidence the young man refused to 
listen, or to express a single doubt to 
the baron. The baron adored Count 
Andrea Cavalcanti: not so Mademoiselle 
Eugenie Danglars. With an instinctive 
hatred of matrimony, she suffered 
Andrea's attentions in order to get rid 
of Morcerf; but when Andrea urged his 
suit, she betrayed an entire dislike to 
him. The baron might possibly have 
perceived it, but, attributing it to a 
caprice, feigned ignorance.

The delay demanded by Beauchamp had 
nearly expired. Morcerf appreciated the 
advice of Monte Cristo to let things 
die away of their own accord. No one 
had taken up the remark about the 
general, and no one had recognized in 
the officer who betrayed the castle of 
Yanina the noble count in the House of 
Peers. Albert, however felt no less 
insulted; the few lines which had 
irritated him were certainly intended 
as an insult. Besides, the manner in 
which Beauchamp had closed the 
conference left a bitter recollection 
in his heart. He cherished the thought 
of the duel, hoping to conceal its true 
cause even from his seconds. Beauchamp 
had not been seen since the day he 
visited Albert, and those of whom the 
latter inquired always told him he was 
out on a journey which would detain him 
some days. Where he was no one knew.

One morning Albert was awakened by his 
valet de chambre, who announced 
Beauchamp. Albert rubbed his eyes, 
ordered his servant to introduce him 
into the small smoking-room on the 
ground-floor, dressed himself quickly, 
and went down. He found Beauchamp 
pacing the room; on perceiving him 
Beauchamp stopped. "Your arrival here, 
without waiting my visit at your house 
to-day, looks well, sir," said Albert. 
"Tell me, may I shake hands with you, 
saying, `Beauchamp, acknowledge you 
have injured me, and retain my 
friendship,' or must I simply propose 
to you a choice of arms?"

"Albert," said Beauchamp, with a look 
of sorrow which stupefied the young 
man, "let us first sit down and talk."

"Rather, sir, before we sit down, I 
must demand your answer."

"Albert," said the journalist, "these 
are questions which it is difficult to 
answer."

"I will facilitate it by repeating the 
question, `Will you, or will you not, 
retract?'"

"Morcerf, it is not enough to answer 
`yes' or `no' to questions which 
concern the honor, the social interest, 
and the life of such a man as 
Lieutenant-general the Count of 
Morcerf, peer of France."

"What must then be done?"

"What I have done, Albert. I reasoned 
thus -- money, time, and fatigue are 
nothing compared with the reputation 
and interests of a whole family; 
probabilities will not suffice, only 
facts will justify a deadly combat with 
a friend. If I strike with the sword, 
or discharge the contents of a pistol 
at man with whom, for three years, I 
have been on terms of intimacy, I must, 
at least, know why I do so; I must meet 
him with a heart at ease, and that 
quiet conscience which a man needs when 
his own arm must save his life."

"Well," said Morcerf, impatiently, 
"what does all this mean?"

"It means that I have just returned 
from Yanina."

"From Yanina?"

"Yes."

"Impossible!"

"Here is my passport; examine the visa 
-- Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste, 
Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the 
government of a republic, a kingdom, 
and an empire?" Albert cast his eyes on 
the passport, then raised them in 
astonishment to Beauchamp. "You have 
been to Yanina?" said he.

"Albert, had you been a stranger, a 
foreigner, a simple lord, like that 
Englishman who came to demand 
satisfaction three or four months 
since, and whom I killed to get rid of, 
I should not have taken this trouble; 
but I thought this mark of 
consideration due to you. I took a week 
to go, another to return, four days of 
quarantine, and forty-eight hours to 
stay there; that makes three weeks. I 
returned last night, and here I am."

"What circumlocution! How long you are 
before you tell me what I most wish to 
know?"

"Because, in truth, Albert" --

"You hesitate?"

"Yes, -- I fear."

"You fear to acknowledge that your 
correspondent his deceived you? Oh, no 
self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, 
Beauchamp; your courage cannot be 
doubted."

"Not so," murmured the journalist; "on 
the contrary" --

Albert turned frightfully pale; he 
endeavored to speak, but the words died 
on his lips. "My friend," said 
Beauchamp, in the most affectionate 
tone, "I should gladly make an apology; 
but, alas," --

"But what?"

"The paragraph was correct, my friend."

"What? That French officer" --

"Yes."

"Fernand?"

"Yes."

"The traitor who surrendered the castle 
of the man in whose service he was" --

"Pardon me, my friend, that man was 
your father!" Albert advanced furiously 
towards Beauchamp, but the latter 
restrained him more by a mild look than 
by his extended hand.

"My friend," said he, "here is a proof 
of it."

Albert opened the paper, it was an 
attestation of four notable inhabitants 
of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand 
Mondego, in the service of Ali 
Tepelini, had surrendered the castle 
for two million crowns. The signatures 
were perfectly legal. Albert tottered 
and fell overpowered in a chair. It 
could no longer be doubted; the family 
name was fully given. After a moment's 
mournful silence, his heart overflowed, 
and he gave way to a flood of tears. 
Beauchamp, who had watched with sincere 
pity the young man's paroxysm of grief, 
approached him. "Now, Albert," said he, 
"you understand me -- do you not? I 
wished to see all, and to judge of 
everything for myself, hoping the 
explanation would be in your father's 
favor, and that I might do him justice. 
But, on the contrary, the particulars 
which are given prove that Fernand 
Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the 
rank of governor-general, is no other 
than Count Fernand of Morcerf; then, 
recollecting the honor you had done me, 
in admitting me to your friendship, I 
hastened to you."

Albert, still extended on the chair, 
covered his face with both hands, as if 
to prevent the light from reaching him. 
"I hastened to you," continued 
Beauchamp, "to tell you, Albert, that 
in this changing age, the faults of a 
father cannot revert upon his children. 
Few have passed through this 
revolutionary period, in the midst of 
which we were born, without some stain 
of infamy or blood to soil the uniform 
of the soldier, or the gown of the 
magistrate. Now I have these proofs, 
Albert, and I am in your confidence, no 
human power can force me to a duel 
which your own conscience would 
reproach you with as criminal, but I 
come to offer you what you can no 
longer demand of me. Do you wish these 
proofs, these attestations, which I 
alone possess, to be destroyed? Do you 
wish this frightful secret to remain 
with us? Confided to me, it shall never 
escape my lips; say, Albert, my friend, 
do you wish it?"

Albert threw himself on Beauchamp's 
neck. "Ah, noble fellow!" cried he.

"Take these," said Beauchamp, 
presenting the papers to Albert.

Albert seized them with a convulsive 
hand, tore them in pieces, and 
trembling lest the least vestige should 
escape and one day appear to confront 
him, he approached the wax-light, 
always kept burning for cigars, and 
burned every fragment. "Dear, excellent 
friend," murmured Albert, still burning 
the papers.

"Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful 
dream," said Beauchamp; "let it vanish 
as the last sparks from the blackened 
paper, and disappear as the smoke from 
those silent ashes."

"Yes, yes," said Albert, "and may there 
remain only the eternal friendship 
which I promised to my deliverer, which 
shall be transmitted to our children's 
children, and shall always remind me 
that I owe my life and the honor of my 
name to you, -- for had this been 
known, oh, Beauchamp, I should have 
destroyed myself; or, -- no, my poor 
mother! I could not have killed her by 
the same blow, -- I should have fled 
from my country."

"Dear Albert," said Beauchamp. But this 
sudden and factitious joy soon forsook 
the young man, and was succeeded by a 
still greater grief.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "what still 
oppresses you, my friend?"

"I am broken-hearted," said Albert. 
"Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus, in a 
moment relinquish the respect, the 
confidence, and pride with which a 
father's untarnished name inspires a 
son. Oh, Beauchamp, Beauchamp, how 
shall I now approach mine? Shall I draw 
back my forehead from his embrace, or 
withhold my hand from his? I am the 
most wretched of men. Ah, my mother, my 
poor mother!" said Albert, gazing 
through his tears at his mother's 
portrait; "if you know this, how much 
must you suffer!"

"Come," said Beauchamp, taking both his 
hands, "take courage, my friend."

"But how came that first note to be 
inserted in your journal? Some unknown 
enemy -- an invisible foe -- has done 
this."

"The more must you fortify yourself, 
Albert. Let no trace of emotion be 
visible on your countenance, bear your 
grief as the cloud bears within it ruin 
and death -- a fatal secret, known only 
when the storm bursts. Go, my friend, 
reserve your strength for the moment 
when the crash shall come."

"You think, then, all is not over yet?" 
said Albert, horror-stricken.

"I think nothing, my friend; but all 
things are possible. By the way" --

"What?" said Albert, seeing that 
Beauchamp hesitated.

"Are you going to marry Mademoiselle 
Danglars?"

"Why do you ask me now?"

"Because the rupture or fulfilment of 
this engagement is connected with the 
person of whom we were speaking."

"How?" said Albert, whose brow 
reddened; "you think M. Danglars" --

"I ask you only how your engagement 
stands? Pray put no construction on my 
words I do not mean they should convey, 
and give them no undue weight."

"No." said Albert, "the engagement is 
broken off."

"Well," said Beauchamp. Then, seeing 
the young man was about to relapse into 
melancholy, "Let us go out, Albert," 
said he; "a ride in the wood in the 
phaeton, or on horseback, will refresh 
you; we will then return to breakfast, 
and you shall attend to your affairs, 
and I to mine."

"Willingly," said Albert; "but let us 
walk. I think a little exertion would 
do me good." The two friends walked out 
on the fortress. When arrived at the 
Madeleine, -- "Since we are out," said 
Beauchamp, "let us call on M. de Monte 
Cristo; he is admirably adapted to 
revive one's spirits, because he never 
interrogates, and in my opinion those 
who ask no questions are the best 
comforters."

"Gladly," said Albert; "I love him -- 
let us call."

